06/11/2026
No one in my family called themselves a leader. But I never grew up without one.
Trips to visit Grandma Takiue in Hilo were always an event. We’d be sitting at Cafe 100 — double loco moco, extra gravy, cold drinks, the comfortable noise of a busy place — and it seemed like everyone who walked by stopped at our table to say hello. She wasn’t the mayor. She didn’t have a title. But she was pivotal in creating community belonging through the annual Bon Dance festivals across East Hawaiʻi, and people knew it. They felt it. That’s what belonging looks like when someone tends it carefully over decades.
My grandfather, Grandpa Nob, was a scoutmaster. One of the boys in his troop was my grandmother’s brother - Uncle Norman. Years later, Uncle Norman would become the scoutmaster, Lions Club president, and director of the annual Kona Coffee Festival. Uncle Norman used to tell me that he wouldn’t have done all of those things in the community without the guidance he received in his early years from my grandfather. That’s how strong communities are built — not by one person rising, but by one person investing deeply enough in another that the ripple goes further than they’ll ever see.
Grandma Dot had a gift I didn’t fully understand until I was much older. Whenever I brought a friend home, she’d look at them and ask, “What family are you from?” And then she’d tell them stories — about their parents, their grandparents, relatives they may have never met. She was a keeper of relationships and a keeper of history. She understood something essential: that people need to know they belong to something larger than themselves, and that a well-told story is one of the most powerful ways to show them.
My parents were always involved — scouts, judo, t-ball, youth group, Sunday School. They didn’t just sign us up and drop us off. They showed up. Over and over, they volunteered their time, their energy, and their money to make sure we were taken care of. That didn’t stop when we grew up. Years later, when I was playing in a men’s basketball league, my parents came to every game — and they didn’t come empty-handed. Costco pizza and ice cold water for the whole team, every single time. No one asked them to. That’s just who they were.
I grew up in the small town of Holualoa on the island of Hawaiʻi, surrounded by this kind of leadership — quiet, consistent, and deeply rooted in community. Creating belonging. Developing others. Holding relationships and stories with care. Showing up for people, even when no one was keeping score.
No titles. No corner offices. No keynotes.
Just people who understood that leadership is not about position. It’s about presence.
The legacy runs deep. And for a long time, I didn’t realize it was mine to carry — or that carrying it would ask me to first understand the weight of it.
