On the 22nd of June, I turned 42.
A few days before, Alfred and I took a short trip to Melbourne. Just two days away from home, away from work, away from responsibilities, and away from the constant list of things that always seem to need doing.
It wasn't a long trip. But it was long enough to pause. Long enough to reflect. Long enough to realise how rarely I stop to look back.
When I was younger, I thought life would make more sense by now. I thought there would come a point where I would have everything figured out. Where I would feel completely confident. Completely certain. Completely prepared. At 42, I can honestly say that isn't how life works. And strangely enough, I'm okay with that.
What I do know is that life has a way of teaching us lessons we never expected to learn. Some arrive through joy. Some arrive through challenge. Some arrive through heartbreak. Some arrive through opportunities we never saw coming. Looking back, there have been seasons of my life that I didn't understand while I was living them. At the time they felt difficult. Uncomfortable. Unfair, even. But now I can see that many of those experiences were preparing me for things I couldn't yet see.
I think about the young girl who grew up as an urban Māori. We didn't speak te reo Māori at home. Like many others, I spent years trying to understand what being Māori meant to me. I studied te reo whenever I had the opportunity. At school. As an adult. I kept searching, learning, and growing.
For a long time, I think a part of me believed that if I learned enough, achieved enough, or knew enough, I might finally feel more connected to who I was. What I've come to understand is that identity isn't something we earn. It's something we accept. The reo has been an incredible gift in my life. It has strengthened my confidence and deepened my connection. But it didn't make me Māori. I always was. The journey simply helped me recognise that for myself.
At 42, I find myself thinking less about proving things and more about living them. Less about having all the answers and more about asking better questions. Less about perfection and more about purpose. That shift has been freeing.
I think about Korowai by Hiria and the path we've walked over the last several years. When we started, there was no blueprint. No roadmap. No guarantee that what we were creating would be understood. Yet here we are. Not because everything went perfectly. But because we kept showing up. One step at a time. One lesson at a time. One challenge at a time.
I think about my whānau. My children. The people who have walked alongside me. The lessons we pass on without even realising it. The example we set through how we respond to challenges, how we treat people, and how we choose to live. As I've gotten older, I've realised that success means different things than I once thought. Success isn't only what we build. It's who we become while building it.
If there is one thing I hope to carry into the years ahead, it's this:
The confidence to keep evolving. The courage to keep creating. The wisdom to know that growth doesn't stop simply because we reach a certain age. And the gratitude to appreciate the journey while I'm still walking it.
At 42, I don't feel like I've arrived. But I do feel more comfortable in my own skin than I ever have before. More accepting of who I am. More aware of what matters. More grateful for the people, experiences, challenges, and opportunities that have shaped me. And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts that comes with time. Not certainty. Not perfection. But acceptance.
For all that has been. For all that is. And for all that is still to come.
Ngā mihi,
Hiria