We’ve lost several people. Some lived long lives, while others left this world far too young.

There really aren’t words for some of it.

But in the middle of all that sadness, I’ve also watched something beautiful happen.

I’ve watched a community come together.

People make food.

They show up.

They send messages.

They make phone calls.

They offer reassuring words when they can find them.

And sometimes they simply stand beside someone when there really aren’t any words at all.

It has made me think about what the word community actually means.

We may not be related by blood, but after enough years of sharing our lives—the celebrations, the children growing up, the weddings, the illnesses, the losses and everything in between—we become a kind of family.

And I’ve realized that community isn’t really proven during the celebrations.

You discover what it means when something goes wrong.

When There Are No Right Words

I’ve learned that helping someone doesn’t always mean knowing what to say.

Sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can say.

I found myself in that situation not too long ago.

I stood there completely speechless.

I didn’t know what to say.

I didn’t know how to act.

So I basically said nothing.

Afterwards, I replayed that moment in my head a million times.

I should have said something.

I should have done something.

Why didn’t I ask how they were?

But what do you say when you already know the answer to How are you?

They’re not okay.

And sometimes asking What can I do to help? doesn’t feel right either, because you know there is absolutely nothing you can do to change what has happened.

Maybe sometimes standing there quietly is all we have.

I’m beginning to understand that silence doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t care.

Sometimes it means you care so much that you simply don’t have the words.

And there are situations bigger than what friends and family can carry alone. That’s why having support available—social workers, psychologists, counsellors and people who know how to help someone through the unimaginable—is so important.

Because love doesn’t mean having all the answers.

Sometimes love is simply staying beside someone when there are no answers.

And Then Another Family Needed Help

Just as our community was dealing with so much sadness, we learned that a little boy connected to our community needs heart surgery.

His parents started where so many of us started.

Two people fell in love, built a life together and decided to bring a little baby into that love.

You imagine all the things parents imagine when you’re waiting for that baby to arrive.

You imagine birthdays.

First steps.

First days of school.

Family vacations.

You imagine watching them grow up.

You don’t imagine this.

Now their little boy needs heart surgery, and his parents are facing something no parent ever expects to face.

And once again, I watched our community respond.

A few emails.

A few Facebook posts.

People sharing the story.

One person tells another.

Someone donates.

Someone else shares.

Another person asks, What do they need?

And slowly, all of those little acts start becoming something much bigger.

People are helping raise money for a plane ticket, hotel rooms near the children’s hospital and the expenses his parents will face while they wait for their little boy to become strong enough to travel and receive the care he needs.

Most of us can’t perform heart surgery.

We can’t promise these parents that everything will be okay.

We can’t take away their fear.

But we can help carry a tiny piece of the load.

And maybe that’s what community is.

We Show Up Differently Now

Maybe this is another part of our Gen-X next chapter that I hadn’t really thought about before.

When we were younger, many of us were the ones who needed help.

We were raising children, building careers, paying mortgages and trying to figure out life as we went along.

Someone brought us dinner when we had a baby.

Someone watched our children when we were stuck.

Someone drove a child to practice.

Someone’s parents stepped in when we couldn’t manage everything ourselves.

And now, without really noticing when it happened, many of us have moved to the other side.

We’re the ones making the food.

We’re organizing.

We’re sharing the fundraiser.

We’re making the phone call.

We’re asking, What do they need?

Our children are older. Our lives are different. We have a little more ability to step in when someone needs us.

Maybe that’s one of the responsibilities—and privileges—of this stage of life.

We remember what it felt like when someone helped us.

And now we get to be that person for somebody else.

We Don’t Always Get an Answer

I used to think that when something terrible happened, there had to be some explanation for it.

Some reason.

Something we could eventually understand.

I’m not sure I believe that anymore.

Sometimes terrible things simply happen.

People become sick.

People die too young.

Children need heart surgery.

Families suddenly find themselves living through something they never imagined would be part of their story.

I don’t think we always need to search for a reason.

Maybe what matters more is what we do next.

We can’t control everything that happens in this life.

But we can control how we respond to each other when it does.

We can show compassion.

We can make the meal.

We can send the message.

We can make the donation.

We can listen.

And when we don’t know what to say, we can still stay.

Paying It Forward

At some point in our lives, most of us have needed someone.

Someone showed up.

Someone helped.

Maybe we were never able to repay that particular person. Maybe they didn’t need anything from us and never expected anything in return.

So maybe we repay that kindness differently.

We give it to the next person.

That’s what paying it forward means to me.

You don’t keep score.

You help because someone needs help and, at that moment, you’re able to give it.

Sometimes it’s money.

Sometimes it’s food.

Sometimes it’s your time.

Sometimes it’s simply sitting beside somebody and saying absolutely nothing.

I started thinking about all of this because these past few weeks have contained far too much sadness.

