To this year’s theme of intentionality

Whāia te iti kahurangi, ki te tuohu koe, me he maunga teitei

Seek the treasure that you value most dearly, if you bow your head, let it be to a lofty mountain. 

My theme for this year is to be intentional, and when I decided on it, I didn’t fully grasp the entirety of what I was trying to say. I’ve been doing my social work placement at an iwi-based kaupapa, and it has taught me so many valuable insights.

In Te Ao Māori, being intentional can mean slowing down, being thoughtful and mindful with your actions, and moving with awareness of the hau, the breath of life that connects us to the world around us. It’s about recognising that every action carries energy and navigating the balance between tapu and noa, honouring both the sacred and the everyday in our interactions. To put it simply, and in the words of one of the kaimahi and uri of Ngāti Whātua Ōrākei, tapu could be something like having a bad day, and to break this tapu you might go for a run – that’s noa.

This illustrates how tapu and noa are not only spiritual concepts, but also woven into daily activities. So, taking the time to act with care and presence honours not just yourself, but everyone who crosses your path.

I know that, with the busyness this year has brought, being intentional has sometimes slipped through the cracks. I started my full-time Masters in Social Work while working full-time, which dropped to 32 hours per week, then to 8 hours per week due to uni block courses, and eventually my contract wasn’t extended as I pursued a 10-week unpaid placement. The moral of the story is that, with uni, mahi, assignments, training, and now full-time placement, some things had to give. I was often coming home stressed, emotional, and under pressure, which affected my flat dynamic and the amount of time I spent with my kurī, Miso.

Since becoming more mindful of my energy, and thinking less about ego and FOMO and more about priorities, I’ve started stepping back into the lens of being intentional, not just through actions but also by taking in everything around me. Slowing down. Making space for the things that matter. Stepping away from my assignments when procrastination hits, listening to my body when it comes to working out, picking up the guitar and singing a waiata, practising self-care, meditating, treating myself to a café-bought coffee, doing contrast therapy with my mate Shai, Pilates at my friend Lou’s studio (shoutout to both of them for letting me use the facilities for free while I’m a pōhara student), calling my mum and brother for a kōrero, going on longer walks with Miso, spending time with friends, reading books again, going on dates, planting fresh herbs, or enjoying a couple of hours at my favourite brewery.

Connection is so important, and sometimes we need to step back from pressure and expectations to embrace the passion again.

Things come and go, but getting ahead in my career, being the best dog mum a gal can be, and passing my Masters won’t be in vain.

Some key takeaways I’ve heard from people along the way recently are:

  • Reassess before you guess, never assume, always ask.
  • Do everything with intent and with purpose.
  • It’s not about the doing, it’s about the posture in which you do it.
  • Better to pray to be prepared than to pray it comes.
  • Anxiety cannot live in the same space as a breath.
  • A lot of people are about action rather than creating a sense of safety for others.
  • Words matter, choose them wisely.
  • Leadership is not about being in charge, it’s about taking care of those in your charge.
  • Perception is a powerful thing.
  • Focus on the small wins; they are often much more rewarding.

With Mental Health Awareness Week coming up in Aotearoa, I’ve been reflecting on Me Aro Tonu – Take Notice, one of the five pou highlighted by the Mental Health Foundation. It feels especially timely, because intentionality is about noticing what is around you, how you are feeling, and how your actions affect others. It’s about showing up fully, being present, and honouring the people, spaces, and culture around you. Moving through life with purpose and slowing down to notice the small things.

This year has reminded me that intentionality is a practice and that living thoughtfully is one of the most meaningful ways to connect with myself, my wider whānau, and my community.

To those who need to pause long enough to listen

It’s funny how it takes something breaking down in your body to realise what’s been breaking down in your spirit. I injured (or should I say reinjured) myself recently, nothing dramatic, nothing life-altering. Just one of those niggly, frustrating injuries that lingers and forces you to pause.

At first, I was annoyed. Retearing an ankle ligament is not fun, especially when forced to rest and unable to train. But beneath the surface of that frustration, I began to unravel something deeper.

