Mea Motu, boxing champion: “I love telling the truth and speaking about the uncomfortable, because I want to be a role model for the next generation. I want to show the kids that we all go through struggle, we’re all human.” (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

Warning: This interview touches on family violence and suicide.

Mea Motu is a fighter — and until January this year, she was the undefeated IBO world champion in the super bantamweight division. But it wasn’t so long ago when, as a young mother of three, she endured horrific abuse at the hands of her then husband. She doesn’t flinch from talking about those years in this kōrero with Dale: “Not talking about the truth is what defeats us.”

 

I see your full name is Marea Kirimiria Hera Motu. Would you be kind enough to talk about those names and describe your growing up?

I’m named after my aunty on my mum’s side — Marea was her father’s sister. I’m proud to hold that name, but I go by the name Mea because I get upset and annoyed when people don’t know how to say my name correctly. It hurts my feelings. That’s why I changed my name to Mea. I got tired of explaining it to people, so I just said: “Oh, Mea.” Only my whānau call me Marea. It’s such a beautiful name, and I’m proud that my mum named me after my aunty.

Kirimiria is my whāngai pāpā. He named me after his mother. It makes me emotional because my pāpā passed away. But I’m proud that I get to carry that name, and I was very spoiled as a result.

Hera is from my nanny, Sally Motu. And then Motu is my pāpā’s name, Alfred Motu. Everyone knows me as Motu, because that’s the name I carry in the ring, and I carry in my life, and who I am. It’s my identity. I whakapapa back to Pukepoto, and I’m just a loud and proud Māori who gets to carry that Motu name and represent my whānau and my ancestors.

Mea debuted as a professional boxer in 2020, and in April 2023, she fought with a broken rib to win the world boxing super bantamweight title, which she defended later that year, this time fighting with a dislocated shoulder. Her first and only defeat was in January this year when she lost the IBO world title to Ellie Scotney, but early this month she returned to the ring to win the WBA Oceania super featherweight (going up two weight divisions), where she’s now ranked number 3 in the world.

Beautiful. I met your dad. He’s very proud of you. What about your mum and brothers and sisters? I mean, Pukepoto is only a tiny little place. Did you actually grow up there?

Yes, I actually grew up in Pukepoto. Pukepoto was all I knew. It was a very small country town full of paddocks and animals, and I was surrounded by whānau. Our marae was just a few houses away, so I basically lived at the marae, staying connected with my whakapapa and my people, and then walking up to my urupā and knowing the stories of my ancestors. I never met any of them, but I know their stories, and I know the type of people they were. That was such a beautiful thing.

That’s why I feel so blessed to be Māori, because we keep our ancestors alive by knowing who they are and seeing them in our urupā.

I had two beautiful parents raising me and my two siblings. My mum was awesome. She was such an out-there, outdoor person, and she really looked after us well. I was a spoilt kid, to be honest. Full of love, and always fed, always clothed. Hated shoes, though. And my dad was such a hard worker. He taught us how to milk cows, but he was a man of all trades.

I was never smacked by my parents. I wasn’t a naughty kid — we never really did naughty things. For us, naughty was stealing things from the cupboard, like a sachet of Raro. We had such loving parents who always talked to us. And we were in a place where I felt so comfortable and free. I got to be who I wanted to be — and that was being very rough, rugged, catching my own kai.

I learned how to dive and catch my own kina and paua. And then also pig hunting. Loved pig hunting.

It was the normal thing for us as kids. We would go down to the creek, catch eels, and then cook the eels. I was only eight years old when I was learning all this. And how to skin a cow, skin a pig and cut it up. Just learning how to live off the land, and going to get your fresh milk from the cow. I look at the milk these days, and I’m like: “Oh, that’s not even the proper taste.” I got the milk from the cow, and that felt so amazing, and the taste just melted in your mouth.

I had a beautiful upbringing. I was surrounded by cousins and whānau who loved me, were always protective of me, and taught me how to fight, how to be strong.

The best way I learned how to be strong and take on anyone was bullrush. That was number one for us. It was like a sport. We always played bullrush in the paddocks. Barefoot. Freezing cold.

