When “Home” Stops Feeling Safe: Why Our American Family Chose New Zealand

There comes a point in life when you stop telling yourself “This is just how things are” and start asking “Does it really have to be?” For us, that moment arrived slowly, like pressure building over years, and then all at once.

I grew up in America during an era when violence wasn’t something you heard about occasionally, it was something that shaped entire generations. I came of age during Columbine and watched the Twin Towers fall while getting ready for school. Those moments carved grooves into my understanding of safety. Lockdowns became routine. Fear became familiar. And every time another tragedy unfolded, the national response wasn’t reflection or reform, it was more guns, more fear, and more division.

Firearms were woven into life. Weekend target practice in the desert. Friends’ parents leaving loaded handguns on top of the grandfather clock like they were nothing more than spare sets of keys. Guns weren’t just around us, they were part of the identity of the place. I even owned them as an adult, not out of passion or hobby, but because the environment made it feel like a necessary insurance policy, like buying a smoke alarm for a house that kept catching fire.

But over time, the weight of all that normalized violence settled somewhere deep, especially after having kids of my own.

The moment that finally pushed us toward change came years later. My kids and I were sitting on our couch in suburban California, watching people storm the U.S. Capitol. It was thousands of miles away, but emotionally it felt like it was happening right outside our door.

I looked out at our neighborhood draped in political flags and thought, Are we next? Are my kids next? That is not a question any parent should have to carry. And when our kids started doing lockdown drills at school, practicing where to hide from a shooter, something inside me snapped. I didn’t want them inheriting the same scars I’d grown up with.

When we finally decided to move, the first thing I wanted to do was get rid of my firearm for good. I assumed it would be simple. It wasn’t. It is strangely harder to legally dispose of a gun in America than it is to buy one. Every agency I contacted sounded eager to “help,” but the gun never truly went away. It was passed along, reassigned, repurposed, always destined to be used again somewhere else. I couldn’t stomach the idea that a weapon I once owned might end up in another tragedy. That was the moment I fully understood how deeply guns are interwoven with American identity. Even when you want out, they hold on.

So we started asking ourselves where our family could thrive instead of just survive. New Zealand kept rising to the top, not because it’s perfect, but because it chooses peace over performance and community over chaos. There is this simple, powerful attitude Kiwis have toward violence, a quiet certainty, a national “We don’t do that here.” No theatrics, no bravado, just a boundary drawn with calm confidence. After years of political shouting, that felt like oxygen.

Telling our family we were leaving was complicated. Some didn’t understand, some didn’t want to, and a few didn’t even know where New Zealand was. My dad proudly told me he was “going abroad” because he’d booked a flight to Alaska. We’re still working on geography. It wasn’t malice, it was just American upbringing, raised to believe “the world” ends at the U.S. border. There were no emotional farewell parties or going-away barbecues. Just COVID restrictions and a quiet sense of disbelief that we were actually doing it. Only my mom truly understood. She had visited New Zealand with us in 2019 and felt the same pull.

When we finally arrived in Auckland after years of applications and border closures, our kids didn’t ease into their new life, they launched themselves into it. After homeschooling during the pandemic, they ran head-first into new classrooms, new accents, new everything. We’ve asked them many times if they’d ever want to move back to the U.S. The answer has never been yes. Do they miss people? Of course. Do they miss snacks? Without question. But they’ve never asked to return to the life we left behind. That tells you something.

If you’re reading this because you’re dreaming of the same leap, let me say this directly, thank you. Thank you to the expats who shared their stories online and answered strangers’ messages at midnight and posted the videos we watched over and over. You’ll never know how much courage you gave us. Thank you to the immigration advisors and the friends-of-friends who jumped on Zoom to untangle visa categories and paperwork. And thank you to the Kiwis who picked up the phone, actual humans, no endless call-center mazes, just kindness. Your generosity shaped our journey.

I’m writing all of this because it barely scratches the surface of what we went through, emotionally, culturally, personally, to build a new life in a new country. I’m working on a book that dives deeper into the fears, the fractures, the unexpected joys, and the uncomfortable truths that come with leaving the only home you’ve ever known. If any of this resonated with you, if it made you think or stirred something you’ve been quietly wrestling with, the book might be worth reading when it’s ready.

Moving countries won’t magically fix your life, but sometimes it gives you space to grow in soil that finally fits. And that’s what New Zealand gave us.