The truth is, I’d been running on tunnel vision, trying to give everything 100 percent. I had fallen into the overachiever mindset, chasing too many goals at once, and believing I could handle it all if I just pushed hard enough. But that pace wasn’t sustainable. It was the pressure I was putting on myself, the kind that easily slips under the radar until something finally forces you to stop.

One thing that stuck with me was a conversation with someone who said that people pleasing is a form of manipulation. That one hit hard. Because when I looked at my behaviour honestly, I saw how much of it came from fear: fear of rejection, of not being worthy, of not being liked. And that fear was fuelling my ego just as much as my pride was.

Turns out, ego doesn’t always look like arrogance. Sometimes it seems like overachieving, like pretending you’re okay, and ignoring your limits because you should be able to do it all. But that’s not strength, that’s self-abandonment.

This injury turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It gave me time to pause and reflect on what honours me, my body, my spirit, and my time. It reminded me that rest isn’t weakness, that saying no doesn’t make you a villain, it makes you your own protector. When your senses are telling you something, when your thoughts are louder than usual, and when your spirit feels off, that’s when you should listen. The signs are always there before the breakdown.

We spend so much time trying to be everything for everyone, but sometimes the most radical thing you can do is choose yourself, again and again, even when it feels uncomfortable, even when people don’t get it. The real power lies in your intuition.

People will have opinions, they’ll judge, they’ll project, they’ll talk. But they’re not the ones living your life; they only see what you choose to show them. The same is true in reverse: when you make assumptions about others, you’re often casting them in a negative light, not because of who they are, but because of the story playing out in your mind.

Right now, I’m choosing to focus on my hauora, on being okay with rest, okay with softening, okay with slowing down, because I know I’ll only come back stronger.

It’s in those pauses, the quiet moments, that we finally tune into ourselves. And in those moments, it’s okay to be selfish. Sometimes, you need to be.

Being selfless all the time can lead to self-abandonment, constantly putting others first until there’s nothing left of yourself.

You need to take care of yourself too. And knowing that, well, that’s one of the greatest strengths you can carry.

To those who are facing trauma

Lately, I’ve been hearing more and more experiences of people carrying trauma, whether recent or deep-rooted. And it’s got me thinking that everyone is fighting a battle. Whether loud or quiet, visible or hidden, heavy or seemingly small, it’s still a battle.

One of the most important things I’ve learnt, especially training in trauma-informed care as a social worker, is never to diminish your pain because someone else has it worse. Never shrink your story in comparison to someone else’s. Trauma is trauma. It’s all relative.

Whether you were raised in a home where violence was the norm, whether you’ve lost someone who meant the world, or whether you’re trying to make sense of heartbreak that still lingers longer than expected, your experience matters and your feelings are valid. You don’t need to justify them.

What I’ve come to understand is healing doesn’t come from suppressing the hard stuff. It comes from sitting with it. Letting yourself feel it. Allowing yourself to be uncomfortable, and learning that even in discomfort, you are safe and supported, even if it doesn’t feel that way.

I’ve carried my own trauma too. For me, it centres around my father. Or, more specifically, his absence. He was never really present. Never played with us. Never really held us as kids. He wasn’t there through the dark times, and he’s never supported my brother and I emotionally or financially – beyond the basic child support, which stopped the moment it legally could.

That absence left a hole. It shaped how I moved through the world, constantly craving validation, struggling with self-worth, and entering relationships, already preparing for them to fail. I didn’t want children for the longest time, and then when I finally came around to the idea, before dating anyone, I’d think, ‘If we have children and then broke up, would we co-parent well?’ Because I didn’t want my future children to feel what I felt. And that’s not love. That’s trauma talking.

I’ve had my share of toxic patterns. I’ve stayed in relationships longer than I should have. But one thing I’ve never done is cheat. Loyalty, for all its weight, is one of my strengths. And that’s mainly due to the fact that I don’t want to be like my father, as well as fundamental values.

