Mostly Fine Life

When I was a toddler, my family nicknamed me “Buddha.” Not for wisdom or serenity — no, that would have been useful — but for my lovely rolls and bald little head. Mum always said I was a happy child, which, if you think about it, fits the smiling Buddha statues we see everywhere. Funny now, but let’s be real: I wasn’t always radiating calm as a toddler; and enlightenment? Umm, nope. Still, there’s something about the name that stuck, although I’m no longer roly and bald.

I was sixteen, living in Brisbane, when my parents separated. Plans I had — post–high school adventures, music dreams, vague visions of greatness — all went sideways. Mum decided we (Mum, my brother and I) should move back to New Zealand to be near family. Did I want to go? Not particularly. But I didn’t want to be alone either, so I went. Adventure awaited, yes, but a little daunting too (and honestly, tears on the plane). Over the years, there’ve been other times when tears weren’t quite enough — I’ve thrown a good old tantrum, too. Not very Buddha-like, but maybe that’s ironic: I was a roly-poly, bald, mostly happy toddler, which is exactly how I got the nickname in the first place. Smiling Buddha, meet actual toddler chaos.

High school in a new city was… tricky. Weird pseudo-Kiwi-Aussie accent, music geek, outsider from day one. I misread social cues constantly, stumbled through conversations, and occasionally laughed when silence would have been smarter. But I was figuring it out — awkwardly, noisily, with the occasional embarrassing flourish.

Mum and I wandered into the guidance counsellor’s office, hoping for advice, maybe a little direction. She looks me squarely in the eye and says, “You’d be best to enrol in secretarial college.” Well, that’s… encouraging. Mum looks like she might spit out her coffee (she didn’t, thankfully). I just blink, probably too shocked to speak. We walked out thinking, “Right. We’ll do it our way.” Lesson learned: stand your ground. Teenage adulting — awkward, slightly terrifying, but somehow, mostly fine.

By seventeen, I was moving to Wellington for university — a mix of excitement, terror, and total awkwardness. Rocks through my window the first night in the student house set the tone. Then the teacher I’d met at high school — someone I’d confided in — drove more than 600km to check in. Red flag? Absolutely. But at the time, I wasn’t sure if I was overthinking or just socially clueless (probably both). I knew I never wanted to feel monitored or possessed like that again. Lesson learned, painfully.

Around the same time, my grandfather — Dad’s dad — passed away. His glasses left on the mantlepiece. No more Sunday visits. No more birthday cards. Death became real in a way it hadn’t been before. Grief can hit unexpectedly, sometimes like a quiet ache, sometimes like a slap across the face — sudden, sharp, reminding you it’s still there. It’s not the only grief I’ve known, and not the heaviest, but it was my first real taste of how life can change in an instant.

Then came the church group. A community, a structure, a promise of belonging. I invested. Participated. Was baptised. Fully on board. And yet, quietly, questions grew louder while answers felt smaller. Slowly, I realised I’d lost myself … dangerously so, and I had to leave. Leaving wasn’t dramatic; it was messy, uncomfortable, necessary. But it taught me something: belonging shouldn’t require disappearing. And somehow, even in the chaos, there were lessons about compassion and focus — little nuggets of insight tucked into years of confusion. Organised religion wasn’t quite right for me, but I learned some valuable things about my beliefs, and that you can draw from whatever gives you strength.

I clung sometimes, yes. Not desperate… okay, sometimes desperate… but really I was just trying to belong. Misreading signals. Holding on to connection even when I didn’t quite understand it. Writing terrible poetry. Making a fool of myself — and, looking back, laughing at myself too.

And oh, the stumbles… there have been so many. Opportunities to put my foot in things? Grabbed them with almost involuntary enthusiasm. Watching myself from somewhere above, yelling “abort mission!”, yet carrying on anyway. Cue chaos. Always chaos. Half the time, no clue if I was doing the right thing.

So, yeah, that was a snapshot of a few key moments, the first period of big life changes. There’s way more to the story, a whole lot more stumbling and figuring it out, but this is a blog, not a novel. Besides, the rest of the chaos — trust me, it’s coming. Stay tuned for future musings, should you decide to stick around.

Do I regret things I’ve said or done? Absolutely. Would I change anything? Probably… honestly. But there would have been so many experiences, positive and not-so-positive, that I would have missed out on… all learnings and all things to be grateful for (even the really awkward bits).

Somewhere between grief, clinging, awkward missteps, and slow accumulation of insight, I look up and realise I’m still standing. Still noticing. Still choosing. Still figuring out which corners of life to open and which to guard. Life didn’t come with a manual. We figure out boundaries, trust a little, fall down a little, apologise, forgive… and somehow, mostly, keep going.

And if a little inner Buddha shows up along the way, well… that’s welcome, too.

Soundtrack: Jack Johnson – Better Together
[Because life is awkward, sometimes messy, often hilarious, but mostly about finding your way and noticing the little things that make it all worthwhile.]