The very real ups and downs I encountered in pursuit of adventure
An honest recollection of those 6 months I spent living in New Zealand
a collection of memories from ‘that time I lived abroad’
i.
The idea of adventure has captivated me as long as I can remember. Redwall, The Chronicles of Narnia, Inkheart, Artemis Fowl — each book beckoned me to a far off magical place. Their words transported me alongside characters who bravely left home, faced countless obstacles, and found hidden strengths. I hoped that one day I could do the same and be just as courageous and resilient.
As I grew older, my childhood dream of embarking on a fantastical quest morphed into the young adult equivalent: doing something abroad. I was fascinated by the stories of people who left home to study turtles in the Mediterranean or to farm in the Himalayas. To be honest, I had no idea where I wanted to go or what I’d want to do. I just longed to join that exclusive club of people who were brave enough to live far away and who came back more grounded than before.
And so I looked across the sea for my own adventure. When I learned MIT offered a month long program to teach abroad, I immediately applied and participated three times, traveling to Israel, South Africa, and Italy. I refused to look for internships in Boston because going out-of-state seemed much more exciting.
At the time, these trips brought me so much joy. I was finally out there, exploring this wondrous world! But these didn’t count as true adventure. No real bravery was required, no major hurdles had to be overcome. Each trip was prepackaged, perfectly designed by someone else to fit nicely into my college schedule. Even though I had long dreamed of journeying solo, I never did. Because deep down, the idea of stepping into the unknown alone scared me. It was far easier to stick with the options that were safe.
It was January of 2018. If I were still at MIT, I would have been flying out of Boston with a bunch of other undergrads, nervous but eager to teach science in another country. But this year, I’d be doing what I had done ever since I left college — working in San Francisco as a software engineer.
Code. Rummage through the snack baskets. Write tests. Share my progress. Repeat.
In comparison to my time teaching abroad, my day to day rhythm felt stuffy and stagnant. Not that my life was bad. In fact, my company let me work from home anytime, even if I was visiting family on the opposite coast. I just longed to do something different.
A thought popped into my head. What if I worked remotely overseas? I started daydreaming about being anywhere but here — France, Italy, Switzerland, there were so many exciting places I could go! My imagination whirred, lifting me from the humdrum of everyday life.
Until one day, my boyfriend Justin decided that he had had enough. As I was excitedly describing to him yet another country that would be nice to work from, he interrupted.
“Look, you’ve been talking about this idea for the past three months. But I know you’re not going to do anything about it.”
I was taken aback. What was wrong with a little bit of dreaming? I wasn’t trying to plan this trip for real yet, though I was sure I could if I wanted to!
He continued, unfazed by my accusatory expression. “But if you are planning to, then do it. Prove me wrong.”
Could I be scared to take the next step? Looking back, I can see that I was hesitating for fear of tackling a lofty idea and failing. But at the time, I convinced myself that this was not the case, that I’d show him. Though I was too proud to acknowledge it then, Justin’s challenge was the push I needed to start turning my dream into reality.
So I got to work, scrolling through immigration sites and travel blogs until my eyes were bloodshot. Several weeks and many pros and cons lists later, I settled on a destination — New Zealand. The time zones were ideal for remote work, the scenery was straight out of the Lord of the Rings, and the people were supposedly extraordinarily nice. And, to top things off, there were even women’s ultimate frisbee teams there! This was it. This was going to be my first real adventure.
ii.
In November later that year, I found myself in Wellington, a city that I had chosen purely because of a friend’s one day visit, a stranger’s blog, and the medal placement of the women’s ultimate team at nationals.
“Yay we’re here!!” my mom exclaimed, her face lit up with excitement.
Yep, my mom had flown over with me. She said she needed a short vacation, but we both knew that she was really here to make sure that I’d be alright. As much as I would have liked to have carried out my vision of leaving the country alone, I was secretly happy that she was here with me.
