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Yesterday we went to the A&P Show at the Lake Hayes Grounds—something we’ve done every year since living in Queenstown. It’s one of those annual rituals that quietly anchors time, marking the years without much fuss. This year, I entered two sections: a tractor sculpture and a garden gnome, both made from natural resources and recycled materials. And—much to my delight—I won both categories. Which was pretty cool… but also not really the point. What it did do was bring me rig

I'm always trying to look at ways that people can help themselves, even when they can't make changes that would alter their current situation or experience. The environment plays such an important role in how we feel and how we are supported. But you can't always change your environment. Sometimes growth doesn’t look like thriving — it looks like enduring without losing yourself. When you can’t change the environment yet (family, workplace, relationship), the work shifts from

Christmas has a reputation problem. It’s marketed as the most joyful, loving, connected day of the year—sparkling lights, full tables, matching pyjamas, and smiling faces. The kind of joy that comes with a receipt and a carefully curated Instagram post. And yet… for many people, Christmas feels nothing like that. It can feel warm and fuzzy and deeply lonely. Connected on the outside, disconnected on the inside. Celebrated loudly, felt quietly. Both things can be true at the s

Two years ago, I walked the Motatapu Trail Marathon — my very first marathon. Even though I wasn’t running, it was no stroll in the park. There were time limits to beat, hills that went on forever, and moments where I questioned my sanity more than once. But that event changed me. It taught me things about myself — emotionally, physically, spiritually — that I could never have learned anywhere else. I went into that first Motatapu with enthusiasm… and a bit of naïve optimism.