Michelle Campbell and her spaniel, Clark. (Photo supplied)

A year of immersion reo learning has come to an end for Michelle Campbell, who writes that in the struggle for her reo she found hope, if not fluency.

I never thought that eight months of immersion in te reo would leave me with a greater appreciation for the English language.

I love English. In English, I have character, a sense of humour, and I can speak freely. I have the words to truly express myself.

Whereas, most days in immersion reo learning, I often felt like a pink balloon on a stick — bobbing along behind tauira (classmates) who were far more attuned to the commands of our pūkenga (teachers). Friendships were formed through stunted words, laboured sentences, and a lot of smiles. So much of our connection came down to energy. And now we’re done. Mutu.

Back home, I keep rearranging my bookcase, creating what feels like a library of Māori excellence, trying to keep this reo train going. Hemi Kelly sits next to Scotty Morrison and the Māori dictionary Te Aka, my constant companions this year.

As I look at these taonga, I wonder: What was that?

From Monday to Thursday, I lived in a world where only te reo was spoken, alongside 150 others. The pūkenga made it look easy, even fun. It made me think about how we must have lived — communally, with tikanga guiding everything we do.

Immersion wasn’t just about learning vocabulary. It was about living our lives in te ao Māori, and taking the wānanga home to our whānau. It meant I learned little additional reo but experienced a lot. It was an invitation to live our lives in Maoritanga while on campus and, more importantly, to take it home to our whānau. We all have different households and at my home I shared most of my reo with a spaniel who probably tired of hearing: ‘Kei te pīrangi awhi koe?’

I quickly discovered that belief in my ability to reclaim my language wasn’t enough. Faith was required. A quote from Ishi, the last of the Yahi people of California, carried me through the year: “Be more curious than afraid.” Those words got me out of bed in the morning when I felt like nothing was going in, and when everything I’d learned seemed to vanish.

Curiosity had compelled me to throw myself into an immersion environment for a year. I still remember Piripi Walker’s guest lecture in my first year of environmental studies. He spoke mostly in English, but whenever he became animated, he switched to te reo. Others there could understand him in both languages. I envied their knowing hmms and nods of approval. Is there any other sound more exclusive than a Māori hmm? I wanted that too and I wanted to understand the words of my tīpuna.

Later, as Piripi talked about interviewing kaumātua about tuna and the once-abundant eel runs in Horowhenua, the reo flew out of his mouth. And even though I couldn’t understand the words, my arms were suddenly covered in goosebumps. I felt elated. My body understood something that my mind didn’t.

Looking back, I see this moment as a sign that my reo journey wasn’t going to be easy. That my body might understand more reo than my mouth will ever speak. That moment was a tohu to keep my hinengaro in the backseat and let my heart lead. To feel things first and question them later.

It’s a lesson I regularly forgot as I was challenged every day, and couldn’t help comparing myself to those who wielded te reo like a taiaha they were born with.

My goal was to end the year proficient to a conversational level — a hilarious ambition when I think how I just asked Google to translate: ”What is the weather doing today?”

I’m genuinely surprised that I still have both adrenal glands intact because there have been so many fight-or-flight moments. Giving a 30-second mihi produced more sweat than running a marathon. No matter how many times I practised, speaking te reo never felt natural for me.

I kept waiting for those “penny drop” moments that people talk about, where I would suddenly understand what was happening or speak with confidence. But no pennies dropped for me.

By the middle of the year, I’d exhausted much of the “can do” attitude that I started with. I watched the same confident people stand to speak, over and over again, while I stayed silent.

And that’s the reality of immersion. The purpose is to make you speak te reo, but without the language foundations I remained mostly mute, worried that if I spent more than a few minutes with any one person, they’d quickly discover the truth: that after eight months, I still couldn’t string two sentences together.

Still, I clung to the life raft of safety among peers, speaking when I felt like there was no possibility of being judged or corrected. I found an āhuru mōwai, a sheltered place, in some of my favourite people — the kuia and kaumātua who were grinding away to keep up with their beloved mokopuna, others who journeyed here for their first ever experience of te ao Māori, and the friends who were struggling just like me.

Together, we laughed over our broken reo. One Aunty’s sentences were injected with confusion: “No . . . shit . . . ah shit! I mean . . . he aha te Māori kupu mō . . .?” I felt relaxed enough around these few people to try to speak. They provided much-needed calm amid the chaos, and for that I will always be grateful.

On rare days, there was absolute joy. I could look around at 150 people messing up kapa haka and laugh. That’s the thing about language — it’s meant to be shared. And for a short time, I got to experience te reo with others. Stunted, pidgin-like, terrible pronunciation and all.

Now, as I unpack and reflect, I realise that I’ve never had a year where I’ve doubted myself more, nor laboured so hard for what felt like so little visible reward. When a colleague asked hopefully: “Do you feel like your reo has really taken off now that you’ve finished immersion?” I laughed for a full minute.

The promises of immersion (“You’ll be fluent in a year!”) didn’t come true for me. I’m not the Rocky Balboa of reo punching the air with glee on the marae ātea like I thought I would be.

But maybe fluency was never the real point.

Being Māori means this language feels like something I should already have. The shame of not having it is real. This year has been about navigating the surprising layers of grief for a language I never had until now, and envying anybody who grew up with it.

But then I think about my nephew, just three, who’s already been exposed to more reo than I’ve had in my lifetime. That’s the legacy of our tīpuna, who fought to keep our reo alive. Because of them, my nephew’s generation may never have to struggle as some of us have.

So maybe this year wasn’t about me at all — maybe it was about him. I know that one day, he’ll ask me about our reo, our culture, our tikanga. My biggest hope is that I’ll be able to answer him — and that together, we can be more curious than afraid.

Michelle Campbell (Rakaipaaka, Rongomaiwahine, Ngāti Porou) is a creative non-fiction writer, yoga teacher and kairomiromi. She has worked in government compliance for the last 10 years, graduating with a Bachelor of Health Sciences from Massey University in 2013.

E-Tangata, 2025