Back to the Island

I never thought I’d make it back.

Not to Hawaii. Not to that island breeze. Not to the sound of waves lapping up on Wailea Beach while my wife sat beside me, and our three grown kids played like they used to—like time hadn’t passed.

As I stated in a previous blog, in 2009, we lost our business. And with it, my naive version of our future we had counted on. We had been going to Hawaii every 5 years or so as a family—usually just the five of us—and those trips were woven into our family’s fabric. But when the bottom fell out, we had to let go of more than just vacations. We let go of a certain ease, of assumptions, of a kind of stability we thought was locked in. We learned how to stretch, how to adjust, how to hold tight to what really mattered.

We never stopped being close. In fact, I think we got even closer. But I figured that chapter—Hawaii with the whole crew—was closed.

Until this summer.

My kids, now 31, 27, and 25, came to us with a plan. They had figured out how we could all go back. They knew how much it meant. They wanted to celebrate our 35th anniversary and the fact that both my wife and I are turning 60 this year. Sixty. Thirty-five years of marriage. I still don’t quite know how we all pulled it off. I just know I sat on that beach next to my wife—the woman who’s walked beside me through every season—and looked out at our son, now a full-grown man, building a sandcastle with his younger sisters.

And something came over me.

It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a deep, almost tidal feeling of… presence. Like time folded in on itself. Like we were back when they were kids, and yet fully here, with them as the people they’ve become—kind, funny, grounded. Watching the three of them laugh in the sand, fully themselves and fully together, it hit me that this isn’t a family that just gets along. This is a family that wants to be together.

I’ve heard my kids talk about it before. How their friends say our family dynamic is different. That they still want to do things with us. That they can open up to us. That they feel seen, known, and safe.

I don’t say that to boast. Honestly, I say it with a little disbelief. Because I didn’t plan for that. I just showed up. We all did. Through job losses, through awkward teenage years, through loud dinners, weird music phases, tearful college drop-offs, and endless group texts. We showed up. And somehow, the simple act of doing that turned into something rare.

I’m a lucky man. I know that. Lucky to have my wife who puts up with me. Lucky for the kids we raised and the people they’ve become. Lucky that they’ve seen us fall down and get back up. That they wanted to bring us back to a place that held so many memories—and add a few more.

You don’t always know what’s still possible. Sometimes, the best parts of life show up after the plan goes off the rails.

So here’s to that—to second chances, sandy feet, and sitting next to someone who still makes you laugh after all these years. Here’s to kids who grow up but don’t grow apart. Here’s to being 60 and realizing... it’s a pretty good view from here.