And my cousins would say: “You’re not allowed to run around us, because if you run around us, we’re gonna beat you up.” So I’d run straight at them and hit them hard. If I cried, they’d say: “Get up! You’re tough, you’re strong. We’re building you to be strong.” That’s how I learned how to be strong. I loved it, and I used to stand up for myself, and be like: “Yeah, I can take on the world.” But I was only taking on my cousins.

Those are my best memories, growing up in the far, far north. It’s where I felt loved and happy and free. I was enjoying and embracing my culture, and learning about tikanga. Learning how to respect our elderly and respect the marae. Going into the kitchen to cook, and making the nannies cups of tea and giving them biscuits.

I loved those moments. Those were very precious times, and I hold them in my mind. They help me to carry on — and they definitely shine in the person I am today.

“I had a beautiful upbringing.” Mea with the Motu whānanu at Te Rarawa marae, Pukepoto, January 2025. (Photo supplied)

Beautiful to hear you and the aroha you have for that community, and the kindness people shared. Today, you’re in the super-lightweight, lightweight, bantamweight and those sorts of weight divisions. Were you a small kid?

Yes, I was always a small kid growing up. I was the littlest one out of my cousins. I still am.

Tell us about your schooling.

I went to Pukepoto Primary. It was my favourite school. It was a small school, but it was full of cousins. I thought everyone in that kura was my whānau. We would tease each other, but I never got bullied there. I was always well looked after.

I wasn’t the smartest kid. I struggled academically. But I had cousins and aunties who supported me and helped me to get through. And what I really loved about school was that, before you started school, there would be karakia, and when you have a kai, there’s karakia. And then at the end of the day, before everyone leaves, it’s karakia again. So it was still sticking to our policies as being Māori. I loved that.

When I moved from Pukepoto to Auckland, it was such a hard transformation for me. Because the schools down here in Auckland were normal English schools, and there was no karakia. People didn’t take their shoes off in the classroom, which was the way I was raised and taught. I struggled for so many years that it made me depressed, because it was so foreign to me. It was something that I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t adjust to.

Then I started falling into the society of the English way, and I started losing my culture and living in shame of being Māori. People would say things like: “You stupid Maoris” and “Typical Maoris, you all end up dumb, just like each other.” It made me live in shame and fear of being Māori.

I felt bullied, and I didn’t know how to take it. I became angry and aggressive, and I started smashing the classroom walls and throwing chairs towards the teachers. I felt so out of place, and I was losing who I was. I started being silent and hiding and living in shame, and I didn’t know how to tell my parents what I was going through.

When I did tell them, they were so stuck in their own world of working hard, they were like: ”You’re all right. You can do it. It’s just school. Come on, get through it.”

“Our people need to speak the honest truth. Talk about being abused. Talk about the struggle you’re going through. Talk about being homeless. Or talk about how you can’t afford to pay for things. Because not talking about the truth is what defeats us.” Mea, at the Peach Boxing gym in Henderson. (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

Thanks for sharing that kōrero. It resonates with many. You discovered boxing while you were in Auckland, but you also became a young mum. That’s far from uncommon, let’s face it, but a mum at 17.

Tell us about this period of being a young mum with a partner who was loose with his fists. Maybe you could talk a little about the challenges of living in a violent relationship while trying to be a good mum.

I wanted to grow up fast. I wasn’t happy about who I was for so long. I was desperate for someone to love me, especially when you have your father walk out on you at 16 years old with no explanation.

It’s heartbreaking, because your dad’s your best friend. He’s the male role model you look up to, and all of a sudden, he just walks out the door and leaves my mum and us kids behind. I thought a father was meant to love you unconditionally, just as he’d told us for so many years. But he just walked out the door and started raising other kids. It really broke me.

I was looking for a replacement for that love and attention. I wanted a man’s love. I found a boyfriend and I fell in love. I started trusting him and observing the way he lived his life, and it was completely different to what I’d been taught. But I was like: “What is normal? I don’t even know what’s right or wrong.” It was so confusing.

I fell pregnant. Didn’t even know I was pregnant until I was 20 weeks. I was still training at the time, still trying to be a boxer. My mum was shocked, but she was really supportive. I didn’t want a baby. But then I was like: “Okay, this is a good way for me to grow up. I can start making my own rules, doing my own stuff.” I was still living with my mum, and I was still living under her rules — and her rules were very strict. I would always run away, and she would call the cops to get me back home.