And somehow my thoughts ended up here.

With community.

With people showing up.

With realizing that sometimes there really aren’t any words.

And maybe there don’t have to be.

Because community isn’t about seeing each other every week or having a hundred close friends.

It’s knowing that when life suddenly becomes too heavy for one person or one family to carry, other people will quietly pick up a piece of it.

A meal.

A plane ticket.

A hotel room.

A donation.

A message.

Or sometimes just standing beside someone when there are no words.

None of us can fix everything.

But none of us should have to carry everything alone.

Share

And somehow, no matter how many things we check off, we keep adding more.

More places. More experiences. More adventures.

Ireland had been sitting on that list for a while, so this year we decided it was time.

And really, an adventure wouldn’t be an adventure if everything went according to plan.

Ours certainly didn’t.

Read more

Every decision he made revolved around one goal: survival.

He could not afford to be unemployed.

He could not afford to fail.

There was no family waiting to help him if things went wrong.

No financial cushion.

No home to return to.

Hungary was behind him.

His future would be built in Canada—or nowhere at all.

He continued working as an optician, shortly joining American Optical.

His work quickly earned the respect of his supervisors. Before long, he was training new employees, a reflection of both his skill and his work ethic.

Then he discovered something difficult to accept.

Despite doing the same work—and often training others—he was earning significantly less than many of his Canadian coworkers.

Was it because he was a refugee?

Because he was an immigrant?

Or simply because employers believed newcomers had no choice but to accept whatever they were offered?

He never complained.

He simply kept looking ahead.

He learned that better opportunities existed in Ottawa and made sure every career move improved his chances of building a stable future.

Then another opportunity appeared.

Computing Devices of Canada—known today as General Dynamics—was hiring.

To my father, it represented more than a better-paying job.

It represented security.

He believed that defence technology would always be important, and that the company could offer him the stable career he had spent years searching for.

He applied.

He was hired.

On July 1, 1961, he walked through the doors of Computing Devices of Canada as a new employee, earning between $3,000 and $4,000 a year.

It wasn’t a fortune.

But to a young man who had arrived with one suitcase and almost nothing else, it was something far more valuable.

It was stability.

It was dignity.

It was proof that the sacrifices he had made were beginning to pay off.

He would remain there until the day he retired.

Even as his career progressed, his lifestyle changed very little.

For years, he lived in a modest bachelor apartment in Ottawa’s Little Italy alongside other young immigrants trying to build new lives.

He didn’t gamble.

He didn’t drink.

He didn’t spend money carelessly.

Every dollar had a purpose.

To survive.

To save.

To build a future.

And to help his sisters back home in Hungary.

Looking back, I realize that his generation - or he viewed money differently than many of us do today.

It wasn’t about status.

It wasn’t about possessions.

It represented security.

Freedom.

The knowledge that they would never again have to flee their homes with only what they could carry.

My father never considered himself extraordinary.

He believed he had simply done what life required of him.

But his generation helped build Canada today.

They arrived with almost nothing.

They worked wherever work could be found.

They learned the language.

They shared tiny apartments.

They saved every dollar.

They sent money home.

They became tradespeople, factory workers, technicians, engineers, business owners, professionals, husbands, wives, mothers, and fathers.

Quietly, without asking for recognition, they became Canadians.

Today, immigration is often discussed in terms of politics, policies, and numbers.

For me, it has always had a face.

It was an eighteen-year-old Hungarian refugee who stepped off a plane in Toronto on May 4, 1957, carrying one suitcase, a trade, a few family photographs, and an unwavering determination to build a life.

Everything my family has today began with that suitcase.

My father’s story is only one among thousands.

But together, those stories helped build the Canada we know today.

I hope we never forget them.

Months of waiting were over.

He left Belfast and boarded a flight to Toronto, becoming one of the first Hungarian refugees to arrive in Canada by air rather than making the long Atlantic crossing by ship.

He often joked that together, he and his suitcase weighed only 80 kilograms.

Everything he owned fit inside that one suitcase.

A few changes of clothes.

Several family photographs.

The tools of his trade.

And what remained of the life he had left behind.

That was all he carried into the new world.

Canada was no longer just a destination on an immigration form.

It was now his home.

When he landed in Toronto, government officials recorded his information, reviewed his qualifications, and asked what kind of work he could do.

He was already a trained optician.

Within three days, he was working.

There was a need for opticians in Montreal, so that was where he went.

He spent the summer of 1957, living and working in Montreal.

He wasn’t choosing cities.

He wasn’t comparing salaries.

He wasn’t searching for the perfect neighbourhood.

He went wherever there was work.

There was no other choice.

His parents had already passed away.

His sisters remained behind in Hungary.

He had no savings.

No relatives waiting for him.

No safety net if things went wrong.

He had only himself.

