Six Years, Four Suitcases, and One Floor-Licking Toddler: My New Zealand Journey

Photo taken on 16 June 2019, while the plane was descending towards Christchurch.

Six years ago today, I landed in New Zealand with four suitcases, a nappy bag full of Tomica cars, my Dyson vacuum (priorities!), and a two-year-old who believed airport floors were part of the tasting menu.

I had no idea what I was in for.

I grew up in the Philippines, living what I’d call a pretty sheltered life. Surrounded by family and friends, there was always a sense of comfort in knowing help was just a call, or a knock, away. I had easy access to anything I needed, 24/7. It’s the kind of convenience you don’t really appreciate until it’s no longer there. The familiar sights, the buzz of tricycles, the scent of street food in the air, the sound of neighbours singing karaoke at 3am - all those little things I used to find annoying, but somehow made me feel like I belonged. You rarely stop to reflect on how grounding those comforts are when you're living in the country you were born into.

So no, I didn’t exactly dwell on how hard things might get when I finally convinced my husband to move to New Zealand. At the time, we were based in Cambodia for his work. It wasn’t the Philippines, sure, but it was still Asia, just a few hours' flight away. We still blended in among the black-haired crowds. It also felt temporary, like a holding space before the “real move” we hadn’t quite figured out yet.

I didn’t expect that “real move” to be New Zealand. My husband had actually turned down a job offer here a few years before, so we were caught off guard when the same company came back with a second offer. This time, it felt different. He was hesitant because while it meant a slightly higher salary, Cambodia’s cost of living was far more manageable. But I told him maybe this was a sign. Not everyone gets a second chance at something like that. We had a two-year-old then, and New Zealand seemed like a safer, more stable place to raise a child. So despite all the unknowns, we decided to take the leap.

He flew out first in May 2019. My son and I followed a month later, once our visas were finally approved.

And just like that - new country, no family. Just the three of us, figuring things out. Me, my husband, and a toddler who thought hygiene was optional. The adjustment? Massive.

Fast forward to life in New Zealand. Despite having a bachelor’s degree, a master’s, and what I thought was a solid CV, all I seemed to be collecting were rejection emails. Day after day, like I’d unknowingly subscribed to a daily dose of no thanks. Three months in, I finally got a job as a hotel waitress. Never mind that I didn’t know how to properly carry three plates at once. I approached it with the confidence of someone who thought they’d seen enough restaurant scenes in movies to wing it. Spoiler: cinematic plate-carrying is not a transferable skill. My arms were shaking, my smile was glued on, and I was one wrong tilt away from a breakfast disaster. That job eventually led to an admin role at an insurance brokerage, where every other phone call came with, “Are you in a call centre in the Philippines?” I’d cheerfully reply, “Nope, I’m on St. Asaph Street in Christchurch!” Bit by bit, I was rebuilding, not just my career, but my confidence (and perfecting the art of sounding local without losing my vowels - which I’m still working on, btw).

It was in those two jobs where I met some of the kindest, most down-to-earth people - people who reminded me that work can actually be enjoyable when you're surrounded by good humans. They showed me patience when I fumbled, laughed with me on the hard days, and made the adjustment to a new country a little less lonely.

(Of course, there were also a few who clearly missed the memo on basic decency, but we’ll save that tea for another day).

Then came COVID.

Like many migrant families, we braced ourselves. Jobs were on the line, support networks were slim, and homesickness hit differently when borders were closed. We were quite lucky. My husband kept his job, which gave us just enough stability when everything else felt like quicksand. To be honest though, I was getting ready to leave the country.

But we survived. We adapted. And somewhere in the chaos, a new purpose quietly took root.

