Breakfast presenter Jenny-May Clarkson took on the hosting gig just as the world was hit by a pandemic. Photo / Jae Frew / Woman's Weekly
It's a stunning day at Jenny-May and Dean Clarkson's home, and a breeze is rustling the trees that frame the house the couple share with their extended whānau.
Midway through our photoshoot, the photographer ducks out to grab something, and although the couple could relax and release their embrace, they draw closer, her head on his chest. It's a sign that the bond these two share runs deep – just as it did during their serendipitous first meeting nearly six years ago.
They've been through a lot since then – a whirlwind romance that saw them engaged after nine days; raising their twin boys Te Manahau and Atawhai, daughters Libby-Jane, 16, and Leah, 13; and experiencing devastating family heartbreak two years ago, when Jenny-May's brother and father both passed away within a few months.
In the past year, they've navigated the presenter's most public challenge – taking on a hosting gig on TVNZ 1's Breakfast show just as the world was hit by a pandemic.
"I guess that's the beautiful thing about us," says Jenny-May of the decision to take the job. "Yes, we are a couple, but we're individuals within that. If you can see that something is going to give life and meaning and purpose, then you'll support the other to do that."
"Totally," agrees Dean, a community consultant. "I'm very proud. I see so much more of her coming through on Breakfast. Jenny-May's more than just a sports person, ex-Silver Fern, NZ touch player, former police officer ... all the things people default to. She's a human being with a beautiful heart that shines through. People love her. All our mates and whānau adore her because of who she is."
And yet it hasn't always been easy for the high-achieving presenter to feel the same way. In her early months on Breakfast, sitting beside John Campbell and interviewing everyone from newsmakers to the Prime Minister, the seemingly unflappable host was experiencing a crisis of confidence. When the cameras stopped, she'd berate herself for things she'd said on air or questions she hadn't asked.
"Imposter syndrome. Fear. It's been a rollercoaster ride around, 'Am I good enough?'" she says. "There's that constant voice, and it's still there, but I'm managing it a lot better now."
Then there are the Breakfast stories that get under her skin, particularly cases where someone has experienced injustice.
"I've had times where I've broken down crying and I've had to stand outside the studio and regather myself. When you're being exposed to the breadth and depth of the subjects that we are, there are times it hits you really, really hard."
It took her a few months to feel settled in the role, one that has allowed her to open up a little more than her previous TV jobs reading the sports news or commentating, and it helped that lockdown meant she could ease into it, as the show continued, albeit on a smaller scale. Now, at 46, Jenny-May says she's able to enjoy the job for the opportunity that it is, and to appreciate the age and experience that got her there – not to mention her husband's unwavering support.
"One of the boys said the other day, 'You don't even do anything at mahi [work]. You just sit there!' I was like, 'I beg your pardon?' Crack-up."
In fact, there's a "huge" amount of energy that goes into the show, even when she's not on it. Life begins at 2.37am when her alarm goes off (she's not one for even numbers), then she's out the door just before three, at work by 3.30, and starting her 35-minute commute home six hours later.
"I'm very mindful of my time and energy," says Jenny-May, who aims to get into the gym at least four times a week. (The gym at the couple's home is open to the community via koha, and before Covid, they ran te reo workshops and had a friend running self-defence classes from it). After a rest, it's housework and cooking, until the boys come home at 3pm.
"Then as soon as we know who we're interviewing the next day, about 4pm, I'm back into prepping – until bed at seven if I'm lucky. I'm very fortunate to have Dean's parents living with us and helping, as do Libby-Jane and Leah. It's a matter of managing and balancing."
Although every day is different, her newfound sense of confidence has given her the breathing space to reflect on the crazy year that 2020 was.
"It's taken me a long time to just be okay with being a Māori girl from Piopio who somehow made my way to sitting next to a legendary broadcaster and feeling comfortable with being able to do that. As have a lot of experiences in my life."