Because even though I was excited, I was also nervous. This was the first time that I had moved somewhere not because I was supposed to, but because I chose to. If I disliked the place, I would only have myself to blame. And that scared me.
On the airport bus, I got my first glimpse of the city. Green rolling hills hugged the coastline, with cute, white and yellow houses nestled in the slopes. The scenery felt oddly familiar. It felt like — the Bay Area. My heart sank. Did I really travel halfway across the world only to end up in another San Francisco? When we arrived at our hotel, my disappointment only grew. We were right in the heart of another financial district, filled with the usual shiny tall buildings, high end storefronts, and deserted streets after hours.
I wanted to flee, but there was one problem. I had confidently told so many people that I’d be in Wellington. Some friends had even already bought plane tickets to visit. To change my mind this quickly would be embarrassing and inconvenient. Panic rose in my chest. I was stuck in this city, and I couldn’t do anything about it.
My irritation ballooned, casting a gloom over not only me, but also my mom. After a few days, she had to say something.
“Kelly?”
I looked up at her from the couch on which I was sprawled, too unmotivated to get up.
“Do you remember how hard it was for you when you first moved to San Francisco for your job?” She chuckled to herself. “You used to call me every day, complaining about the city.”
I grimaced. That was indeed a difficult adjustment.
“But then look what happened. You started doing things, going on hiking trips and making new friends, and you became happy there! This trip isn’t so different. It’s just that this time no one told you to move here.”
Maybe that’s why, instead of adapting to the situation, I kept second guessing myself. I just didn’t know how to trust my own decisions.
My mom got up from her chair and sat by my side. “Let’s give this place a chance, like you would if you had to live here. And then you can decide in a week if you want to stay.”
I sighed and nodded. Okay. I would try.
iii.
After my mom left, my life in Wellington was defined by three types of moments: moments of kindness, moments of loneliness, and moments of initiative.
moments of kindness
It was the end of my first frisbee scrimmage, and the time I dreaded was here — finding my way home. I slowly untied my cleats, trying to look occupied while I thought through my options. There was no bus back, and I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by asking for a ride. I picked myself up and walked with purpose towards the park exit, hoping there might be Ubers around. But before I reached the road, a beat-up, red car pulled up beside me.
“Hey! Need a ride?”
The driver was a woman on my team who had showed up late to our game. She smiled at me as I climbed in the car.
“So, where are we going? I can go anywhere in the city.”
Though, as I’d later learn, she didn’t live anywhere near my hotel, she cheerfully drove me back. She seemed to know exactly what little things were hard for someone new to town, reminding me of her name without prompting and reassuring me over and over that someone would always be willing to give me a ride. When she dropped me off, she left with a friendly “See you next week!”. I don’t think she’ll ever know just how grateful I was for her warmth and understanding. That small gesture of kindness gave me hope that I’d be able to find a welcoming community.
There was one place in Wellington where I immediately felt comfortable, and surprisingly, I found it on my morning commute. I had expected that morning walk to be nothing special. But when I reached the edge of Central Park, I came to a halt. Instead of the fresh mulch and clean cut grass that normally define a city park, standing before me was a full on forest.
When I set foot on the dirt path, the rumble of cars was replaced with birdsong, and the relentless tempo of the working world seemed to fall away. The trail meandered along a quiet trickling stream and over wooden footbridges. I walked past moss laden logs and one out of place eucalyptus tree. And with each step, the stress, tentativeness, and insecurity weighing on me was replaced with joy.
I felt joy being among the trees, the ground, the birds, the sky. There was nothing to prove to the ferns. I didn’t have to make conversation with the grass. I could stop and stare at the alien looking lichen hanging from a tree and there was nothing stopping me. In this place, my outside worries about work or life didn’t matter. The forest welcomed me with open arms.
moments of loneliness
These moments of hospitality made up only a small part of my day. For the rest of it, I was acutely aware of how alone I was in this city.
During the work day, while everyone else was chatting to their officemates, I asked for a table for one at a cafe and hid among the seats at the bar so that I stood out less while working by myself.
