Life is a Trip

part one: relocating to New Zealand

Hello to you all and welcome to the more recent subscribers.

Fifteen years ago I moved from the midwest USA to New Zealand with my husband and our six year old son.

While this generally seems an unusual scenario for those living in mid-America, my British husband grew up believing that moves and exploring new cultures were commonplace; required.

Where I came from in the US many folks have never seen or dipped their toes into the ocean. The idea of being in a different continent than family is unheard of by many. However, in NZ, at every turn, there are folks who normalize such relocations. Many people have moved to NZ from the UK and other countries—far from loved ones—to explore a new life, therefore providing a bit of an automatic supportive network; a demographic who understand the magnitude and the beauty of making a life on another side of the planet.

Raised by parents who claimed no interest in travel, even as a child I held a vibrant wanderlust. At a very young age I recall attempting to engage my very religious mother in the conversation by the quandary, “We only have so much time here. Wouldn’t God expect us to see as much of the planet as possible?” Hence a core belief of seeing the world was lit within me from my origin, where it came from I do not know.

Decades later we took my mother to the UK, with us and our two youngest children, to spend time with my husband’s family. A photo of her standing in front of Stonehenge is poetry; an unexpected stanza. For her last two years of life she lived with us in New Zealand; it was a magical time that I hold dear in my heart.

Part of my husband’s rationale for moving when we did was for our youngest to be able to acclimate more effectively into a new culture, but that is just part of the bigger picture. While we have bent over backwards to give our other children’s parents grace, circumstances became untenable for our children and ourselves, with a parent on a mission to sabotage our relationships and professional standing in our community with little consideration for the stress the children were put through.

Also, as a clinician and a mom, I had a strong desire for a recovery-based school for my son’s last year of high school since we had less than a year before he came of age and our decisions would moot. In my heart I needed to do anything in my power to offer him a practical and hopefully successful recovery option; his other parent was not in agreement. Knowing the challenging statistics, I couldn’t imagine living with myself if we didn’t use that school year and addiction took his life (as it has so many of his friends in the following years).

Being in a state of almost literal helplessness and a fair bit of what at times felt like emotional agony in our co-parenting situations, at that time, made the relocation decision feel like the right one for the wellness of us and our youngest child, and the remaining kids. At all costs all of the kids deserved as much peace as possible, and we could see that constant turmoil was taking a toll on them. Only the most intense boundaries might suffice. Unfortunately, after our move, a visitation guideline by the court was never upheld for the youngest, but we had them with us as much as possible and would have loved for them to live primarily with us.

I could write volumes about what led up to divorces and the challenging terrain that ensued for both my husband and myself, but taking that personal vow (and court order) of speaking with respect to our kids about their other parent was one we took seriously. Some would say, to a fault.

Therein lies but a brief glimpse of some of the why of our relocation that has mainly gone unspoken. I share that because I know many other dismantled families have dealt with parental alienation and long and bumpy roads before their children are of age. You are not alone.

In this current world view’s climate many folks fantasize about a life changing move. We feel pleased that we can offer a place of respite for our family.

I think of the below quote, which is a message to writers, when I am tempted to dig deeper into that earlier, painful time of our lives but am stopped by feeling guilt? shame? utter disbelief?

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.” Anne Lamott

No family is immune to trauma.

I recently remembered that a few years after we relocated, I put out a cold-call to my three oldest biological children to share some feelings about what this geological distance has meant to them. I hadn’t read them again until today and I share them here because their their spontaneous thoughts about the subject speak volumes about what can result in amicable situations. These were written around ten years ago.

The first is written by the youngest of my first born, my son, Keegan. Many of you have read the parts of his story that he and I have both shared. He has a Substack and podcast. He is an outreach worker at an innovative not for profit with a housing-first belief for the unhoused. He’s just finished his addiction recovery specialist credential and is working on a outreach specialist type of certification as well. He’s very involved in his recovery and advocacy community. Sadly, his soul companion Skinny recently unexpectedly became very unwell and died. Skinny was with Keegan during his most challenging times and will be greatly missed by us all. Keegan has embarked on a comedic journey where he riffs on some of his traveling/unhoused/addiction terrain and politics. You can follow his comedy at IG and other social media platforms @keeganotwellcomedy.

