Each year, when Matariki rises, I find myself resisting the temptation to look immediately towards what comes next. This is my second annual Matariki blog.
There will always be another project to begin, another goal to pursue, and another challenge to accept. Matariki gently asks us something different of us. Before we look ahead, it invites us to pause, remember, give thanks, and reflect on what we are carrying into the future.
The whakataukī that has stayed with me throughout this year is Ka mua, ka muri—we walk backwards into the future.
The older I become, the more I appreciate the wisdom of those words. We are not shaped only by our plans. We are shaped by the people who have loved us, the disappointments that have humbled us, the opportunities that have surprised us, and the experiences that continue to change us long after they have passed.
Looking back over this past year, I am conscious of how much has happened. I have continued my doctoral research. This year also brought the extraordinary privilege of spending time at Boston College as Summer Visiting Doctoral Research Fellow. There have been days walking across the campus or sitting quietly in the library when I have stopped and thought, I never imagined I would be here.
A few years ago, serious illness interrupted almost every part of my life. Recovery is not something that finishes neatly. There are still days when I take on too much, work longer than I should, or confuse being needed with being valuable. The difference is that I notice those patterns sooner. I have learnt that flourishing is not built through constant achievement, but through paying attention to the rhythms that sustain us.
Walking, swimming, and time in the gym have become less about performance and more about gratitude. They remind me that health is not something to be assumed or postponed until life becomes less busy. It is one of the foundations that allows everything else to flourish. The process has reminded me that flourishing is not something we master. It is something we continue to practise, often imperfectly.
Some of those moments have been unexpectedly simple: sitting in a chapel after a day of writing, walking beside the Charles River without feeling the need to fill every silence, or recognising that some of the most important questions cannot be hurried. Rather than finding complete answers, I have become more comfortable living with the questions. My spirituality now feels less concerned with certainty and more grounded in attentiveness—to what is stirring within me, to other people, to God’s possible presence, and to the life I am trying to live. This is not a completed Damascus experience. Its meaning is still unfolding.
Being away from home has also reminded me how much life is held together by relationships. I have been blessed by friendships that have endured through illness, change, recovery, and now this remarkable season of opportunity. Some people have challenged me when I needed challenging. Others have simply been present. A thoughtful message, a conversation over coffee, or a familiar voice from the other side of the world has often carried far more weight than the person offering it probably realised. Distance has made me rediscover life and love.
Above everything else this year, I have found myself watching my daughter with enormous pride. Like every parent, I have celebrated her achievements, but what fills me with the greatest joy is the person she is becoming. I see resilience, kindness, determination, curiosity, and compassion growing in her, and I realise that these qualities matter far more than any list of accomplishments.
As a parent, there comes a time when we slowly move from directing our children’s lives to trusting them to write their own stories. That can be difficult. We want to protect them from disappointment and make the path easier than it was for us. Yet we also know that growth requires freedom, responsibility, and the confidence that comes from discovering their own strength.
It is easy to measure our lives by what appears on a curriculum vitae, a social media profile, or a list of achievements. Those things have their place, and I am genuinely grateful for the opportunities I have been given. But Matariki reminds me that they are not the deepest measure of a life.
The deeper questions are quieter. Am I becoming more present to the people I love? Am I attending properly to my health? Am I making room for wonder, gratitude, and silence? Am I using whatever gifts I have in ways that help others flourish? These questions do not always produce comfortable answers, but they matter more than simply asking what I have achieved.
As Matariki rises once again, I am grateful for the unexpected distance I have travelled and for the people who have made that journey possible. I also recognise that much remains unfinished: my recovery, my spirituality, my work, and my continuing effort to give the people I love the attention they deserve.
Ka mua, ka muri. We walk backwards into the future, carrying the people, stories, love, and lessons that have made us who we are. I enter the year ahead not with certainty, but with gratitude for what has been and greater clarity about what matters.
Mānawatia a Matariki.