27/07/2025
“Ko Te Reo Māori te waka i hoki ai ahau ki ahau – the language that brought me home to myself.”
There was a time in my life where I felt utterly lost — like a feather drifting in the wind, no direction, no anchor. I was a young 19-year-old māmā, carrying the weight of a new life in my arms, and the unseen heaviness of mental illness in my mind. Diagnosed as a teenager, I had no language to describe what I was feeling. I didn’t have the words, or even the understanding, to explain the storm inside me. And to be honest, I felt misunderstood — by doctors, by whānau, even by myself.
My true introduction to te ao Māori came not through formal education, but through whānau and my tamāhine. My late stepmother — my dad’s beautiful wife — was the first to gently open the doorway to our culture. She planted seeds of understanding, identity, and pride that I hadn’t known I needed. Around that same time, my daughter was just two years old when she began attending kōhanga reo. Watching her come home singing waiata, speaking kupu Māori with such confidence and joy — it awoke something deep within me. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing the parts of myself I never knew were missing. Through her, and through those early encounters with our reo and culture, I was being called home.
Learning Te Reo Māori wasn’t just about memorising vocabulary or grammar — it was about remembering who I was. Every word I spoke connected me to something bigger: to my whakapapa, to my whenua, to my people. It gave me a map to navigate my identity — as a wahine Māori, as a māmā, as someone living with mental distress, and as someone still worthy of aroha, dignity, and purpose.
In my most vulnerable seasons, when I couldn’t find the strength to speak up in English, it was karakia that gave me voice. When I felt overwhelmed, it was waiata that soothed my wairua. When I felt like I didn’t belong, it was my mihi and pepeha that reminded me, "You come from somewhere. You are someone. You are not alone."
Te Reo Māori didn’t just teach me how to speak — it taught me how to feel again. It gave me language for emotions, for healing, for reconnection. It allowed me to stand with mana, even in my brokenness. Slowly, piece by piece, I began to stitch my life back together — with reo, with faith, with purpose.
I now see that my pain had purpose. I was never truly lost — I just hadn’t been fully found yet.
Today, I walk with more clarity in my identity and my calling. Not because the pain disappeared, but because I found something stronger than the pain — my reo, my whakapapa, my whakapono, my why.
To any young māmā out there, to anyone who feels like they are drowning in a diagnosis, please know this: your language can be your medicine. Your culture can be your compass. And healing is not a straight line — but it is a journey you do not have to take alone.
Kia kaha. Kia māia. Kia manawanui.
Ko Te Reo Māori tōku oranga.
Left pic: My daughter and I back in 2009-2010, a few years into our Te Ao Māori journey.
Right pic: My daughter and I in 2023 walking in our purpose.
