Returning home
Grief took me away from Auckland, but I found my way back
The air is bursting with anticipation, and the whole theatre erupts in applause and cheers as Jacinda Ardern, the former prime minister of New Zealand, enters the stage. You can feel the aroha (love) radiating throughout the theatre, everyone welcoming her home like a beloved family member returning from a long overseas trip. (She moved overseas after resigning.) Jacinda led the country through major crises while also navigating pregnancy and motherhood in a patriarchal system that doubted her competence to be both the leader of a country and a mother. All the while, no one ever doubted that men could be both…
I’m sitting far up in the theatre; Jacinda is only a small figure, but regardless, it is such a privilege to be in the same space as this incredible woman. She’s here at the Auckland Writers Festival to talk about her memoir A Different Kind of Power, and I could listen to her speak for hours and hours. There is such tenderness and kindness in her voice, and I soak it all in. I don’t revere her as a role model because she was a tough woman in power. I revere her because I see myself in her, in her softness, in her humanity, how things move her, how she can’t hold back the tears—the emotions. She isn’t this stone-faced politician but a human with a huge heart and a desire to create a better world. She was a leader who led with empathy and kindness.
As the event finishes, my dear friend B., who was seated elsewhere in the theatre, and I briefly catch up to share a fangirl moment over Jacinda. We’re delighted to see that the anti-vaxxers who had protested outside Aotea Centre—against Jacinda—are gone now. It is still baffling to me how she and her government were likened to the Nazi Regime during the pandemic (by some people) because of the strict vaccine mandates, whose sole purpose was to keep everyone alive. Thanks to the mandates imposed by her government, Aotearoa had fewer deaths than most other countries. Without those mandates, some of those protestors might be ashes or decomposing in their graves now.
B. and I part ways, and I jump on the bus back to my Airbnb. Due to the event being high-profile, you weren’t allowed to carry in large bags, so I stuffed my black tote back in my jacket pocket and carried the two things I had inside in my hands. Unfortunately, somewhere in the process, the bag slipped out silently, and I lost it.
Hence why I find myself sitting down with my aluminium water bottle and my signed copy of Hannah Kent’s memoir Always Home, Always Homesick on my lap. I discovered Hannah Kent through the Writers Festival and read both her memoir and her first novel, Burial Rites, prior. Her event was earlier in the day, after which I got my copy signed and briefly chatted with her. I shared with Hannah how I deeply connected to her experience of venturing across the world to Iceland as an Australian exchange student at 17, because similarly, I travelled from Europe to New Zealand as an 18-year-old. There’s the deep loneliness of being in a foreign country all by yourself that I related to, but also that sense of finding—or rather building—a home in that country over time.
As all passengers have shuffled on board, the doors close with a loud thud and the bus is set in motion. Always Home, Always Homesick rocks back and forth on my left thigh, while my empty water bottle lies dormant in the trench between my tightly pressed legs. In the stillness of sitting alone for the first time after a long and busy day, I reflect on the happenings of today and instantly feel a wave of emotions wash through me.
Leading up to this trip to Auckland, I had mainly felt strong excitement. However, as I arrived in Wellington—on the North Island—I sensed the stark difference between the two islands. How, despite still being an 8-hour drive away, this reminded me so much more of Auckland. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. The closer I got to Auckland, the more dread and other emotions bubbled up. The last night before arriving in Auckland, I spent in a shitty motel in Taihape, a small town known as the Gumboot Capital of New Zealand. They hold an annual Gumboot Festival with the core highlight being a Gumboot Throwing competition—the absolute peak of Kiwidom if you ask me.
I had a private room in a run-down villa of the motel that I shared with only one other guy. The two of us made quite an interesting juxtaposition. He was watching TV in the common area all evening, cracking up about whatever he saw, with the occasional loud burp escaping his body. Meanwhile, I was deep in the sad emotions, hiding in my room, crying as I wrote an emotional letter that reminded me of the life I left behind in Auckland.
Then, when I finally arrived in Auckland, it felt strangely familiar but also distant in a way. During the first couple of days, I walked through the CBD between events, but the place only brought up feelings of sadness. I thought that by the time I was to leave Auckland again, I’d be excited to return to Christchurch. But over the course of the next two days—catching up with more friends and attending the Auckland Writers Festival events—this changed entirely.
Jacinda Ardern’s event was the grand finale of the Writers Festival, as well as of my trip. Something about that whole evening, listening to her speak of her time as prime minister and her love for Aotearoa, I could sense myself reconnecting with my love for the country. When she spoke of Aotearoa, her home, I felt like she was speaking of my home, too.
When I left my marriage last year, Auckland didn’t feel like home anymore. It was as if suddenly a great abyss had opened up in the city, this great emptiness, while simultaneously being way too much. I was in this city of almost two million people with plenty of close friends, and yet I felt so terribly lonely.
But the thing is, the city hadn’t changed. What had changed was my circumstances—me. What had changed was that suddenly, there was this dark cloud of grief hovering relentlessly above me. I had become a vessel for grief and endless tears. For months, I cried almost every day, sometimes for hours on end. What had changed was that I didn’t recognise myself or my life anymore. I felt dislocated, displaced from my own reality, my body turned upside down. My head was now where my legs used to be, my legs where my head used to be.
