The Dream Isn’t About Me

There was a moment recently where I sat down to write about my dream — the big vision I’ve carried for a long time. Living off the land. Self-sufficiency. Tribal ways. A retreat space tucked somewhere peaceful. But as I started speaking it out loud, something felt off.

It was like I was repeating an old story. One that had meant a lot to me in the past, but now felt… distant. Not wrong, just not alive. Not in my bones anymore.

And what landed was this:
This dream isn’t about me.

It never really was.

It’s about the wāhine I’m here to serve. It’s about my daughter, Kaia, and the kind of life I want her to see — one where her mum is grounded, sovereign, and living in alignment. It’s about creating spaces where Māori women can come home to themselves — without shame, without guilt, and without having to prove a thing.

I’ve realised my actual dream is simpler than I thought.
It’s a home. A life that feels nourishing.
Work that’s in service to something greater than myself.
Time — real, present, unrushed time — with my daughter.
And the courage to keep listening when something inside me says, “This isn’t it anymore.”

There’s a lot I’m still figuring out.
But I’m learning that when I take myself out of the centre of the dream…
That’s when it starts to feel real.

Have you ever outgrown a dream and not known what comes next?