When the Sirens Go Off: Growing Up, Preparedness & the Ache of What’s Missing

If you live in a coastal region in the Pacific — or even just glanced at the news — you know that this week shook us. Literally.

A powerful earthquake triggered a tsunami watch, and in a matter of minutes, everyone on island time was on high alert. It was like time itself shifted. And it reminded me just how fragile we all are when nature decides to wake us up.

As sirens wailed and notifications blared, I found myself frozen, not with fear — but with that eerie, uncomfortable realization: I am not prepared.

No go-bag.

No flashlight.

No extra water bottles or spare chargers.

No idea what I would even do if I had to evacuate alone.

And that hit harder than I expected. Because for so long, I’ve told myself I’m grown now. I pay my own bills. I survive winter in Minnesota. I’m strong. Independent. Capable. But standing in the middle of a tsunami watch at 19 years old, all I could think was:

I’m not ready. I don’t know how to be ready. Not just for disasters, but for life.

There’s a strange grief that comes with adulthood — when you realize you’re not protected anymore. When you don’t get to just hop in the car and let someone else figure it out. When survival is on you.

And in that moment, it all caught up to me.

Not just the sirens or the warnings, but the years.

The speed of them. The way life’s been moving without stopping to let me breathe.

It feels like I just graduated. Like I just turned 17.

But here I am, 19, trying to hold it together, trying to be prepared — for tsunamis, for heartbreak, for adulthood.

And then something gutted me. A memory.

Evacuations didn’t always feel like this.

When I was a kid, they almost felt like sleepovers — stressful, sure, but I didn’t have to be strong. I didn’t have to know what to do. I just had to grab my teddy bear and follow my parents.

I remember times in my childhood so clearly — we had to drive up mauka to stay with family, and on the way, we always stopped to pick up Granny. It was just a given. We didn’t leave without her. She was part of the plan, always. We'd pack snacks, play old Hawaiian CDs, and make sure Granny had her sweater and her purse. It was chaotic but full of love.

But this time... we didn’t stop.

There was no call to check on her.

No detour to pick her up.

No spot saved in the car.

Because she’s not here anymore.

And somehow, even after almost six years, that still doesn’t feel real.

So, I wrote her a letter.

Dear Granny,

It’s been almost six years.Six years since I lost the sound of your laugh, the scratch of your voice, the warmth of your hugs.

Six years since life stopped feeling safe.

I just turned 19 — can you believe that?

It feels impossible.

I still feel like that little girl in your living room, eating vienna sausage on the floor from your cabinet, watching you smoke your cigarettes while K-Drama played in the background.

I think about you every single day.

But this week, during the tsunami watch, I felt your absence in a whole new way.

No one called to check on you. No one picked you up.

We didn’t stop for you, and it wrecked me.

You were always a part of our plan.

Always in the car.

Always needing a little extra care — but somehow, you were the strongest one.

When you passed, I started drowning.

Grief wrapped itself around me like a riptide, pulling me under and keeping me numb for years.

I stopped living. I just... floated. Survived.

I know you'd tell me to be strong — but I miss you so much it physically hurts some days.

I'm doing my best. I really am.

Trying to love harder.

Trying to break the cycles.

Trying to heal all the wounds I once ignored.

I’m not always okay.

But I’m still here. Still learning.

And I hope that counts for something.

I hope wherever you are, you know I still need you.

That I still talk to you when I’m driving alone.

That I still carry your stories in my skin, your strength in my bones.

That I still cry when I think about the last time we had a sleepover.

You were always my safe place.

And I’m sorry you’re not here to be part of the plan anymore.

But I promise — I’m trying to build something that would make you proud.

I love you always and forever my Granny.

With ʻUhane From Me to You,

ʻUhane Hawaiʻi