Is a blanket enough?

As homelessness continues to grow, an iwi health and social service that supports young parents at risk of homelessness is showing what can work with the right foundation. Lizzie Strickett, of Ki Tua o Matariki, explains.

 

We’re all catching our breath after Matariki. This is supposed to be a time to reflect, reset, and plan ahead. But for too many of the young parents we work with, there hasn’t been time to breathe.

This winter has been bitter. Cold, wet, and unforgiving. And still, young parents and families are sleeping in cars.

After a recent break, our team returned to an office that had been transformed — mattresses on the floor, spaces repurposed. Not for staff, but for young māmā and pēpi who had nowhere else to go.

This isn’t a surprise. Almost every referral to our service includes a housing crisis: couch-surfing, overcrowding, sleeping in vehicles. Sometimes, no roof at all.

We work alongside mātua taiohi or young parents navigating systems that were never designed for them. They bring huge resilience to their parenting. But they’re being failed by a housing system that no longer reflects collective care or community.

It feels like we’ve forgotten how to be in a community. We’ve turned housing into commodities. We’ve made stability a privilege, not a right.

And that forgetting is now showing up in the most heartbreaking ways.

At a housing symposium in Tāmaki Makaurau last week, Reimagining Kāinga, our young parents sat on a panel and shared their stories. One said they’d lived in more than 20 homes by the age of 16. Another said: “It’s hard to talk about being homeless without it being political.”

This conversation was centred around the question: “Is a blanket enough?” They weren’t speaking metaphorically. When some of them asked for help from social services, a physical blanket was what they were given.

It reminded me of our history. During colonisation, blankets were traded, sometimes for land, sometimes as gifts masking dispossession. What might seem like a gesture of goodwill was in fact a tool to strip the mana motuhake of our ancestors.

That’s what’s happening now. We’re still handing out blankets, when what our young parents need is a foundation.

Housing insecurity is the result of generations of colonial land loss, systemic racism, and policies that prioritised profit over people. Māori are four times more likely to experience homelessness — and housing systems still don’t reflect our realities. Rangatahi face discrimination in the rental market. Emergency housing retraumatises.

Young parents are barely considered in housing policy. Government responses like KiwiBuild, First Home Grants, and emergency housing have tried to plug the gaps. But they don’t centre rangatahi or mātua taiohi, or the need for housing that restores our ability to lead our own lives with dignity and control.

We need more than a crisis response. We need systemic change.

But if you’re feeling overwhelmed by the complexity of the issue, it’s fortunate that we already have the solutions. They aren’t radical — we just have to remember what our ancestors did.

Last month, we celebrated 12 months since opening Tūmatakahuki, a papakāinga-style housing space in Tāmaki Makaurau for young parents with wraparound support. It hasn’t been without its challenges, but all six whānau who were once at risk of homelessness have graduated, have each moved into their own whare, and are now getting themselves into positions to find meaningful employment.

So, what have we learned from this?

• Whānau-centred design is so important — this means housing models that reflect collective living, proximity to whānau support, and cultural connection.
• Supported accommodation must centre the needs of young parents — not retraumatise them as happens in emergency housing.
• We need housing policy that understands that housing is hauora (health).
• Rangatahi need real options — shared equity, papakāinga, and other shared
• housing models are just some that reflect Māori ways of living.

When a young parent and their baby sleeps in a car, it’s not just a housing failure, it’s a failure of our collective memory and responsibility to one another and our most vulnerable.

And here’s the thing. When we build housing that works for the youngest and most vulnerable among us, we’re not just solving “their” problem, we’re restoring something for all of us.

Communities with stable, supported whānau are safer, stronger, and more connected. When young parents thrive, their tamariki thrive — and so does our collective future. Rebuilding community care isn’t just good policy, it’s good for everyone who wants to live in a society where people are seen, valued, and safe.

It’s winter. It’s cold. And still, our youngest whānau are without shelter.

Matariki reminds us to plant for the future. We know how to do better. Our tūpuna lived it. They built together, lived together, cared for one another. Not just their own, but all those in their rohe. We can return to that.

 

Lizzie Strickett (Te Aupōuri, Ngāti Ruamahue) is a māmā to two tamariki and a committed second language learner who is creating a beautiful, purpose-driven whānau with her tāne from Ngāi Tai. Lizzie develops policy and advocacy for Ki Tua o Matariki, the health and social service for Ngāti Pāoa. With a foundation in kaupapa Māori research and a deep commitment to whānau voice and self-determination, Lizzie’s work bridges lived experience, rangahau, and systems change.

E-Tangata, 2025