Like so many Hungarian refugees, he found comfort in the company of others who had lived through the same events. They shared meals, memories, and encouragement, but they also shared another belief.

If Canada was giving them a chance, they would do everything they could to become Canadian.

They learned English.

They worked.

They adapted.

Some even stopped speaking Hungarian because they wanted to master English as quickly as possible.

Life wasn’t glamorous.

Part of an old Montreal jail, 1162 St. Antoine Street West (originally built in 1914 next to Windsor Station) was a former municipal police station and jail) had been converted into temporary housing for refugees. One half still housed prisoners. The other half housed people like my father.

They were free to leave for work each day, but they had to sign themselves in and out.

It wasn’t luxury.

It wasn’t meant to be.

It was simply a place to begin again.

As autumn gave way to winter, the reality of starting over became even more apparent.

The only shoes my father owned had carried him across Hungary, into Austria, through England, Northern Ireland, and finally to Canada.

Months later, they finally fell apart.

He saved every dollar he could until he had enough money to buy a new pair.

Not fashionable shoes.

Not expensive shoes.

Just a sturdy pair that would survive a Canadian winter.

To him, buying those shoes wasn’t a luxury.

It was survival.

When the staff at the refugee residence noticed his new shoes, they assumed he no longer needed assistance.

“If you can afford new shoes,” they reasoned, “you can afford to live somewhere else.”

He was given one week to leave.

Just like that.

There were no appeals.

No exceptions.

No extensions.

A few young Hungarian men pooled what little money they had and rented a small bachelor apartment.

Mattresses covered the floor.

Privacy was almost nonexistent.

Comfort was a luxury none of them could afford.

But together, they had something more important.

A roof over their heads.

A chance to keep moving forward.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder how different that generation was from ours.

They didn’t expect life to be easy.

They expected to work.

And they did.

In Part Three, my father discovers that surviving in Canada is only the beginning. Building a life will require just as much determination as escaping Hungary.

Whenever I asked him about the Hungarian Revolution or how he came to Canada, he would smile and say, “I only tell you the good. You don’t need to know the bad.”

As a child, I accepted that answer.

As an adult, I came to realize that the story he wasn’t telling was the very reason I was born in Canada.

Many people born here will never truly understand what it meant to leave everything behind—not to chase a better life, but simply to have the chance to live in freedom.

My father’s story is one of thousands, yet it deserves to be told because it reflects the courage, sacrifice, and determination of an entire generation that helped build modern Canada.

My father was only eighteen years old when the Hungarian Revolution erupted in October 1956.

Hungarians rose up against Soviet Communist rule in a desperate attempt to reclaim their country and their freedom. For twelve extraordinary days, they believed they had succeeded.

There was hope.

There was celebration.

For the first time in years, it seemed possible that Hungary might once again belong to Hungarians.

Then the Soviet tanks returned.

Budapest was surrounded. The city was bombed. The revolution was crushed, and Hungary would remain under Communist rule for decades.

My father was already a trained optician. By nature, he was a peaceful young man, but when the time came for young Hungarians to defend their country, he did what he believed was right.

He helped secure the national radio station and other important buildings so that the Hungarian people could communicate with one another and tell the world what was happening.

He never spoke much about those days.

Over the years, I learned fragments of the story from other people.

Someone had reportedly seen my father helping defend the radio station. Rumours spread that the authorities knew who he was and that they would soon come looking for him.

There was also talk that he would be forced into the army, like all 18 year old men.

He had no desire to become a soldier.

Fighting for freedom was one thing.

Being forced to fight for the regime that had just crushed his country was another.

One evening, without telling anyone, he made the most difficult decision of his young life.

He would leave Hungary.

Like thousands of others, he began walking toward Austria.

Years later, he told me that during that journey he saw things he never wanted to see again.

But what stayed with him most was not the fear.

It was the kindness.

Elderly villagers stood along the roads, encouraging the young refugees as they passed.

They wished them courage.

They wished them safety.

They wished them freedom.

One young married couple welcomed my father into their home for the night. They gave this exhausted stranger their own bed while they slept elsewhere.

“You have courage,” they told him. “Rest tonight. Continue your journey tomorrow.”

He never forgot them.

Eventually, he crossed the Austrian border in secret.

For the first time since leaving Hungary, he was safe.

But he had no way of knowing whether his sisters had survived.

Or whether they believed he was still alive.

The Red Cross established a simple radio message service that allowed refugees to send brief messages home. There were no long conversations. No letters filled with stories. Just a few precious words.

My father’s message contained only three names.

Bella. Béla. Bözske.

To anyone else, they were simply names.

To his sisters, they were everything.

It was their family’s secret code.

It meant only one thing:

I made it.

I’m alive.

Years later, whenever he spoke about escaping Hungary, he rarely mentioned the fear.

But I often think about those three names.