It’s no surprise that every therapy session circles back to him. And now, years later, the same man who wasn’t there for me, who blew his inheritance, and who contributed to my wounds asks me for financial assistance to help him with food. And I give it. Because how can I not? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? I’ve inherited manaakitanga (hospitality and care) from my mum and Gran! That value is stitched into my being until the day I die.

My last visit with him wrecked me; I felt like I was working as his social worker, trying to find solutions to his problems. It ends up being all about him, and if and when he finally asks about me, it doesn’t even feel like he’s listening.

The moral of the story is your trauma is valid. You don’t have to shrink it or apologise for it. Acknowledging it doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. And healing? It doesn’t come all at once. It comes little by little.

There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning.

So, if you’re walking through something right now, whether it’s heartbreak, grief, anxiety, abandonment, or whatever it may be, know that you’re not alone; you’re not broken beyond repair; you’re worthy of healing. Be gentle with yourself; that’s where it begins. 

To those who mask through the small talk

‘How are you?’

‘Good, how are you?’

‘Good, thanks.’

We’ve all had that conversation. Probably today, and probably more than once.

It rolls off the tongue like clockwork, a memorised vocal pattern, a default setting. But I’ve been pondering lately, what does that actually mean? What are we even saying?

Because, more often than not, we’re not really good. We’re tired. We’re anxious. We’re overwhelmed. We’re heartbroken. We’re numb. And sometimes, we’re barely holding it together at all. But still, we say, ‘Good, thanks.’

It’s small talk, aye. It’s just something to say when we greet people. But what happens if we answer honestly? Like, really honestly.

“How are you?”
“Not great, aye. I’ve been super depressed lately. I’m having some dark thoughts. Feeling like my life isn’t worth much right now.”

It’s not normal to say that, right? And most people wouldn’t know how to respond – unless they work in a field where they’ve been trained to. You might see the awkward shuffle, the panicked look, the quick change of subject because society doesn’t prepare us for raw truth. We’re conditioned to keep things light. Keep the energy high and maintain a positive vibe.

I’m not saying we need to trauma-dump on every stranger who asks us how we are. I’m not even saying we should crack ourselves wide open at every opportunity. But I am questioning why the norm is to mask and minimise, and why we’re so uncomfortable with being real or with someone else being honest.
It’s no wonder so many people struggling with mental health feel like they can’t open up. Like they’ll be met with silence, confusion, or worse – a change of subject. All of that would add to the weight they’re already carrying.

We’ve created a culture where people feel like a burden for being human.
And part of the issue, I reckon, is that we’re not taught how to hold space for discomfort. We don’t learn how to respond to someone who’s hurting. Not in school. Not in most homes. Unless you’ve had first-hand experience with a loved one, work in social services, mental health or a similar field, chances are no one’s ever taught you what to say or even that it’s okay to sit in silence with someone.

But imagine if we did learn. Suppose we were taught trauma-informed, culturally sensitive ways to respond. Suppose holding space for others wasn’t seen as a job for professionals only but a part of being a decent, compassionate human. Imagine if it was normal to check in beyond the surface and to mean it.

I know there are times and places where it’s not appropriate to unravel. Vibe is a real thing, and sometimes it is safer or smarter to hold it together. But that doesn’t mean the default always has to be ‘I’m fine.’ Bottling it all up, that’s not healthy either.

So, how do we find the balance? Between being real and protecting our peace? Between sharing and oversharing? I don’t have all the answers. But I think it starts with us becoming more comfortable with honesty and not shying away when someone else shows us theirs. Maybe we don’t need to offer solutions or fix everything. Perhaps just being there is enough.

So, next time someone asks, ‘How are you?’ maybe pause before answering. Perhaps we ask ourselves, How am I really? And if we have the space to answer honestly, we probably should. And if someone answers us with something tangible, maybe we choose to stay with them in it.

We’re only human after all.

To those with ADHD who’ve always felt too much

I didn’t get my ADHD diagnosis until adulthood. But I always knew, deep down, that my brain worked a little differently. Not wrong, just harder, louder, and more intensely.

I thought everyone found bright lights overwhelming, or background noise impossible to tune out. I thought everyone had to read the same paragraph five times and still forget what it said. I assumed that everyone overthought even the smallest comment or glance, and that everyone felt pain and anxiety when spoken to in a disrespectful manner.