The journey was anything but smooth. I thought I’d finally landed an amazing job. On paper, it looked perfect. And for a while, it was. But then it turned into a nightmare. What I didn’t realise at the time was that my boss was narcissistic and manipulative - charming one moment, venomous the next. You had to pretend to be constantly happy around her because showing any hint of dissatisfaction was met with hostility. She thrived on throwing parties and organising company events, even when no one showed up except the staff. As an introvert, I found these situations uncomfortable and awkward, but I forced myself to be there every time just to stay in her good graces. I needed that job to pay the bills, and I couldn’t afford to lose it even though my mental health was quietly falling apart. When I finally decided to resign because I started to realise something wasn’t right, she turned on me. That traumatic experience shattered my confidence, broke my trust in people, and left me scrambling for a backup plan.

That backup plan? Black Sands Consulting.

Our boss had tried to turn us - and the entire team - against each other. But in the end, we saw through it. We realised that the problem wasn’t us; it was the environment we were in. So instead of falling apart, we banded together. The team supported one another, stood by each other, and proved that kindness and professionalism could exist even in difficult places. Many of us remain close friends to this day, and that sense of unity gave us the strength to move forward.

Together, Jamee and I built something completely different - something grounded in trust, mutual respect, and genuine empathy. For each other, for our families, and especially for our clients.

What started as a “Plan B” turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.

I was in my second year of living in New Zealand when a friend asked me, “Does New Zealand feel like home yet?” And at the time, I had to be honest. It didn’t. I still missed the convenience and comforts of the Philippines: the malls, the food, the ability to get almost anything delivered the same day. I missed the constant presence of family and friends, the feeling of belonging, and the ease of blending in without having to explain myself or where I came from.

But over time, something shifted.

The things I once missed began to be replaced with new kinds of comfort. I started to appreciate the feeling of safety, the comfort in knowing laws are followed, the unspoken way Kiwis look out for each other. You can smile and say hi to strangers on the street and no one thinks you’re weird. You're not stuck in traffic for hours or battling for your space on the road. Life slows down here, and that’s a gift I didn’t know I needed.

We’ve also been lucky to find friends in New Zealand who have truly become like family. They’re always there when we need a hand and make sure we never have to spend special occasions like Christmas or birthdays alone. When I was going through a rough patch, they were the first to notice and they didn’t hesitate to show up at my door just to offer support, even without me saying a word. Their presence has made such a difference in our lives, reminding us that no matter how far we are from home, we’re never alone. It’s comforting to know that we have people who genuinely care, who celebrate our wins, and who lift us up during the low moments.

Now, six years in, New Zealand does feel like home.

My son turns nine this year, which means he’s lived seven years longer in this country than he did in the Philippines. A part of me feels a little sad that he hasn’t had the chance to build deep relationships with family back home. But knowing he’s safe, surrounded by nature and fresh air, and growing up in a country that values whānau and community…that brings me peace.

I never imagined I’d become a Licensed Immigration Adviser or run an immigration consultancy. But here I am, helping people walk the same road we did: scared, uncertain, but hopeful. I won’t lie, there have been tears. Homesickness. A bit of racism. Judgment for how I look, speak, or simply exist. But there’s also been so much joy: watching my son thrive, finally cracking (most of) the Kiwi accent - yeah, nah and sweet as don’t throw me off anymore - and realising that Aotearoa has shaped me into someone I never thought I could be. Stronger. Wiser. More resilient. And honestly? Deeply proud of her journey.

Somewhere along the way, I became someone who gets excited about spotting cherry blossoms in Hagley Park every September, planning road trips just to soak in nature (and be unapologetically touristy), and tracking down the best almond latte in the South Island. Not quite saying chur yet, but I’m home. And I’m helping others find theirs, too. New Zealand may not be perfect, but it’s a land of opportunity…if you’re willing to work hard, make sacrifices, and keep showing up.

Residency here isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. One I try to earn every single day with gratitude, effort, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, my story helps someone else feel a little less alone.

So here’s to every migrant who’s doubted themselves, missed home until it physically hurt, or found unexpected strength in unexpected places. Keep going. You’ve got this.