Harriet Keown writes a love letter to her time living in Tāmaki Makaurau after packing up her life and moving across the world to Paris.

Last month, I packed up my things and left Auckland for the last time. Nine years I’ve lived in the super city, through which time I’ve seen it grow and change almost as much as I have.

I arrived as a 17-year-old, fresh out of school, wide-eyed at the possibilities of the bright lights and busy streets. I caught the airport shuttle that day (for the first and last time), which crawled through miscellaneous suburbs on its way to dropping me off at my university hall. Any remaining sense of direction escaped me – I was used to the familiarity of small-town streets and winding rural roads, not this never-ending suburban sprawl.

Over the first few years, I slowly started making sense of my new home. I expanded my horizons with each new flat and the spider web of running routes that I would spin from my doorstep. It makes my friends and I laugh now, thinking back to the first lease we signed, a flat which shared a street with armed robberies and an actual murder that year. The charming naiveté of five regional girls who hadn’t yet worked out that we should be locking our doors at night (or even during the day).

I was prepared for shifting my environment – the new sounds, smells and stresses. But I wasn’t prepared for the shift of my perspectives. I think it’s hard to grasp how narrow your understanding of the world is until you see it widen before your eyes. Auckland, and its window to the world, unfolded itself in a tapestry of colours and cultures.

From the rainbow-painted sidewalks of Karangahape Road and the mouth-watering flavours of Dominion Road to the ever-busy calendar of cultural festivals, there’s a pocket for everyone in Tāmaki Makaurau. But more than that, there’s an unspoken sense that you can be anyone you want to be. It’s large enough to give you the freedom of anonymity, while never losing the intimacy of feeling like you’re just one aisle away from bumping into your friend in the supermarket.

I’ve taken this city up on all its tricks and trades in this almost-decade. I’ve run marathons, been to fashion shows, spent way too much money on coffee and Apérol spritz. I’ve built a career, bought a home, gotten married under a band rotunda in a city park.

I’ve lived a life that my 12-year-old self dreamed of as she lay on the floor of her bedroom reading Creme magazine, legs kicked up behind her. I never once took for granted the reassuring fact that if my favourite band came to town, I wouldn’t have to go through the internal battle of deciding whether it was worth also paying for the flights and accommodation. That first year in my university hall, being able to walk down to Spark Arena for a concert felt like the ultimate urban flex.

But is it the city that makes a place? Or the people?

I pondered this recently, when walking through downtown Auckland one evening, marvelling at all the CBD’s grit and glamour. Would it have seemed as shiny if I wasn’t on my way to meet my best friends for a night of drinks, food and laughter?

Because these are the people who taught me what it means to be chosen family. Who have been by my side through all the ups and downs of life in my 20s. Who slept beside me when my heart was broken for the first time, who sprung together a commiseration platter when I lost my job, who have been there for every birthday, graduation and spontaneous post-work drink.

These are the people who have showed me love in their own languages – whether it’s the person you can always count on for a 3am, “I love you guys” message, the one who single handedly makes sure the weekend trip makes it out of the group chat, or those who rallied to help us clean our new flat for 10 hours when it definitely shouldn’t have passed its move-out inspection.

Thrust into a new and unfamiliar city in our first year of university, we became everything to each other.

I’ve seen friendships grow, change and expand over the years. I’ve watched the ebb and flow of new friends, old friends, arriving friends, leaving friends. Now, it’s my turn to leave. And I don’t know if I’ll be back.

I know that my friendships will follow me wherever I am in the world, but Auckland might forever be ‘the good old days’. That nostalgic bubble of youthful excitement – figuring life out, figuring myself out.

I’ve never quite known how to answer the question, ‘But why do you love living in Auckland?’

Yes, it’s too sprawling, and too expensive, and there are too many roadworks. I can understand only too well why non-Aucklanders turn their noses up at the idea of living somewhere that seems so inconvenient and unneighbourly.

But for these nine years, it’s been home. Maybe not my forever home, and certainly never ‘where I am from’, but in this glimmering age of discovery and growth, I found a home in the people around me.

So this is an ode to Auckland. But really, it’s an ode to the people I’ve shared this city with.