It turns out that not everyone experiences the world so intensely. Not everyone constantly misplaces items or struggles to remember where they put them. Not everyone can feel unaffected by caffeine and can drink a cup of coffee, like it’s herbal tea, before bed. Not everyone zones out when people are talking to them, speaks over top of them, or forgets what was said the moment it was spoken. Not everyone rehearses conversations in advance because they fear saying the wrong thing and falling apart when they do.

That’s sensory overload. That’s Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD).

It’s more than just getting distracted or being too sensitive. It’s the relentless flood of information and emotion, with our nervous systems struggling to hold it all. A negative news article can ruin our whole morning. A throwaway comment can echo for days. Even joy and love can feel too big, too fast, and too much.

For years, I assumed it was a flaw in me; that I was too forgetful, too dramatic, and too prone to depression and anxiety; that I just needed to try harder, push through, and be better.

But the more I learn, the more I realise this is common, especially among women. The model of ADHD we grew up with was built for boys in classrooms, not for girls who struggle inwardly and hold it together until breaking point. As a result, we often go unnoticed, misdiagnosed, or made to feel like a burden. 

As Gabor Maté writes in Scattered Minds:

“The child’s brain and body are not defective. What is defective are the expectations of a society that believes the demands it places on young people are reasonable.”

I wasn’t broken. I was absorbing too much, too fast, with no name for it. So if you’ve ever felt like the world was just too loud, or like your brain takes the long way round, or like you cry too easily and recover too slowly, I want you to know you’re not alone. You are not weak. You are not failing.

You’re simply living with a nervous system that’s been trying to shout your name in a room that never quite knew how to listen. And there’s something powerful in finally hearing yourself.

To the future helpers who serve without cost

We step into some roles not for glory but because we feel called. To teach, heal, and walk alongside someone in their hardest season. But what happens when the cost of showing up exceeds what we are willing to give?

How can we uplift mana-enhancing spaces, by Māori for Māori, by Pasifika for Pasifika, when our hauora (mental, physical, financial) is stretched to its limits?

In Aotearoa, we ask students who train to become social workers, counsellors, teachers, nurses, and midwives to voluntarily dedicate months to unpaid placements.

Some students benefit from privilege, such as supportive parents, a partner to help bridge the gap, a grant, or savings. On the flipside, others experience fatigue from working over 40 hours a week, managing debt, and dealing with mental distress, all while bearing the weight of serving a system that’s not built for our survival.

I’ve been grappling with some thought-provoking questions over the past few weeks. How can we expect students, particularly Māori and Pasifika (as well as female students), to step up as representatives of our communities when the path to serve often requires us to do so without compensation? The heart of the work is rooted in whanaungatanga and alofa/aroha, yet the financial burden of becoming qualified falls on those of us already carrying the heaviest loads.

Why are the professions that are predominantly filled by women and vital to our collective well-being also the most undervalued? We hear about shortages in workers, care, and time. However, perhaps the issue isn’t a shortage at all but rather a system that demands too much while offering too little in return.

I don’t want to delve too far into politics, though the threads of these issues run deep. I just felt compelled to express my thoughts on the importance of fairness, the right to rest, and valuing the mahi that supports our whānau, tamariki, and future.

To everyone I’m talking to – those who have overcome it and those still enduring it – thanks for being warriors for our community. I see you, I appreciate you, and I stand with you.

To those learning to stand tall in their Māoritanga

Ko Whetumatarau rāua ko Maungakaka ōku maunga

Ko Awatere rāua ko Orotua ōku awa

Ko Horouta tōku waka

Ko Hinerupe rāua ko Mātahi o Te Tau ōku marae

Ko te Whānau a Hinerupe ki Waiapu rāua ko te Whānau a Hunaara ōku hapu 

Ko Ngāti Porou tōku iwi

Ko Shannon tōku ingoa

My roots are anchored in the whenua of Te Araroa and Te Tairāwhiti; places woven into the fabric of my childhood, where summers smelt of earth and sea, and where my tūrangawaewae whispered of belonging long before I understood it. These places aren’t just memories; they are part of me, sacred markers of whakapapa, constantly reminding me of where I come from and who I continue to be.