Keegan’s words:

Loving from a distance certainly has its benefits in certain situations, and today in retrospect I find myself very grateful for my mother’s move to New Zealand. I was here, a drug addict in on and off active addiction and no semblance of recovery whatsoever. Being a parent in that context is something that is extremely heart wrenching and difficult, especially when you are an ex-substance abuse counselor who knows the true nature of addiction and the places it can lead. I would say my mother and I share a strong connection but during that time, in active addiction, there was no one but myself. To realize you are powerless over your own child’s self destruction is something that I can’t even imagine having to endure, and that distance, that 8000 miles, might have been the only thing that kept my mother sane. Now with more than two years of recovery there actually is a long distance relationship, where before there was none. The time spent when she does come and visit is very valuable time. Maybe it’s kind of sad that we have to separate for us to value each other’s presence so much when it is available, but I suppose that is human nature. It transforms that interpersonal relationship into something that is no longer a commodity and the time spent together is all the more precious for it. I am grateful that my mother is able to pursue her dreams and I wouldn’t want it any other way for her. It makes me feel so good when I see all of the beautiful things she is able to see, when I see they are constructing an outdoor kitchen at there newest residence, and all the other assorted things, small and large, that are just the stuff of dreams. I could not be more happy that that is available to her.

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The next is written by my middle child who was married last year and now resides in Helsinki, Finland, his partner’s homeland. What he didn’t know when he wrote this was that he would come stay in New Zealand the most and the longest of any of our children. He’s come for months at a time. His gift of reassurance to me was reminding me that if we still lived in close proximity we’d have had less length and intensity of time together. So true.

Luke’s words:

Four thousand miles is a long (and expensive) way to go every time you want to see your family, and because of that we don’t get to see each other as often as we want to. Luckily, there has been enough reasons for them to come here in the past year (a wedding, a baby) so we have seen each other a good amount during that time. And when those times occur it has been wonderful “quality time” and that is the paradox of having family that lives far away; you don’t see each other as often but when you do it’s more special. You appreciate your time together more because it is a rare thing. I live 3.5 hours away from the rest of my family and see them about once every 1-2 months if not more often. Though our time together is super special to me, it’s not as intense as family time with people who you are not positive when you’re going to see them again. Everything said, I don’t think my mom moving away has hindered our relationship at all. This is the age of Facebook, email, Skype, etc. and in a way, being 4,000 miles away isn’t as different as being 40 miles away as it used to be.

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Finally, here are words of my first born. A journalist by training and career history, she is now the communications director of the largest state agency in her state.

Rachel’s words:

Having already gone through the process of our parents divorcing, and one remarrying someone who already had several children of their own-- I would say my brothers and I were already well-versed in transitions. Though it was initially a shock and sad to think I couldn’t just swing by to see my family on a whim-- or even on the holidays, we have all adapted well. My daughter, who just turned one, has already had three long visits from her Mana, and one could argue she has been able to squeeze in as much quality time as any other family member (if not more.) One of the good things for me that has happened (besides of course an amazing place I know I can go visit) is the example of a parent who has chosen to live her life more deliberately than most, even when that includes making tough choices and sacrifices. It’s definitely influenced the choices I make in my own life for the better and I think it will continue to do so.

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My oldest biological children wrote these for me to share in a blog many moons ago, which is why I feel comfortable sharing them now. It’s been a healing exercise to dig these up and revisit them because my heart has been aching to spend time with them and our five grandchildren–one we’ve yet to meet–and all of our family.

Part of my agreement for moving here was with the caveat that I could go back any time I desired or when family needed me and this has been the case. My granddaughter’s birth miraculously timed that the moment I landed in the US my daughter’s labor commenced, a time when they needed childcare for a month, three lengthy trips during my brother’s last six months brain cancer—I was with him his last week of life. I made it to see a son in a play and the other son playing multiple gigs. Several times I travelled solo; the last time was an epic three months of visiting all of our children in 2022. That was the same year my friend died in December and then my intense health saga kicked into full force the next month. Because of my heath issues I had thought that might have been my final solo trip.

Today I deep-dived into looking at flights. I realize I’m not ready to travel without my husband and he’s not ready to make the trip back to the US right now. It’s left me feeling forlorn. It’s time like these the reality of not being able to be with any of our family on a whim weighs me down.

Things changed. I have, in fact, just returned from three weeks in the states. A trip that began at the end of that last sentence.

To be continued ...