I wasn’t just going through this one big life event; I was also thrown into a crisis with this country because my marriage was the reason I had been able to move here. I wasn’t sure whether my relationship with New Zealand could withstand the ending of my romantic relationship since both were so intertwined. I was desperate to leave Auckland, and while I felt that New Zealand was still home, eventually that feeling also faded.
In the dim, warm light of the bus, with the hum of the engine and the undiscernible conversations around me, I suddenly have the profound realisation that Auckland is still home, though. That it is Always Home and always will be. I can see so clearly now that though my marriage contributed to feeling at home in Auckland, it wasn’t the sole reason. Auckland had become my home because I had a connection with it outside of my romantic relationship. I had built a life there independently. None of that had changed; I just couldn’t see it because my whole reality had suddenly changed, and I could barely hold myself together.
The reason I drove up to Auckland instead of flying was that I needed to collect the belongings (books and sentimental items) I had boxed up and left behind with a friend. Similarly to boxing up those physical items and leaving them behind, I also boxed up other parts of me, like my love for Auckland. Returning to Auckland meant opening those boxes and returning those parts to me.
I first arrived in Auckland (New Zealand) alone as an 18-year-old without any sense of belonging in the world, and I fell utterly in love with this place. It wasn’t always easy, but hey, what important parts of life are? Aren’t the most important ones tough by nature?
But this is where, for the first time, I truly felt at home—in a way I’d never felt in Germany. I’m not entirely sure why, though; I think it’s because I’ve always felt more like me here. I didn’t grow up here, I don’t have family here, but I feel at home because I feel at home with myself.
Since the beginning of the year, I had felt so unsettled in Aotearoa. I felt so weary of it, so disconnected. I felt the pull to return to Europe.
Now, having come back to Auckland, I’ve returned home.
I can see a future living in New Zealand (Auckland) again.
I smile at this realisation, my eyes tearing up and beginning to burn as my cheap mascara is washed off my eyelashes. I squint, tears running down my cheeks. I don’t care if anyone on the bus sees me crying, because all I feel right now is love. Love for this country. For this city. For myself and my precious life.
Thank you, Jacinda, for being an incredible prime minister to this country I now call home, for being a role model, for this amazing evening, but also for reminding me where my home is.
Over the next day, my thoughts about moving back to Auckland intensify. Thinking about returning to Christchurch now sparks great dread, because, compared to life in Auckland, it feels so empty there. I ponder returning to Christchurch solely to pack my things and leave again. Though when I do get back, I don’t necessarily feel like uprooting myself yet again. I feel comfortable and can’t be bothered with the hassle of moving back across the country.
But you know, life is funny sometimes…
So it comes that less than a week after returning, my flatmate gives me notice as she’s moving in with her partner and will rent out the house. Initially, this news is a slight shock to my system as it comes very unexpectedly. The rest of the day I spend half crying, half laughing because the situation feels so surreal. It’s like the universe heard my wish and gave me the exact circumstances needed to make it happen. In less than 48 hours, I’ve made the plan to move back to Auckland, booked my ferry ticket and accommodation for the cross-country trip back up (again), and even found a new flat to live in Auckland.
This was only two weeks ago, and I’ve since left Christchurch and moved into my new place in Auckland. It’s been a bit wild and, frankly, quite exhausting, but I’m so happy that things worked out this way.
In this previous post, I described grief as being in an ocean with a weight tied to you that pulls you down. The deeper you sink, the less light and life remain. It’s a lonely place to be in.
I wrote, “But maybe I need to explore the depths of my ocean—to learn more about who I am. Maybe once I hit the bottom, I’ll find a way to let go of all the weights dragging me down. Perhaps then I can rise again and float on the surface without a care in the world.”
Leaving Auckland and moving to the South Island was the journey of exploring the depths of my ocean. Maybe a part of me was running, but instead of running away from my grief, I actually ran straight towards it. After all, I was alone in a small town with few distractions, where I knew nobody upon arrival. There was lots of time to sit with myself and my feelings.
I’m not the same person that I was before grief dragged me down to the bottom of the ocean, for I discovered so much about myself. I’ve grown. I’ve become a more authentic version of myself. I’ve let go of a lot of baggage that I’ve been dragging around for years. I’m forever changed (in the best way possible).
For a while, I felt utterly unsettled and displaced, so disconnected from the city and the country I once called home. But now that I have returned home to Auckland, I’ve returned home to myself. And there is nothing quite like that.
It’s as if a heavy weight has been lifted from my heart. I’ve finally returned to the surface, where I can now float freely without a care in the world.
I also want to acknowledge all the beautiful places I got to see on my trip up and down, and how visiting all of them also made me fall back in love with the country. I mean, seriously, how could you not love this country?
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That realisation on the bus... that Auckland hadn’t left you, it just got obscured by what you were carrying. I felt that 💖✨
This. 💓 "I smile at this realisation, my eyes tearing up and beginning to burn as my cheap mascara is washed off my eyelashes. I squint, tears running down my cheeks. I don’t care if anyone on the bus sees me crying, because all I feel right now is love. Love for this country. For this city. For myself and my precious life."
So palpable. 👏👏 And your pictures are amazing!!