Finding Your Core: A Reflection from Melbourne

Three years ago, a small device was placed in my chest. A steady, unassuming companion to keep my heart’s rhythm certain and sure. At the time, I didn’t realise how much it would teach me about gratitude, about fragility, about life itself.

These past few days, as I’ve wandered the laneways of Melbourne, I’ve been able to stop. Breathe. Listen. And know that as my heart is still beating, I am still here on this Monday 28 July. “I Am Alive Day.”

I’ve read dozens of business books over the years – at uni, in offices, in bed, on long-haul flights – all promising the same thing: success, wealth, the secret formula. But none of them asked the more important question: Why do you want it? Or better still: What really matters to you, beyond all the noise?

We’re trained, almost from birth, to want more. New cars, laptops, bigger homes, shinier careers. We think these things will fix us, fill the cracks, silence the ache. But as C.S. Lewis said, “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and ambition when infinite joy is offered us.”

Possessions are a salve, not a cure. They soothe for a moment, but they don’t heal. Healing is slower, messier. It happens in quiet places: a hard conversation, a deep breath, a prayer whispered in the dark, or simply choosing to forgive yourself for not being invincible.

So many of us – men and women alike – crash into quarter-life or mid-life like a car hitting black ice. We think swapping partners, jobs, or houses will help. But we’re often still carrying wounds from childhood, teenage years, unspoken hurts. We’re taught to chase the Kiwi dream, as if it will also be our reconciler.

But is that dream really what we’re after? Or is it the core values beneath it?

We can name a dozen things we want without blinking – the new jacket, the phone upgrade, the holiday. But ask us to name our deepest values and there’s a pause.

Health. Joy. Adventure. Love. Freedom. Whānau*. Peace. Manaakitanga**. Creativity.

When I had my pacemaker fitted, I didn’t think about money or status. I thought about being there for the people I love. About walking barefoot on a west coast beach. About one more sunrise.

As Mary Oliver asked: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

David Bach suggests creating a Core Values Circle. Write “My Core Values” in the centre of a page. Around it, list the five things that matter most. Not goals. Values. “Being rich” is a goal. “Security” might be the value beneath it.

And from now on, measure your choices against those values. Why buy another jacket if what you crave is adventure? Instead, load up the car, grab some mates, and go lose yourself in the bush. Why fill your schedule to the brim if your deepest value is peace?

As I sit here, coffee in hand, a tram clanging past, I remember the words of Marcus Aurelius: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.”

Three years on, my heart beats steadily, quietly, a small miracle ticking beneath my skin. I’m not here because I earned it. I’m here because I was given it. Every breath is borrowed time, and yet it feels like a gift.

I don’t want to waste it.

And now, as I sit at St Kilda’s Stokehouse restaurant (Chardonnay in hand) as I enter the second half of 2025, I find myself pulled toward something deeper: hospitality.

Obviously, the FOH crew of Kreso, Miles, Mia and head chef Jason Staudt were partially to blame/ or inspire for this part of the blog, (noting that this is not a sponsored advertisement), that I am writing in real time. However, next time you find yourself in Melbourne, please do take yourself to their beautiful establishment, eat, drink and remember my words on hospitality. Not just in the sense of sharing food or opening a home – although those are all beautiful concepts – but in the way Will Guidara writes about in Unreasonable Hospitality: the radical art of giving people more than they expect. Of noticing, anticipating, and creating moments that make others feel profoundly seen. The team at Stokehouse did that, and much more.

I keep thinking of Richie from The Bear (if you haven’t seen it, please please, please watch it), standing in that fine-dining restaurant, learning that real hospitality isn’t about serving a plate of food; it’s about serving the person holding the fork. He discovers what the rabbis called hachnasat orchim – the sacred duty of welcoming the stranger, of saying: you belong here, you matter, you are enough.

Hospitality at its best is unreasonable – because it goes beyond transaction into transformation. It’s not about perfection; it’s about presence.

In Hebrew, the word for face, panim, is the same as the word for inside. To truly see someone’s face is to glimpse their soul. Isn’t that what hospitality does? It takes us out of ourselves and says: you are welcome in this space, just as you are.

This, I think, is the work I want to lean into now. To move from gratitude – which says thank you – to hospitality, which says you’re worth it. To create spaces where others feel at home, even in the middle of their storms.

Because in the end, it’s not about accumulating more, but giving more. Not about being seen, but seeing. And as Rumi wrote: “Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone’s soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”

And yet... here I am.

Today is a day that should maybe feel like a celebration. A reminder that I made it through. That I’m still here. Breathing. Moving. Living.

But truthfully? I just feel… flat. Sad. Off-centre.

It’s strange – I’m supposed to feel gratitude, right? And in some way, I do. But it’s buried under this heavy fog. My body remembers what my mind won’t name: the fear, the pain, the closeness to something final. And maybe, the silent grief that came with surviving something that changed me forever.

These last few days, I’ve leaned into some coping habits. A little alcohol. Nothing wild, but enough to throw off my rhythm. Enough to loosen what I didn’t want to face. Those things promise to lift you – but they don’t tell you about the crash. The comedown that lands right in your chest.

And maybe that’s where I am now – caught between a body that remembers and a mind just trying to keep moving. Between the miracle of surviving and the complexity of what it costs to truly feel.

So instead of pretending I’m okay, I’m writing this. Naming it. Sitting with it. Not to wallow, but to honour. To acknowledge the sadness without needing to fix it. To say: I’m still here. And that matters.

Even if today doesn’t feel like a party (although Jason and the team have really tried to help me celebrate “I Am Alive Day.”

Some years, healing looks like rising. Other years, it looks like resting. Feeling. Falling apart a little. And giving myself the grace to be wherever I am.

So today, I choose presence over pretending. Honesty over hiding. I thank my heart – scarred, repaired, and still beating – for showing up, again.

I’ll meet myself right here, in the middle of the ache.

And for today. That is enough.

JC x 🫀

Footnotes

(thank you to Auckland Law School for teaching me how to do this!):

*Whānau, is the Māori word for family, family unit and often encompasses three or four generations. This word means so much than simply “family” as we understand it our “western world view”.

** Manaakitanga, is a core Māori value, encompassing the act of showing respect, generosity, and care towards others. It's about creating a welcoming and supportive environment, ensuring guests or visitors feel valued and comfortable. This extends beyond simple hospitality, encompassing a deep sense of collective responsibility and the nurturing of relationships.