Imagine being eighteen years old, alone in a foreign country, unable to tell your family where you were or whether you would ever see them again.

All you could do was send three names across a Red Cross radio network and hope someone heard them.

Hope your sisters were still alive.

Hope they understood.

Hope they knew their brother had made it to freedom.

The Red Cross received him and placed him, along with thousands of other Hungarian refugees, on a military base.

There was no luxury.

No comfortable rooms.

No special meals.

No new clothes.

There were potatoes, simple shelter, paperwork, and waiting.

He completed forms indicating where he hoped to begin a new life.

America.

Australia.

Canada.

Because he was already a trained optician, he knew he had a skill that could help him find work wherever he was accepted.

Then came the news.

Canada had said yes.

It was January 1957.

For the first time since leaving Hungary, my father knew where his future would begin.

He still didn’t know exactly when he would arrive or how much longer he would have to wait, but something had changed.

For the first time in months, there was certainty.

His journey, however, was far from over.

In January 1957, he was transferred to England and housed at the I.C. Hostel on Stanbridge Road in Leighton Buzzard, Bedfordshire.

The following month, in February 1957, he was moved to Ballykinlar, County Down, Northern Ireland, where he remained until April while waiting for transportation to Canada.

Waiting wasn’t easy.

But my father refused to sit idle.

He found work in a local bakery. He wanted to earn his own way, make himself useful, and contribute rather than simply depend on assistance.

Knowing him, I suspect the job meant more than earning a few pounds. It gave him purpose. Perhaps it also meant bringing home a few slices of bread—or a loaf that was a day or two old. Whatever the case, he never forgot the dignity that comes from earning your own way.

He still had no idea what Canada would bring.

But he was one step closer to finding out.

To be continued…

I had just wrapped up writing about Hawaii and thought, “Well… that’s one incredible adventure I’ll never forget.”

Then Alaska happened.

And somehow, it left me even more speechless.

This isn’t really a travel story.

And maybe it isn’t even about Alaska.

It’s about what Alaska reminded me of.

Because beneath the glaciers, helicopters, whales, and breathtaking scenery, I realized this trip was really about something many of us in our fifties are finally learning to do.

Give ourselves permission to live.

Before I go any further, I should probably mention that this post isn’t really about our adventures—not yet.

I promise I’ll be sharing those over the next little while because there were so many moments when Cristian and I were left completely speechless by the beauty of this world. Standing on a glacier that had been forming for centuries. Flying over mountains in a helicopter for the first time. Watching whales surface beside our ship. Walking through rainforests that have existed longer than many countries.

Those stories deserve their own posts.

This one is about the evenings.

The conversations.

The people we met.

And the thoughts that quietly settled in after each unforgettable day.

Sometimes it’s not the places you visit that change you.

It’s what those places make you think about.

Every Adventure Starts Before You Leave

Before we even stepped on the plane, life reminded us that plans don’t always unfold the way we imagine.

This trip was originally supposed to be with friends. We had talked about it for months, planned it together, and looked forward to sharing every moment.

Then life intervened.

There was an accident.

Thankfully, she’s okay, but flying wasn’t part of the doctor’s recovery plan. They had to cancel.

It was disappointing for everyone.

A reminder that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, and sometimes life rewrites your plans without asking.

As if that wasn’t enough, four days before we left, our refrigerator decided to stop working.

Perfect timing.

Suddenly we were scrambling to get it repaired before leaving home.

Then, two days before departure, I got stung by a wasp.

Man, did that hurt.

By then I was starting to wonder if the universe was trying to tell us something.

Back at home, I did what every mom seems programmed to do before leaving.

I stocked the refrigerator.

Cooked meals.

Made sure the kids would have everything they needed.

Even though they’re adults now.

Old habits don’t disappear just because your children grow up.

Then, at four o’clock in the morning, our adventure finally began.

Ottawa to Vancouver.

Vancouver to Anchorage.

Nineteen hours from the time we woke up until we finally reached Alaska.

Most people would have gone straight to bed.

Not us.

We looked at each other and said,

“We’re in Alaska. Why would we waste a single minute?”

So off we went exploring Anchorage instead.

Our Year of Firsts

Sometimes you don’t realize how many “firsts” you’ve postponed until they all happen within a few days.

Our first cruise.

Our first time this far north.

Our first glacier.

Our first helicopter ride.

Our first time standing on a glacier.

We’re both in our fifties.

Like so many people our age, we spent decades doing what we believed we were supposed to do.

Pay off the mortgage.

Raise the kids.

Drive to hockey, basketball, and every activity in between.

Pay for university.

Build careers.

Save for retirement.

Look after aging parents.

Adventure could wait.

There would be time later.

Then one day you wake up and realize…

This is later.

Looking back, I’m grateful we were responsible.

But I’m equally grateful we finally stopped waiting.

