The constant coverage of people leaving New Zealand and finding better lives could give you the wrong idea.

It’s no secret that New Zealanders love to move across the ditch, but right now, there’s a serious “brain drain”. Last year a record 73,000 people left Aotearoa behind, and I’m one of the traitors who ditched their homeland in favour of a country that puts ham and cheese on top of schnitzel and calls it a parmy. 

Admin-wise, the move was almost comically smooth because I’m a New Zealander. When I ticked the box on the arrival card that said “permanently moving”, I braced myself for questions. But the customs guy waved me through so quickly I did a double take, and he didn’t even care if that looked suspicious. Meanwhile I have friends from other countries who have spent years working towards permanent residency. 

I fell in love with Melbourne immediately. It feels like everyone is happy to be here. My local bookstore is open until 10pm daily, and it’s never empty. The nearby boutique cinema is packed most nights – you’d never know the film industry was struggling. There are at least three gelato options within walking distance, and if you feel like a cosy pub dinner there’s at least five to choose from, which somehow doesn’t feel problematic. I’ve found friends that have become my new family. Being here feels like you’re a part of something exciting.

But the constant New Zealand media coverage about people leaving New Zealand and finding better lives in Australia could give you the wrong idea. Crossing the ditch is not the end of your problems, or a pass to an instantly easier life. 

In fact, in some ways, I have found it a very tough move. I had lost my job in New Zealand, and quickly found another one that required leaving my life behind. I started full time the first day I arrived. I didn’t even have a tax file number yet, much to the shock of the woman responsible for my payslip. My second day of work was the office Christmas party and somehow I survived not knowing anyone. I was living in an Airbnb, scrambling to find something permanent. By day eight I was like a toddler who desperately needed to go to bed, and sobbed from pure exhaustion.

Then I found a flatmate who revealed herself to be a Trump conspiracist after I signed the rental agreement. I bought one of those cardboard bed frames, because for some reason I felt that was less of a commitment than a regular one. I’m still living that down with those who were around to witness my tailspin and subsequent lack of taste. I had emotional and geographical whiplash.

Slowly I found my feet, and it started to feel like I had two homes. And while that seems a lovely and romantic problem to have, the pull between the two was very real. 

Then I lost the job I moved here for. Eight months later, I lost another one. It’s a brutal track record, but I chose a career where restructures grow on trees, and media conglomerates sign contracts that result in names like Warner Bros Discovery, only to sell to Paramount.

Naturally, the pull to return back to New Zealand became stronger. I’ve visited Auckland far more frequently this year, and while it is much sleepier and stuck in its ways, the peace I feel being at home with my family and childhood friends is hard to ignore.

Australia isn’t all sunshine and rainbows either. It’s hard to find work, and for two years I’ve been living in a sharehouse (Aussie for flat) with four other grown adults. Good houses in good areas are fiercely competitive. Maybe because me and 72,999 other Kiwis are vying for them.

Still, there are definite upsides. The money is just undeniably better over here, and that affects everything. Jobs that pay $70,000 in New Zealand pay $100,000 here, while my rent is about the same. Aussies lost their minds at the recent petrol price rises – fair. But the prices don’t spook me because they look pretty normal if you’re from Auckland. 

After two years my superannuation matches what my KiwiSaver gained in 10 (though, yes, I know the Australian pension is means tested). 

Of course, the cost of living is still high in Australia, but in comparison it feels like a walk in the park (specifically, around the beautiful public park a block away from me that also has an IMAX, a museum, a tennis court, and an exhibition hall).

You would think that two redundancies and a decent chunk of homesickness might have been enough to send me back to the familiar comfort of a Grey Lynn flat with just the right amount of black mould. It nearly was. 

I really wish I could say that my life would look the same in Auckland – with the same ease and sense of possibility. I’d be back in a heartbeat. My roots are there, and they always will be. 

Australia has not delivered an end to all of my problems, but for now building a life here makes more sense than going home.