Five years ago, I stood at the Grand Canyon, completely unaware of how much life was about to change.

Facebook reminded me today—photos of that day, standing quietly at the canyon’s edge, soaking in the beauty and stillness of it all.

Covid was just beginning to make the news. I was in Las Vegas for ConExpo with a friend, where attendance was already noticeably down, and the event closed a day early. Still, my world moved forward as usual.

That same week, I saw Lionel Richie perform—a show that became his last before the world hit pause.

But it’s the Grand Canyon that left the biggest impression.

My cousin Nani and I made a spontaneous decision to drive out. The park was nearly empty—no crowds, no tour buses, just us and the vastness of it all. We took in the silence, the beauty, and had the kind of unexpected adventure you don’t realize will be so meaningful until much later.

The few people we did meet were just as stunned as we were, quietly sharing in the joy and disbelief at the serenity surrounding us.

We wandered from one lookout to the next, soaking in the canyon’s quiet, and finished the day at a small restaurant we hadn’t planned on, grateful for the kind of perfect, unplanned experience that stays with you.

At the time, I thought it was just a great trip.
Now, I see it as a final pause before everything shifted.

And Then, the World Changed

Weeks later, life was unrecognizable.

The world shut down.
Travel stopped.
Families were separated.

And then Covid reached our family.

Mom was hospitalized.
Dad and my brother both got sick. One tested positive, the other didn’t need to—we all knew.

I found myself isolating in a quiet Airbnb, a literal castle in the hills above my hometown, waiting for life to feel normal again.

Unlike the Grand Canyon, where stillness felt expansive and calming, this quiet felt heavy. Like holding your breath, waiting for life to resume.

What I Would Tell Myself Now

If I could go back and stand next to the version of me on the edge of the Grand Canyon, I’d say:

In the next five years, you will experience the indescribable.

It’s going to hurt. You will feel pain like you’ve never known before.

You will survive. You will be different. And you will be okay.

But I’d also tell her this:

In the next five years, you will have moments of awe.

Moments that will take your breath away, where gratitude and wonder appear in both stillness and chaos.

Because life is never just one thing. It’s the heartbreak and the healing. The silence and the storm. The ordinary and the extraordinary.

And somehow, you will carry all of it—and keep going.

This is Living Real Aloha.