Because Alaska reminded me that some experiences simply can’t be explained.

They have to be lived.

Standing beside a glacier hundreds of feet high.

Watching ancient blue ice crash into the ocean.

Flying over endless mountains.

Walking through forests that make you feel impossibly small.

There are moments that leave you speechless.

Not because they’re exciting.

Because they’re humbling.

Cruise Life Wasn’t Quite What I Expected

We decided to upgrade to the Premier Package.

Unlimited drinks.

Specialty restaurants.

All the extras.

It sounded perfect.

Except there was one problem.

By the third day, I felt awful.

At first I blamed the food.

Then the wine.

Then the bed.

Eventually I realized…

I wasn’t sick because of any of those things.

I was seasick.

Even on a ship that large, my body quietly disagreed with the ocean.

Once I figured that out, everything made much more sense.

Fortunately, the scenery more than made up for it.

The Best Part of the Cruise Wasn’t Alaska

This surprised me.

I expected Alaska to leave me speechless because of the scenery.

I didn’t expect complete strangers to leave the biggest impression.

Something happens when people travel.

People talk.

Really talk.

Maybe it’s because you’ll probably never see each other again.

Maybe it’s because everyone has stepped away from their everyday responsibilities.

Or maybe people finally have time to slow down.

Whatever the reason, conversations happened everywhere.

Over dinner.

Watching glaciers.

Waiting for excursions.

Sitting around with a drink in the evening.

We met a couple in their late sixties with four children who told us they’re finally travelling now that everyone is grown.

We met a widow whose children encouraged her to start seeing the world after losing her husband.

She was funny, warm, optimistic, and determined not to stop living.

We met people from London.

Melbourne.

Connecticut.

Idaho.

Different countries.

Different careers.

Different lives.

Yet somehow every conversation ended up in the same place.

Children.

Marriage.

Parents.

Health.

Retirement.

Dreams.

Regrets.

Hope.

I honestly can’t remember meeting a single unpleasant person the entire week.

Instead, we found kindness.

Maybe None of Us Really Know What We’re Doing

Listening to everyone else’s stories, I found myself quietly comparing them to our own.

Not because I was judging.

Because I was learning.

Every family had struggles.

Every marriage had challenges.

Every parent had worries.

Every person had experienced loss, disappointment, or uncertainty.

Nobody had a perfect story.

Nobody had all the answers.

That realization was strangely comforting.

Sometimes we look around and assume everyone else has life figured out.

Then you sit across from a stranger overlooking an Alaskan glacier, and twenty minutes later they’re telling you about the hardest chapter of their life.

You realize we’re all carrying something.

We’re just carrying it differently.

The Conversation I Miss Most

One evening I caught myself thinking about my mom.

How much I wished I could call her.

Not because I needed advice.

Just because I missed the conversation.

My parents had a gift.

Anything you told them stayed with them.

It never became gossip.

It never became judgment.

They listened.

They asked questions.

Sometimes they’d say,

“Here’s what I would probably do…”

Sometimes they simply let me think out loud until I found my own answer.

They never needed to fix my problems.

They simply helped me make sense of them.

Now they’re both gone.

Sometimes I’ll smile when I see a red cardinal or a blue jay and wonder if that’s their way of saying hello.

But birds don’t answer questions.

They don’t ask how you’re doing.

They don’t tell you everything will probably be okay.

For the first time, I realized that some of those conversations I’d been missing were happening around dinner tables on a cruise ship.

Not because strangers replaced my parents.

They couldn’t.

But because people who had already walked the road we’re now on reminded me that uncertainty isn’t something to fear.

It’s simply part of life.

Maybe This Is the Real Luxury

When I think back on Alaska, of course I’ll remember the glaciers.

The whales.

The helicopter.

The endless mountains.

But I think I’ll remember the conversations even more.

The reminder that most people are kinder than the headlines suggest.

That everyone is carrying victories and heartbreaks we can’t see.

And that after spending decades building careers, paying mortgages, raising children, and often putting ourselves last…

many of us are finally arriving at a season where it’s okay to choose ourselves once in a while.

Not because we’ve earned it.

Not because life is perfect.

But because tomorrow isn’t promised.

For so many years, I believed adventure belonged to “someday.”

After the mortgage.

After the kids graduated.

After retirement.

After one more responsibility.

Alaska quietly taught me that someday eventually arrives.

And when it does…

Don’t talk yourself out of it.

Book the trip.

Take the helicopter ride.

Stand on the glacier.

Talk to the strangers.

Listen to their stories.

Share a little of your own.

Because one day, you’ll realize the greatest souvenir wasn’t something you brought home.

It was the perspective you never knew you needed.

Maybe that’s the biggest lesson Alaska gave me.

It’s never too late for a first.

And sometimes, the adventures you postpone the longest become the ones that change you the most.

