It was February of 2023, and Tāmaki Makaurau was in the midst of another unremarkable summer. Discussions of planned ditch jumping had become commonplace within my immediate social circle; in fact, I had just lost two friends to Sydney and would soon lose a further five to Germany. 

This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; Aucklanders were forming romanticised escape plans left, right and centre. It was as if each departure catalysed yet another string of international relocations, until I, too, joined the mass exodus.

Since hopping the ditch to Melbourne Naarm, I’ve spoken to countless other expats who have made the same jump (and yes, the ‘New Zealand to Melbourne to Berlin’ pipeline is a real thing). Our reasons for diving into international waters vary, but the themes underpinning them are relatively universal. 

READ MORE: I left Aotearoa and didn't find myself

Most of us have followed after mates, been hard-sold the Australian lifestyle or felt left behind after losing entire social groups to greener pastures. It’s this social aspect that really seems to light a fire under the Kiwis who are still on the fence. I recently spoke to an ex-Dunedin local who said his only reason for moving was the departure of one too many friends. He admits that Melbourne probably isn’t for him; its relentless hustle and bustle and immense size are a little overwhelming for someone from a small town. He guesses that he’ll likely head home in a few years, and he’s hoping some other Kiwis will do the same.

However, there are some core elements of Tāmaki Makaurau living that warrant a speedy escape (besides entire social circles skipping town). As we all know, the cost of living is becoming less and less bearable, creatives are struggling to make a living in our underfunded arts scene and, most of all, Auckland is small; I’ve lost count of how many unexpected, and unwanted, run-ins I’ve been subjected to at the Mount Eden Countdown. 

While formulating my own escape plan, I was spurred on by a desire for more opportunities and that long-forgotten sense of novelty. Don’t get me wrong, I love our little community-driven city, but I was desperate for a fresh start and Melbourne felt like the place to find it.

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I’ve now been an Australian resident for just over six months, and by all measures, Melbourne does bring me a lot more joy than Auckland did. As the friends I followed promised, pay rates are better by miles, the people are welcoming and warm and, as I’d hoped, there are far more opportunities for those working in the arts. When I chat with other Kiwis who have made new homes here (often over a pet nat; it is Melbourne, after all), we discuss our respective moves often and fondly. The consensus is that jumping the ditch was the right move for myriad reasons. One friend even points out Melbourne’s thriving biking community as a major pull. 

While I can’t relate to the prioritisation of biking (especially when Melbourne’s menacing tram tracks regularly snare cyclists’ wheels), these expats are right. Melbourne delivered everything I hoped could cure my quarter-life crisis, and yet, it still wasn’t enough. The others seem content and happy to settle for a few years at least, whereas my endless search for purpose has resulted in me preparing for the next move since my arrival. I’m leaving again in two short months; continuing my northern pilgrimage to Europe with no return ticket and a very new boyfriend as my travel partner. Is this a ridiculous move? Maybe (probably). Will it cure my ongoing existential ennui? Maybe (probably not).

READ MORE: On going far away in the pursuit of pleasure

If you were to tell last-year-me that I was still in a state of transience and impulsive decision-making, she would’ve rolled her eyes. After all, the Australia move was intended to solve my quarter-life crisis and help me put down roots. I still giggle when I look at the ‘interiors’ Pinterest board I had carefully curated before arriving in Melbourne; all charming vintage finds and houseplants that resemble my flatmates’ possessions much more than my own. For me, reality is a Bunnings bed base, springy mattress and single bedside table to hold the books I’d bought over. It isn’t just minimalist; it’s the room of someone who couldn’t possibly be here to stay.

My issues with Melbourne arose because when planning my move, I didn’t just romanticise the city, I also romanticised the version of myself that I believed would reside there. But a new city does not automatically bring out a better self. 

When diving into international waters, we choose places representing heightened potential, and I equated Melbourne with the potential for consistent artistic creation. This city is often referred to as the creative capital of the southern hemisphere, the bigger and brighter Wellington of Australia, and this isn’t an unjustified comparison. The art scene is better funded than Auckland’s (though we all know that’s not a difficult achievement), and the culture scene is thriving. However, I still haven’t been able to immerse myself in my writing in a way that justifies a 2,600km move.

I love this city but to my considerable surprise (and dismay), my desire for ‘purpose’ hasn’t nearly been satisfied. I am not the only Kiwi here who feels this way, but I am in the minority. Another writer admitted that they held, and were let down by, the same expectations; that their arrival here would automatically fill their creative fuel tank, and yet they’re feeling equally unproductive.

All of us expats are just searching for some kind of unrealised ideal, be it better wages, wider social circles, more arts funding, etc. 

In essence, we’re all just searching for purpose. We give in to the idea that a change in scenery can inject a new sense of fulfilment into our lives, and in some cases, this is possible. A close friend in Sydney recently announced that she would never return to Aotearoa, that she and her partner skipped the whole ‘homesick’ thing and haven’t thought much of New Zealand since stepping on the plane. Yet, as most of us have come to know, contentment based on novelty rarely lasts. It’s human nature; that feeling of ennui comes back for all (well, most) of us.

I still have no clue how to outrun a quarter-life crisis. From my experience, it has the calves of a cyclist, the endurance of a marathon runner and can catch up with you regardless of how far, or fast, you run.