Karanga mai Hine Ngahuru
Sometimes it feels like Wellington has only two seasons instead of four — Summer and Winter. There is something about our memory, it anchors on to the extremes — those glorious “yah can’t beat Wellies on a good day” summer days and of course the bone chilling, side-ways rain and gale force wind winter days. We kind of forget the in-between.
This autumn has been different for me. I feel like for the first time, I'm appreciating this season for what it is. For what she is. Hine Ngahuru — the goddess of autumn. The season of noticing, of harvest, of transition.
I have a new business, Tīramaroa — and I've held two significant wānanga with clients during the season of Ngahuru. I chose to lean into the āhua of this goddess as a frame for both wānanga — creating space and time for teams to slow down, to notice what change has occurred, what the current environment requires of them, what hopes they have for the future, and what expectations they have of themselves and of each other.
Being the host of these spaces has inevitably left an imprint on me. Whether by design or accident, it has also caused me to slow down and notice. In particular, I've had a heightened awareness around this thing called adulting — stepping back in certain moments and just watching what's going on around me. And what I've noticed is that being an adult is hard. Messy and imperfect. Exhilarating one moment and exhausting the next.
I've talked to many people over the last month or so about adulting. You need a lot of humour to have these sorts of conversations. During one kōrero a friend explained she has never let the child within her grow up — she is part of her personality and one that she fully embraces. The reframe of nurturing the child within, I feel, is a more acceptable one than the adult who refuses to grow up.
During a kōrero with my adult daughter, she announced she was over being an adult! Exasperated by all the adulting things — work, bills, relationships, housing woes. On a bus one day she looked out the window to see a group of college students lost in their giggles, blissfully unaware of the realities of adult life just around the corner. For a fleeting moment she wanted to go back to her carefree teen years. A feeling I know all too well.
Difficulty in adulting is sometimes easier to spot in others than in ourselves. There are times I've felt a little judgy about the lack of adulting going on around me — until Hine Ngahuru turned the lens back on me.
Recently, in a team hui, I struggled to adult and instead retreated back to the sulky teenage version of myself. I had opinions and questions about a kaupapa, and despite having the opportunity to share these, I stayed silent. Totally saying everything I wanted to say in my mind and ruminating on these whakaaro for a few days after. I knew in the moment what I was struggling with but chose to stay at noticing the behaviour rather than trying to correct it. Where I landed, after hindsight did its things, was that I had more work to do around building relationships and deepening trust.
Noticing, as it turns out, can take you on an unexpected journey inward and into your past.
I was thrust into adulting at eighteen, when I found out I was pregnant not long after finishing school. I was hyper-conscious of others' expectations of me as a young Mum and did everything I could to exceed them — almost obsessively so. I read my way through parenting in those early years. If there was a book about raising pepi, brain development, sleeping, nutrition — I was reading it. I was so in my head, and not at all in my puku or following my intuition as a Mama.
Looking back, it was an incredibly lonely experience. We went along to antenatal classes, but we were the youngest parents by a few years, so didn’t see value in creating relationships with the other parents to be. Our actual friends were living their best lives, which we tried to keep up with from time to time, only to realise hangovers with a young bub to care for was not the tahi!
Whilst we had an amazing village supporting us, it took me well over a decade to find my groove again. Through mahi I found new friend groups, my sisters and in-laws became my number ones as we raised our tamariki together. And yet, if I'm honest, feelings of loneliness still return to me — an emotion that carries quite a bit of shame. The friendships I didn't have time to invest in as a young Mum left a gap that I'm still, quietly, learning to sit with.
Reflection and hindsight are marvelous tools. But noticing in the moment — that's harder to master. That's the beauty of Hine Ngahuru. She beckons us to notice the changing colours in te taiao; the crispness in the early morning air — reminding us to put an extra layer on; the later sunrises and earlier sunsets, gently adjusting our rhythms around the decreasing daylight hours.
These subtle changes serve a purpose — preparing us for the colder months ahead so they don't come as a shock to the system.
This season, and these tools, can also be applied in our work lives and relationships. A season of tuning in to how things feel, what subtle shifts in energy are occurring, what conversations might need beckoning — gently encouraged, warmly nurtured.
Winter is inevitable. Bugs, low energy, long cold days — just around the corner. This is when the real work occurs. When we put in the hard yards, strengthening muscle in the early and late hours whilst no one is watching. Hine Takurua requires steadfastness, resilience and endurance like no other.
But for now, with two months of Ngahuru remaining — what would it look like to pause and notice? To turn the lens inward, outward, all around. Maybe, like me, you'll find yourself somewhere unexpected — sitting with a memory, a feeling, an old wound still quietly healing.
That's the gift of this season. Not to fix. Just to notice. To have playful, curious and courageous conversations, deepen connections, and prepare the soil for replanting.
Nau mai e ngā hua o Hine Ngahuru.