Alaska wasn’t just another vacation. It was a reminder that life can still surprise us—even in our fifties.

I wasn’t planning to write another travel story so soon.

I had just finished writing about Hawaii and thought, Well… that’s one incredible adventure I’ll never forget.

Then Alaska happened.

And somehow, it left me even more speechless.

This isn’t really a story about Alaska.

It’s about remembering that we’re still allowed to have firsts.

Somewhere along the way, many of us in Generation X became so busy raising children, building careers, paying mortgages, and taking care of everyone else that we quietly stopped doing things for the first time.

Then one day, our children begin building lives of their own… and before we know it, they’re living lives we spent years helping them build.

The house becomes quieter.

The calendar finally has a little more space.

And we realize something unexpected.

Life isn’t winding down.

In many ways, it’s opening up again.

This trip reminded me of that every single day.

Read more

He was the baby at our wedding.

I can still picture him being passed from one guest to another while we celebrated the beginning of our own married life. Back then, we were just starting out. We were young, full of dreams, convinced we had all the time in the world.

Read more

A nasty one.

Honolulu had essentially shut down.

Schools closed.
Stores closed.
State of emergency.

The rain wasn’t just falling—it was relentless. Heavy, constant, almost aggressive. Sirens echoed through the streets every 10–15 minutes, a steady reminder that this wasn’t just “bad weather.”

The forecast?

Up to 150 mm of rain.

Luckily, my husband had the foresight the night before and extended our stay by half a day.

I didn’t even know you could do that.

“This isn’t a shopping day.”

No walking the streets. No visiting the famous mall. Just stay put.

And he was right.

The streets were empty.

The stores that could open were told:
“If you can safely get there and back, open. If not—stay closed.”

Most stayed closed.

Thankfully, breakfast was included.

One less thing to worry about.

We ate… and packed a little extra for lunch.

Another very Gen-X move—prepare quietly, just in case.

We made a quick trip to the lobby for the free cookies (because of course we did), grabbed a coffee from the café beside the hotel, and settled in to wait.

Our Uber had been pre-booked for 7:00 p.m.

A small win—no surge pricing in a storm.

But dinner?

Still a question.

By some miracle, one of the only restaurants open was right around the corner.

We borrowed an umbrella from the hotel and made a run for it.

This time, we were smarter—shorts.

We didn’t get nearly as soaked.

Small victories.

They had exactly two spots left.

We sat down, looked at the menu… and didn’t ask what looked good.

We asked:

What’s fastest?

The server was incredible.

Fast. Efficient. Calm.

Exactly what we needed.

We ate, ran back through the rain, grabbed our luggage, and headed to the airport.

At the airport, everything felt… off.

Stores weren’t just closing for the night—they were shutting down.

Final sales. 75% off.

The alcohol store?

Empty.

Nothing left.

We grabbed some famous Hawaiian chocolate from a gift shop that was also closing—basically the same price as Target—and kept moving.

We added our names to the upgrade list for business class.

They had one seat.

I told my husband,
“I’ve been upgraded once in my life—your turn.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“No way. We sit together.”

At the counter, the agent offered:

“One of you can upgrade.”

He said no.

Together or not at all.

She smiled and said,
“He’s a keeper.”

I smiled back.

“I know.”

We made our way to the gate.

Flights delayed.
Time tight.

Now we were 45 minutes late—with only 25 minutes in Vancouver to make our connection.

We boarded.

Doors closed.

We texted the kids, Love you.

Then my phone buzzed.

You’ve been upgraded to business class.

I called the flight attendant—

“There must be a mistake—we declined.”

Then my husband’s phone buzzed.

Same message.

Then the woman behind us got moved into our seats.

We looked at each other.

Confused.

The attendant smiled:

“No mistake. You’re both upgraded.”

We grabbed our things and walked up the plane…

And there they were.

Seats 1 and 2.

Together.

Our first real business class experience.

Real plates.
Real cutlery.
Real glasses.
Warm nuts.

Same food—but somehow… better.

Comfortable.

Very comfortable.

The kind of experience you could get used to…

But probably shouldn’t.

We landed in Vancouver.

And then—

We ran.

Literally running through the airport.

Through customs.
Through terminals.

People yelling,
“Don’t bother—you’re not going to make it!”

Another passenger ran past us.

“Where are you going?”

“Ottawa.”

Same.

We picked up speed.

Twenty minutes.

Across the airport.

Last ones on the plane.

But we made it.

The next flight wasn’t nearly as comfortable.

But we didn’t care.

We were exhausted.

We slept.

We texted the boys:

We made it. We’re coming home.

One of them replied:

“I’m coming to get you.”

Our luggage didn’t make it.

But we did.

(It showed up 48 hours later.)

And honestly?

That’s all that mattered.

We walked out.

Saw our son.

Hugged him.

And then the other two.