Before frisbee scrimmages, I took my sweet time lacing up my cleats and warming up because I didn’t want to look helpless while I nervously scanned the sidelines for an approachable person to throw with.
On a Friday afternoon, I would walk along the waterfront to enjoy the start of my weekend, only to drift past people laughing and lounging on beanbags under the sun, students diving off the pier with their friends, and parents strolling behind their wandering children.
I tried to distract myself by marveling at the towering pinnacles in the east or the sparkling blue sounds in the south. I focused on recognizing the calls of native birds while walking around into the city. I wrote and rewrote schedules to impose structure on my life. But these actions could not mask my ever-present loneliness. I had always prided myself on being self-reliant, but now it seemed like a lie. I didn’t actually know how to be alone. All I really wanted was to belong.
moments of initiative
What better way to feel alone than to spend Thanksgiving in a foreign country away from family. Thanksgiving was still a week away, yet I couldn’t help but think about what my family would be doing that day. My sister would be painstakingly shaping artsy pie crusts while my mom and cousin deftly chopped vegetables and chatted away. My dad would be rolling up his sleeves, readying himself to roast the perfect turkey. And I would be dusting off the board games that we pulled out just for this day and sneaking bites of each dish before dinner. But not this year. This would be the first year that I’d spend it alone.
I furiously tried to shake away my self-pity. I knew how to cook Thanksgiving foods — there was nothing stopping me from having my own feast. The image of me sitting at the dining table, happily surrounded by steaming plates of mashed potatoes and crispy stuffing crystallized in my mind. But just as quickly, the scene reappeared in a different light, and all I could see were the five chairs at the table beside me, blatantly empty.
It was pathetic. I had come all this way to participate in a new community, yet here I was, prepared to spend a holiday all about community on my own.
Maybe I could invite my flatmates. But a doubting voice murmured in my ear. They have their own lives, own friends, own events — how do you know if they even want to join?
I didn’t.
Normally, I would leave it at that. Taking initiative with people I didn’t know well had never come naturally to me. I avoided networking events of all kinds. People I wanted to befriend remained strangers because they seemed too cool for me. Old friends fell out of touch, and I didn’t try to reconnect.
I used to play it off like this was my personal choice. But deep down, I think I was scared of rejection. My self worth was so intertwined with the opinions of others that when I did not receive outside validation, my confidence teetered. So I just chose to stick with people I knew. But in New Zealand, where I was alone and surrounded by strangers with their own communities, my reluctance to reach out would not do.
I had to learn to be mentally strong enough to put myself out there without it threatening my self confidence. If I wanted a community, I had to do something about it. And at that moment I resolved to try.
One week later, and I was frantically scrambling around the kitchen, mixing mashed potatoes, and peeling apples, trying to do everything in parallel with utmost efficiency. Seb and Anneke offered to help, but I politely refused — if I was going to host them, I had to do it right! But somehow, they managed to gracefully weave themselves into the kitchen chaos, whisking food to the table and lighting candles for atmosphere.
“Wow! I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving before!! This is amazing!” said Diana as she eagerly sat herself at the table. With the table all set, Seb, Anneke, Diana, Hamid, and I began to feast. We stuffed our bellies with food and painted the air with stories of our lives. We speculated about the origin of stuffing, a dish that Diana and Hamid had never had before, and chuckled at Seb’s proclamation that, though he had always disliked sweet potato, he somehow couldn’t stop eating the sweet potato casserole. And as our conversation rolled along effortlessly, I couldn’t help but smile. While this Thanksgiving wasn’t spent with my own community, I was on the road to finding a new one.
iv.
Whether it was a conscious decision or just the passing of time, I began to find my place in Wellington.
at home
In 6 months, the flatmates that I found through Facebook became my very good friends. It was with these people that I attempted numerous cooking challenges, from making boba with what turned out to be sago to crafting improvised dumpling pancakes after losing half of the frozen dumpling skins to the microwave. These were the people that would, after missing the bus, walk 45 minutes with me up a huge hill to get home because there was no rush and it was a beautiful day anyways.