I gave birth to my son at 28 weeks. It was very hard because I was told that he had a 50/50 chance of living. My family supported me and backed me. I had the whole hospital filled with my whānau supporting me, holding my hand, and just being there because they knew that my son was coming early.

Once I gave birth, I didn’t get to hold my son. He was ripped straight away from me and put in an incubator, and I struggled with that.

My partner wasn’t there. He showed up at the last minute. So I basically did it with my whānau. My aunties took care of things because my son was in hospital for five years. He was born with a hole in his heart, and he had lots of complications and struggled with breathing.

One aunty said: “I’ll look after him. You need to live your life.” So she took over, nurtured him, raised him, and it was lucky because I started getting beaten up, hit, punched, and my partner forced himself on me to have another child. So I ended up having a daughter.

He was just a monster. He came from a family with gang affiliations, and all they knew was drugs and alcohol.

I still believe that I did the right thing. I put my son in a home where he’d be well looked after and wouldn’t see the violence and the abuse. But he always knew that I was his mum and that I loved him. My aunty always told him: “Your mum loves you.”

“It was just horrendous. I don’t have words. I’m so grateful that I survived, and I managed to get through it. The only thing that held me together was my faith and my children.” (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

How violent, how tough, how scared were you at times with your ex-partner, and how ultimately did you manage to escape that violence?

I don’t even know how to describe the violence. It was brutal. I would be sleeping, and at 3 in the morning, I would randomly get a crowbar smashing across me in the bed. I’d get punched because I didn’t do something, or I didn’t cook the food right, or I didn’t listen to him, or the money didn’t come in.

I worked, and I never saw the money. He controlled it. He took my identity from me. He showed me how to get my passport, my driver’s licence, and when I got that, he controlled it and held it, and then he used my name for everything.

I was trapped. That’s how I felt. I was trapped, and I was stuck with him. Whatever I did, he wasn’t happy. I would get smacked, kicked, booted. I don’t have my front teeth because I was booted in front of his eight gang members. He knew how to fight, so he knew how to break me. I’ve had a gun to my head. I’ve had a crowbar to my head. I’ve been stabbed. He said: “If you try to leave me, I’m gonna kill you and your family.”

He really built that fear in me. I was always scared of getting a hiding, because when I did run away, he beat me so bad and would rape me so many times. It was such an ugly thing, and it was so painful that I hated myself, and all I wanted to do was die.

I learned not to say anything to anyone, because if I told anyone, I was worried that my family or someone would get hurt. My uncle got bashed when he tried to save me. And then my aunty got threatened. And I didn’t want that for my whānau. So I lived my life running away, and at least every week I’d get beaten, and I would hide my black eyes. I would hide my broken ribs.

I wasn’t allowed to go to the hospital because otherwise it’s reported, and if I did go to the cops, I would always just get a worse hiding because he’d be waiting outside the courtroom, and bang, they’d grab me.

It was just horrendous. I don’t have words. I’m so grateful that I survived, and I managed to get through it. The only thing that held me together was my faith and my children.

Mea and her children, Lani (16), David (17). Daniele (4) and Shae (5). Mea has spoken elsewhere about how her two eldest children saved her by putting themselves between her and her ex-husband, who was eventually jailed.

I love that you’re willing to share that deep kōrero with others, particularly women who might be in a similar situation. You’re a public speaker, you’re a strong wahine and an advocate for wāhine. Why is it that you’re so willing to be open and share that kōrero?

I lived in shame, I lived in fear, and I thought what I went through was disgusting and ugly. I saw so many women, and not just women, but men, go through violence and abuse, and I saw so many whānau just sweep it under the carpet.

My whānau didn’t know anything about it because I hid it. When they did try to intervene, I kind of shut them off and told them to get lost. But I know so many people who just sit there and watch it and don’t say anything about it.

It’s happening in every family, and I see so many women who are suffering, and men suffering, and they end up committing suicide.

There are so many in my whānau that have committed suicide, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of seeing how people suffer, and I don’t want this to be passed down to the next generation. I don’t want my tamariki to live in shame and fear.

We’re all important and we all matter. You may feel like you don’t matter, but you do. You matter to someone. There’s always someone who cares and loves you for who you are.