And finally…

We were home.

After all the planning, the travel, the adventures, the storms, the unexpected moments…

That was the best part.

Because no matter how far you go…

There’s nothing better than coming home and hugging your family.

And in the end… that’s what every journey is really about.

Wet.

We decided to walk about 4 km through Honolulu to visit ʻIolani Palace and learn a little more about Hawaiian culture.

What we didn’t know?

You need to book the tour in advance.

We didn’t.

By the time we arrived, we were completely drenched.

Our rain jackets had clearly passed their waterproof prime.

We stood there—wet and hopeful—waiting in the standby line.

No luck.

So… we pivoted.

Very Gen-X.

No overthinking. No frustration. Just:

Okay—what’s next?

We pulled up the DaBus2 app, hopped on TheBus—$3 cash each—and headed to the Bishop Museum.

And honestly?

It turned out to be the better choice.

Indoors.
Dry.
Warm.
And full of Hawaiian history.

We spent a few hours walking through the exhibits—learning, exploring… and slowly drying off.

Sometimes the backup plan ends up being the highlight.

Afterward, we made our way back to the hotel.

Hot showers.
Dry clothes.
A reset.

Later that evening, we headed back out for dinner at Earl’s Bar & Grill.

Great atmosphere. Good music. The kind of place you’re happy to land after a long day.

We shared calamari, shrimp and scallop spaghetti with pesto, and a Korean bowl.

Simple. Comforting. Exactly right.

And then…

The rain came back.

We speed-walked our way back to the hotel and somehow got completely drenched for the second time that day.

At that point, all you can do is laugh.

Now we’re just hoping the weather cooperates long enough for us to leave Honolulu on time tomorrow…

So we can get home.

And hug our kids.

Because some travel days are sunshine and sunsets.

And others?

They’re just two Gen-X travellers laughing their way through a tropical downpour.

Because not every day needs to be perfect… to be unforgettable.

With rain in the forecast, we decided to rent a car and make the most of our time on Oahu—covering more ground than we ever could on foot.

It was also the third day we hadn’t actually spoken to the kids.

Only texted.

With the six-hour time difference and our full days of exploring, the timing just never lined up for a proper call.

So we settled for quick check-ins:

Everyone okay?
Everyone alive?
👍 ❤️

The modern version of parenting from far away.

Not quite the same… but enough to stay connected.

We started the day driving southeast around the island.

Some parks and lookout points were closed, but it didn’t really matter.

The coastline carried the experience.

Waves crashing against the cliffs, dramatic drops into the ocean, stretches of road that felt like they were pulled straight out of a postcard.

Sometimes the drive is the destination.

Then we arrived at Pearl Harbor National Memorial.

And everything shifted.

The energy.
The pace.
The tone of the day.

Standing there, knowing that over 900 servicemen lost their lives—and that 45 survivors later chose to be laid to rest beside their shipmates—it hits you differently than reading it in a book.

You slow down.

You take it in.

You reflect.

From there, we visited the Pacific Fleet Submarine Museum and toured the USS Bowfin.

We had never been on a submarine before.

The narrow hallways.
The tight sleeping quarters.
The limited space.

It’s hard to imagine living and working in those conditions for extended periods of time.

Fascinating… and humbling at the same time.

Next stop: the Battleship Missouri Memorial.

The USS Missouri—the last battleship ever built by the United States, and the site where World War II officially ended on September 2, 1945.

We joined a guided tour and walked the deck where the Instrument of Surrender was signed.

Standing there, you can feel the weight of that moment.

History doesn’t feel distant in a place like that.

It feels real.

On the drive back toward Honolulu, we passed the airport and paused for a few minutes to watch planes take off and land.

Simple.

But somehow… satisfying.

Travel has a way of reminding you that it’s not always the big moments that stay with you.

We ended the day at the Ala Moana Center.

The largest open-air shopping center in the world.

Over 350 stores, restaurants, and more options than you could possibly cover in one visit.

We wandered through Cartier, Gucci, and Chanel.

Beautiful stores.

Beautiful things.

And yes… I could definitely do some serious damage there.

But reality (and our budget) kept things grounded.

It was one of those days that somehow held everything:

Beauty.
History.
Reflection.
And a little bit of window shopping.

Very Gen-X, really.

We spent decades raising kids, driving to practices, building careers, paying mortgages, and moving from one responsibility to the next.

And now…

We get these small windows of time.

To slow down.
To travel.
To learn.
To be curious again.

And yet… even from thousands of miles away, the parenting never really turns off.

You just do it differently now.

Through messages.
Through quick check-ins.
Through small digital reminders that say:

I’m here.

Because no matter how far you go… some roles in life never fade—they just evolve.

At this point, I’m beginning to think we should stop calling it that.

But when your children become adults, you really don’t know.

Every year, their lives get a little busier.

