“Our best lives lie on the other side of the work we don’t want to do.”

Last week, I was reminded of the power of small moments and the weight of memories.

During my grandson’s 7th birthday, the house was pure joyful chaos — kids running, laughing, and water fights in full swing. He had been given his first pair of Nikes that weren’t slip-ons, and I watched him wrestle with the laces. I said, “Let me do it for you.” He looked at me firmly and said, “No! I can do it. I have to learn.” In that small moment of stubborn pride, I saw courage, resilience, and the determination that every young person needs. As his koro, I could not have been prouder.

Later, one of his little friends looked up at me and asked, “Are you a policeman?” I laughed and said, “No, I’m Glen. I’m Theo’s koro and I’m a teacher.” He replied, “You’re so tall. When I grow up, I want to be as tall as you.” A girl standing beside him simply said, “When I grow up, I just want to be happy.” I told her, “Me too.” Out of the mouths of children come the purest visions of life.

That same weekend I went to a mate’s 60th. I’ve known him since Corstorphine Primary in South Dunedin — decades of friendship. At the party, he gave each of us a box with our name on it. Inside mine were photos of us as boys at school, in his first car, as young fathers, cheering at games and travelling the world. Newspaper clippings of my basketball career. A ticket stub from UB40 in London. A photo of us hugging in Cardiff when the All Blacks beat Wales. The room was full of boxes — and full of laughter, aroha, and tears.

Then he told us, with voice breaking, that he had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia. He said:

“These boxes hold my memories of you. Please bring them when you visit me. Dementia may take my memory, but it will never erase my love for each and every one of you. This is not the end — it’s just a new way of connecting.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. It was the most profound gift I’ve ever received: the gift of memory, of friendship, of love that will outlast forgetting.

Later, as we sat together in the quiet hours, he said something I’ll never forget:

“I don’t want to be one of those people afraid to live. Too many wish their lives were better instead of doing the work to make them so. Our best lives lie on the other side of the work we don’t want to do. I’m going to get to work on living my best life.”

That was both a challenge and a blessing.

And it made me think about our boys at Wellington College. They stumble, they fall, they struggle — as we all do. But then I see them stand tall, face their challenges, and so often say, “No sir, I’ve got this.” Watching them grow stronger, more empathetic, and more resilient is the greatest reward a teacher could ask for.

Happiness is not built on smooth roads paved with gold. It’s built on scraped knees, missed shots, and second chances. It’s built on tying your own shoes, even when it’s hard.

So, whether we are 7 years old, 17, or 60, the lesson is the same: let them tie their own shoes. Stand close, offer your hand, but let them rise. Because resilience, love, and joy are always found on the other side of the struggle.