In a time before the internet or mobile phones, I lived off-grid at the end of a road in Fiordland—where the road stopped and the walking tracks began. I chopped wood, cleaned cabins, and sold pounamu and snacks to tourists, trampers, and the occasional hunter or climber. It was lonely. It was wild. And slowly, the land began to teach me how to listen, the kind of listening I now offer others.
From the silence of Fiordland to the heart of the city— I opened a shop, and with it, a space for expression. Musicians, artists, wanderers—people bold and brave, quiet and careful, risk-takers in their own ways—came looking for something that spoke to them, quietly or boldly, as if to say, “yes, this is me.” I loved being part of that moment—when someone saw themselves reflected in what they chose. Not a new self—just one already there, coming to the surface. A big yes to who they were. And in that yes, something rejoiced. A deeper kind of honouring began to take root—for who they already knew themselves to be.Not a new self—just one already there, coming to the surface. A big yes to who they were. And in that yes, something rejoiced. The roots of my therapeutic work didn’t start in a clinic. They started here—in laughter, in gold mannequins, in the courage to be fully yourself
Queen Mary Hospital, Hanmer Springs The hospital sat beneath the mountains, surrounded by gardens and parkland—quiet, expansive, deceptively serene. Inside, the work was raw. Some people found healing. Others, harm. I witnessed profound courage. And I saw contradiction.
It was here I began mental health nursing—where I first learned to stay close to pain without rushing it. To notice what wanted to emerge, and to meet it with steadiness. That time taught me how presence can be a form of safety. How healing isn’t a task—it’s something that unfolds in relationship.
Queen Mary left its mark. It showed me how to listen beneath the words. To attune. That’s where I learned: the most powerful work often begins with presence, not answers.
I’m often in the middle of making something—paint, fabric, soil, language. It’s not always tidy. That’s part of the joy. The mess, the materials, the finessing—it’s all a conversation. A rhythm between chaos and form. I don’t create because I have all the answers. I create because it keeps me close to aliveness.