And I’m tired of seeing our people stay silent and fall into the trap of thinking that we need to be hush-hush. No! That’s why our kids are killing themselves. Because they’re being taught not to say anything and keep the family happy. Bugger that. I’m tired of people saying that it keeps the family happy. You actually end up killing the person, and I don’t want that anymore. Start telling the truth. Start being real, because our kids aren’t getting the realness.

Our people need to speak the honest truth. Talk about being abused. Talk about the struggle you’re going through. Talk about being homeless. Or talk about how you can’t afford to pay for things. Because not talking about the truth is what defeats us. And then what are we teaching our kids?

They’re seeing all these gangsters and gang members who have the fancy cars and jewellery, and they think that’s cool. But when you pass away, you don’t take that stuff with you. What’s the point of having all that flash stuff? Quality time is more precious. Spending precious time with your whānau.

We get so fixated on our day-to-day life and work, and we forget our whānau. But we don’t have our whānau for long, you know? They go in a flash. We worked our asses off and barely saw them, and then they pass away, and we lose all those memories.

I love telling the truth and speaking about the uncomfortable, because I want to be a role model for the next generation. I want to show the kids that we all go through struggle, we’re all human.

And I’m teaching my kids how to overcome all those challenges. Whenever you’re attacked and whenever someone hurts you, speak up. Don’t live in fear. Speak your truth, be your authentic self, and that’s how you live your life.

Mea and trainer Isaac Peach. (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

Mea, you’re amazing, and I just want to acknowledge that what started off as a talk about boxing has become more about reality and perspectives. And the readers of this article will learn more from what you’ve just shared than we ever could talking about your boxing successes, of which there have been many.

Boxing has been a tool for your empowerment as a wahine. What would you say about the disciplines involved in any athletic endeavour, and what they can teach you about some of the challenges of life?

Sport teaches you to push your boundaries and to know where your strengths and your weaknesses are. It’s also about overcoming your challenges. It’s like: “If I can do that in the ring, then what am I scared of? I can do anything. I can attack life exactly the same as I do sports.”

Sport has taught me discipline, self-control, how to be calm, and how to be relaxed. Boxing is my sport, and every time I fight, it’s like: “Wow, I can’t believe I did that. My body can go through anything.”

Sport is such a beautiful thing because it helps you find your character and who you are. It makes you a stronger person because you’re pushing your limits — and you realise that there are no limits.

Mea’s aiming to become a two-time world champion, this time in the super featherweight division. (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

You’ve been a great exponent of ring craft over the years. You maintain an air of positivity, unbeaten until your last bout. What did you learn from your first loss in January, after 21 bouts and multiple championships, both nationally and internationally? What did the loss of the IBO title to Ellie Scotney teach you?

Everyone probably thought that I’d be sad. But to be honest, I was really proud of myself. I was happy. The results said it was a loss, but for me, it didn’t feel like a loss. The only loss that I felt was that I lost time with my family. I didn’t balance my lifestyle, and that hurt more because I actually got so caught up that I pulled myself away from family.

I don’t worry about results. It’s a bonus if I get the win, but when I walk into that ring, I go in there to do my best. Without losing, you can’t learn and grow. Losing taught me how to be a better fighter and what I need to do to sharpen my skills. It also taught me to be a better human being. Taught me how to help others when they’re going through losses or setbacks.

I’m sure you talk to women who never even get close to a ring. Probably many of them have never been bashed by their partners, yet your kōrero is so empowering. What’s the message that you want to leave with women who listen to your story?

I just want people to be their true selves and embrace who they are. Don’t live in shame of your identity. If you have culture, be proud of that. If you have faith, be proud of that. That’s who you are. Don’t worry about what others think.

Don’t live in shame, don’t live in fear. Walk this earth and enjoy each day like it’s your last. We forget how quickly time goes. Money comes and goes, but your life is way more precious. Spend it with the ones you love.

And if you feel like you want to give something a go, give it a go! Don’t be afraid. If you fall down, get yourself back up. Get up and keep attacking it until you get it.

That’s the same for me. I want one more shot at the world title. I’m going to attack it, and I know I’m gonna do it, because I back myself. I know who I am. I believe in myself. And it doesn’t matter how long it takes me to get there, I’m gonna get there.

“Don’t live in shame, don’t live in fear.” (Photo: Francesca Brugnoli)

(This interview has been edited for length and clarity.)

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