Summer jobs become co-op placements. Co-op placements become careers. There are girlfriends, friends, responsibilities and schedules that no longer revolve around the family calendar.

Getting five people in the same place at the same time starts to feel like an accomplishment.

And every year, you quietly wonder:

Is this the last time we’ll actually be able to do this?

Read more

No constant updates.
No panic texts.
No one hovering over every problem.

Just instinct, practicality… and the understanding that sometimes you simply deal with whatever comes next.

That mindset followed me all the way to Hawaii—right into a morning when everything suddenly felt like it was going wrong at once.

Read more

An Iron Ring ceremony.

A prom.

A university graduation.

A high school graduation.

As I sat in those auditoriums, I couldn’t help but watch each of them—not just what they had accomplished, but how differently they experienced the same moments.

One was reserved, quietly taking everything in.

Read more

No rushing.
No big plans.

Just a day to be present… and to soak in the final moments.

On the drive out, we called all three of our boys—checking in like we always do. Making sure everyone was okay. Letting them know we were good too.

Even from thousands of miles away, that invisible thread between parents and their kids never really loosens.

It stretches.

But it never breaks.

Read more

Our parents are aging. Some have already passed away. The children we spent decades raising are becoming independent. Slowly, almost without realizing it, we leave behind the years of being the sandwich generation—caught between caring for our parents and raising our children.

And when that happens, something becomes very clear.

Friendship matters.

Read more

Everything seemed normal.

Until our youngest texted:
“Can we talk?”

Read more

As a parent, I honestly can’t process how 23 years and 18 years have passed so quickly. It feels like only yesterday they were taking their first steps.

For years, our lives revolved around them. We rushed from Hungarian school to basketball courts, from swimming lessons to martial arts, from school concerts to parent-teacher interviews. There were playdates, homework, tutoring, late-night studying, encouragement after disappointments, and celebrations after successes. The list never seemed to end.

Then, almost without warning, you’re sitting in an auditorium watching your children walk across a stage to receive their diplomas and degrees.

How did we get here so fast?

When I was younger, I used to smile whenever someone said, “I remember when you were just a baby.” I never really understood what they meant.

Most of those people are gone now.

Today, I understand exactly what they were trying to tell me.

Years ago, an older friend shared something that has stayed with me ever since. He and his wife never had children, but they lived well into their eighties. One afternoon, while watching us race around with our three young boys, he quietly said, “The only thing I regret is not slowing down. Take in the moment. Enjoy life.”

At the time, we were living at a thousand kilometres an hour, barely stopping long enough to finish a cup of coffee.

He was right.

Looking back, I hope our children saw what mattered most. We dropped everything to be there for them. As a stay-at-home mom, I made that my priority. My husband would leave work early to make it to practices, games, concerts, and school events. We divided and conquered, making sure each child knew they mattered equally.

Those years were exhausting.

They were also the best investment we ever made.

Now, at 23, 21, and 18, I see the results. Somewhere along the way, we built something even more valuable than I ever imagined.

We built a friendship.

We can talk about almost anything. They genuinely enjoy spending time together. When one of them needs help, the others show up. When there’s a graduation, birthday, or family celebration, nobody asks if they’re coming—they’re already there.

The cards they write for Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and birthdays often leave us in tears. Not because they’re elaborate, but because they’re sincere.

As parents, you always wonder if you’re getting it right. You second-guess your decisions. You worry you’ve made mistakes.

We certainly have.

But I think we accomplished the one thing that mattered most: we loved them without conditions, and they always knew it.

At the end of the day, I only hope they never question that.

We love each of them equally.

Unconditionally.

Forever.

Everything we have ever done has been with one simple wish—that they grow into kind, healthy, happy, and whole adults.

The graduations are over now. The gowns have been packed away. The photos have been framed.

And once again, the house feels just a little quieter.

One day, they’ll build families of their own. They’ll rush from one activity to another, wondering where the time went. And maybe then they’ll understand why we always wanted to be there—not because we had to, but because there was nowhere else we’d rather be.

It was only yesterday they were babies.

Or at least, that’s how it feels.

It’s one of only a handful of green sand beaches in the world, and seeing it in person feels a little like discovering a secret nature has been quietly holding onto for thousands of years.

Read more

Within minutes, I was staring at people who no longer exist in the same world they once lived in.

Children who are now in their 50s.
Family members long gone.
Moments nobody thought would matter someday.

And it made me wonder:

What happens to our memories now that they mostly live inside phones?

Photography has been around since 1826, but for most of us Gen-X kids, photography meant something very different growing up.

Photos were expensive.
Film was limited.
And every picture mattered.

You didn’t take 37 versions of the same pose hoping one would work. You waited for the right moment. You clicked once. Maybe twice if you were feeling reckless.

Then you waited days — sometimes weeks — to see how they turned out.

Read more