FINDING MY WAY HOME

On my 55th birthday I was pushing hard to get back to New Zealand. I really wanted

to be there for that milestone, but for various reasons my plans were delayed.

Instead, I’ve found myself back on my homeland exactly one year later, almost to the

same dates.

More than ever I believe we are always being guided, whether it feels like it or not.

What I have learned is that we always have a choice in how we respond to what life

presents us with. The old version of me would simply react, creating unnecessary

fear, anger and disappointment.

This time felt different.

When I left New Zealand last year after meeting my biological parents for the first

time, I wasn’t ready to leave. I knew in my bones that I needed to come back as

soon as possible to finish what had been started.

So I touched down in Auckland at 5am, buzzing with adrenaline. The airport was

quiet, the early morning light just starting to creep through the windows. Today I was

going to my father’s house.

There was an underlying pressure I couldn’t ignore. Because of his dementia, time

suddenly felt very precious. I worried that having only met me once before, he might

not remember me.

Not knowing his exact address, I had booked an Airbnb somewhere I thought was

nearby. When I discovered it was only two minutes away from his house, I giggled to

myself and quietly whispered, “Universe…”

It’s the strangest feeling showing up at the home of someone you hardly know, yet

who is your biological father. And even stranger walking in and feeling like somehow

you’ve known them your whole life.

We sat drinking tea, chatting and chuckling with laughter, quickly discovering we

shared the same dry sense of humour. At one point he looked at me and said,

“It’s incredible how you just fit into this family.”

I felt it too.

There was an unexplainable connection between us, even though we had only met

once before. In that moment, the four-year-old version of myself finally felt like she

belonged.

I had brought a journal with me called Tell Me Your Story, Dad, thinking it might help

guide the conversation. But very quickly I realised we didn’t need it as a talking stick.

All we needed was time.

Just the two of us.

And the stories flowed.

Very quickly I began to see how much we had in common. My father had also been

adopted. We had both grown up with alcoholic fathers. Through the work I’ve done

with family constellations, I’ve come to understand how these patterns repeat

through generations.

So often we carry emotions, blockages and trauma that aren’t even ours, things that

live quietly in our lineage, passed down through families without anyone realising.

And this is what keeps us anchored in the past, making it so challenging to change.

Never in my life have I felt such a strong sense that I was exactly where I needed to

be.

Right on time.

We spent every day together talking, running errands and getting a glimpse of how

he lives and the confusion and frustration that comes with dementia.

He took me to meet his brother, who shared stories and photos of what Chris was

like growing up. He remembered my mother Lynsey but had no idea that I existed

until now.

My father showed me the company he built that changed the course of his life, a

company his daughter now runs. He drove me past buildings he owns and told me

stories about the past.

His success had come from a deep wound, a need to prove to the people who had

rejected him, the ones who told him he would never amount to anything, that they

were wrong.

He achieved the success.

But the abandonment of being adopted still ran deep, and he spent much of his life

battling drugs and alcohol as a way to numb that pain.

Another parallel we share.

Thankfully, through yoga I developed the awareness to see that alcohol was keeping

me stuck and that I needed to break free from that habit so I could evolve. I have

never been more certain about a decision, especially now as I look into my father’s

eyes and see how low his life force has become.

Then, in what felt like divine timing, my sisters Tracy and Tania, who I didn’t have the

privilege of meeting last year, appeared at the family dinner they hold every Tuesday

night.

They invited me to join them.

They welcomed me with open arms and open hearts.

There was no denying how much I looked like them. I could feel them discreetly

studying me across the table, taking it all in. It’s a lot to process, physically,

emotionally and mentally.

But something inside me knew I wasn’t finished here yet. In every cell of my body I

felt that I wanted more time with this family.

So I changed my flights so I could return for another visit before leaving New

Zealand.

Ironically, it came up in conversation that my father had originally wanted me to stay

at the house. The family had hesitated, worried it might be confusing for him with his

dementia.

And truthfully, they didn’t know me yet either.

It was all very new.

But on my last evening, Sandra, my father’s wife, quietly said something that

completely surprised me.

“You know there is a room here for you if you ever want to stay.”

It was something I hadn’t even imagined in my wildest dreams. Yet at the same time

it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

When I started overthinking it. I questioned if I should accept. Wondering if it was too

much, too soon.

But this might also be the only opportunity I have.

The four-year-old version of me said yes.

I’m still on my journey down-under, and the end of this chapter hasn’t been written

yet. But beneath it all is an incredible sense of awe and wonder at how much can

change in 365 days.

Over the past year I have meditated every day with a clear intention to change my

biochemistry so I could stop living in the past. To release the narrative of

abandonment and the feeling of never being enough or worthy of love.

To begin creating a new future, one rooted in abundance.

Looking back, I can see that doing the inner work, raising my frequency, and letting

go of expectations or specific outcomes has shifted something inside me.

Doors that once felt closed have begun to open.

And somewhere along the way, the four-year-old