Walking in my Māoritanga hasn’t always been easy. I have fair skin, light hair, and I don’t speak te reo fluently. There have been countless times when I’ve felt I wasn’t “Māori enough” to claim the stories of my tīpuna. That imposter voice can be loud. But I have come to understand that Māoritanga isn’t measured by appearance, blood quantum, or fluency. If you whakapapa Māori, you are Māori.

I recognise my privilege. I know that my fair skin has, in many ways, shielded me from the discrimination and inequity I might otherwise have faced. That reality isn’t lost on me, and I don’t write this to dismiss or downplay it. Alongside that truth, I’ve discovered a deeper sense of purpose and identity through embracing my culture. By standing firm in who I am, I’ve realised that I’m not just honouring myself but also making my family proud.

Reconnecting has been a journey – gentle and fierce all at once. Beginning te reo Māori studies sparked a quiet revolution within me. Receiving my tā moko marked another significant milestone. It carries my grandparents, etched into my skin and forever part of my story.

To anyone wondering if they belong, know this: you do. Your bloodline carries the stories. Your ancestors are proud. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Just keep walking, keep speaking, keep learning. Your Māoritanga is a living inheritance.

Stand tall in it, even when others question you. Especially then. You are the dream of those who came before and the strength of those who are yet to come.

Kia kaha, always.

To the love that wasn’t mine to keep

I offered my heart with elation, unaware of how the story would unfold. Although your choice changed the ending, it doesn’t erase the truth of what I felt. It was real. I was all in, and I loved without holding back.

For a while, I genuinely believed that my spirit of discernment was guiding me correctly – that you were the one I would spend my life with. I thought that maybe, somehow, we would find our way back. Because even after everything, I still believe love prevails. Perhaps that was just hope speaking, or maybe I needed to believe in something that would make the depth of my love make sense.

It was brief, yes, but time has never measured meaning. Some souls meet, and their echoes reverberate long after the moments have passed.

You reminded me how deeply I can feel, how brave it is to choose love, and how much beauty there is in simply trying.

Now, it’s out of my control. I can’t hold on to someone who is ready to let go.

I’m learning that maybe that’s okay. No regrets. Just a tender heart and a patient understanding that love, my love, will one day bloom again where it is cherished, returned, and safe to stay.

To the faith that found me when I didn’t know I was searching

At seventeen, I stepped into the rhythm of worship, drawn by the warmth of friends, the pull of music, and the promise of a Father whose love ran deeper than any I had known. I was welcomed with open arms, swept up in song and spirit – it felt like home. I joined the worship band and gave my heart to God completely, without hesitation. His love, word, and grace became my anchor, joy, and strength.

However, life shifted, and my community changed. What once felt like belonging gradually faded. At twenty-four, I stepped away, not because I stopped believing, but because infidelities fractured our friendship circle. Around the same time, when my brother came out as gay, some couldn’t fully embrace the core truth: to love God is to love everyone, just as Jesus did. That foundational love felt lost – not only in the chaos of broken promises, but in the conditional grace offered to those who didn’t fit a certain mould. “We will love you anyway” still lingers in my mind – not because it wasn’t love, but because it wasn’t whole. It carried a shadow of shame I could no longer align with.

The years that followed were heavy, filled with anxiety and depression, and a subtle ache that lingered throughout much of my twenties. I tried to carry it all alone, and on some days, I barely could. Still, He stayed –quiet, steady, and patient.

Now, ten years later, I’ve found my way back. Not to the crowd, but to the quiet; not to performance, but to presence. Returning to Him has been my most healing decision this year. His peace is patient, and His grace is unending.

There are still parts of me that struggle with how people are treated when they don’t meet others’ expectations of what it means to be a “good” Christian. But I know that my God is a God of love – one who sees beyond appearances, labels, and checkboxes.

I am being made new, day by day. Even when I turned away for a time, He never turned from me.