We had a comfortable rhythm in our cute, yellow house, one that was entirely different from the frenetic pace of the tech world. In fact, none of my flatmates were in tech. They were working towards dreams of designing fashion for the runway, owning a local business, practicing law and economics abroad, or teaching primary school students. They did not care about streamlining every aspect of their lives. Instead, they enjoyed cooking their own meals and actually hearing about each other’s work days. Even if it was a weekday night, we’d talk for hours in the kitchen about books, pottery design, or fascinating lawsuits.
Spending time with my flatmates taught me that it was okay to slow down and not constantly be working towards a goal, career-based or otherwise. And with time, I learned that even a Sunday spent making pancakes and reading on the patio could count as a good one. In that house on McKinley, with its tiny feijoa tree, endless chocolate supply, and fresh lemon cakes, I found a warm and welcoming home.
on the field
After that first going-home-from-frisbee fail, I quickly confirmed that the friendliness I had experienced that day was not a fluke. The women’s ultimate community in Wellington was the most inclusive and spirited frisbee club that I had ever been a part of. Beginners and vets, high schoolers and working adults, natives and ex-pats, daughters and even their mothers, all played side by side in this wonderful jumble of a group. At tournaments, we ate lollies, chased bubbles, and cheered for each other even when we faced off in the finals. We exchanged stories about how we ended up in New Zealand during car rides to team events. And we hung out off the field as well, chucking frisbees in 30 mph winds and racing each other to see who could carry a potato the fastest from one line to another using only our legs. Over the course of the season, these 60 once-strangers became my teammates who I will forever remember.
on my own
As for the hours I used to dread spending alone, I got used to it. After having to decide where to go and what to do just about every day, I realized that it was pointless to feverishly optimize every decision. What did it matter which sandwich I picked, or whether I went to watch the fireworks at the waterfront by myself. It was more important to just make a choice, go with it, and then see what happens.
With this change in my mindset, my alone time became empowering.
It was in New Zealand that I decided to try solo backpacking. On these trips, I tramped through pouring rain, across swinging bridges, and over gnarly tree roots, with the thoughtful narration of Robin Wall Kimmerer as my most reliable company. Time lost all urgency on my walks. Being alone meant that I could pay more attention to my surroundings, observing miniature alpine plants the size of a penny or the flax lilies changing with the season. I sat for ages on mountaintops, gazing at the lush green peaks that stretched to the ocean. The nights peacefully drifted by, as I swapped life stories with fellow hikers at the huts. And watching the sunrises the next morning was astounding. These trips were my time to think about nature, people, and my own mind. And being alone gave me the opportunity to do it.
v.
I used to think people were supposed to come back from journeys like this filled with groundbreaking revelations and an unshakeable new sense of self. So when I returned, I looked inward to identify exactly how New Zealand had changed me. I felt like I had made major strides as a person in the past half year — I’d had the guts to quit my software developer job to pursue product management, I cherished my family and friends to a new degree, and I felt more confident conversing with random people than I ever had before. I’d even learned to take a break and enjoy solo time on the weekends. But as much as I tried to find the root cause for this growth, I could not say whether these changes were from living in New Zealand, or from just growing up.
Even if New Zealand itself was not the reason for my personal growth, going there allowed me to experience a completely new community in which to play, learn, and grow. And I’ll really miss it. I’ll miss the funky cafes with their chocolate dusted cappuccinos. I’ll miss my sunset walks to the Brooklyn Wind Turbine where I had a view of the entire city. And I’ll deeply miss the Wellington ultimate community and my flatmates, who welcomed me into their lives.
The next time someone asks me, ‘How was New Zealand’, there’s a reason I can’t give a one word answer. Because it was so much more than one word. It was a journey of emotions, mental strength, friendship, and introspection. There were happy moments, and there were hard moments. And as more time passes, this experience feels more like what it had once started as — merely a dream.