One of the most profound was in 2018. First came the death of her eldest brother Jeffrey after a battle with bowel cancer, and in November, her father Te Waka passed away of what Jenny-May suspects was a broken heart. She draws comfort from the fact the family were able to spend time together, as she'd often stay with her parents when visiting Jeff while he was ill.
During the intense grieving period that followed, she experienced an epiphany, realising that many of the things her father had tried to impart when she was younger she'd misunderstood.
"I'm closer now to my dad than when he was alive, which is sad, but I now understand.
"He used to always say, 'Who are you?' and I thought it was a negative thing – 'Who do you think you are?' But in fact, he was trying to tell me, 'Well, who are you? You are the result of those who have gone before you. Your grandparents, your tūpuna.'"
Like her father, who learnt to speak te reo later in life, Jenny-May was 38 when she embarked on a one-year total immersion course – "the hardest thing I've ever done".
Since the birth of the twins, she has committed to conversing with them at home in te reo, in the hope the boys don't experience the shame she did during her childhood.
"I'd always have my head down at the marae – in case somebody spoke to me in te reo. I don't ever want my sons to feel shame about who they are."
One of the best things about learning the language has been the ability to use it on air.
"I love it when I know a te reo speaker I'm interviewing and they feel comfortable to speak our language. That's where I get the most joy from. That they feel safe in that space – the person speaking to them understands."
When the twins were born, Jenny-May and Dean gave them Māori middle names so they could choose which name they preferred when they grew up. Charles Atawhai Te Waka includes Jenny-May's grand-father's first name, as well as her father's name – Charles was also her late brother's name. Anthony Te Manahau Maurice has Dean's grandfather's first name, Maurice is his dad's (the boys' Pop), and Te Manahau is Scotty Morrison's given Māori name, so they asked their good friend for his blessing.
"We got a big warning from Aunty Stace [Stacey Morrison] – if you name him that, don't come crying on my door when he's like that," laughs Jenny-May. And yes, Te Manahau, which means cheerful, joyful and a little bit cheeky, lives up to his moniker; when the Weekly arrived he said his name was Atawhai.
Dean, who is Pākehā, is the latest in the family to learn te reo, and both Jenny-May and Dean have a combination of traditional and contemporary Māori tattoos – Dean's tells the story of his extended whānau, including one on his arm that shows a waka travelling down the coast to Jenny-May's hometown of Piopio, his own family crest in the middle. Like her husband, Jenny-May has a contemporary Māori design on her ring finger.
"It seems like a beautiful story, but at the end of the day, it's because I kept losing my wedding rings," she laughs of the greenstone piece that broke while at the gym, and the $20 versions she bought to replace it.
But it doesn't take away from the beautiful – somewhat mystical – story of how they met. About two weeks beforehand, Dean was at his parents' house, when Jenny-May came on TV reading the news.
"Mum said, 'She'd be a good catch for you, son.' I said, 'Don't be stupid.' She was like, 'No, I've read the article – she's 40, single, she's this or that ...' I'm like, 'How the hell would I ever meet someone like that?'"
Then a counsellor he'd been seeing turned psychic, telling him on the Tuesday, "You're going to meet someone; she's going to walk into the room and she's this height, and this is how she'll look."
On the Thursday, he went to a Ponsonby bar to play darts, "and she walks through the door just like that". The attraction was just as instant for Jenny-May.
"I knew. It was really bizarre. When I saw him, I looked away because there was a connection. It was like we'd known each other. And the conversation went real deep really quickly."
Part of it included Dean telling her about his daughters, "the centre of his world", and it was this detail that Jenny-May says solidified her instinct about his character. A discussion about having more kids followed, and seven months later, they were married, announcing to their wedding guests they were three months pregnant with twins.
This summer, the contented couple plan to take the family back to Jenny-May's hometown of Piopio, up north to Kohukohu to stay with Dean's aunty and uncle, then onwards to the east coast to see Jenny-May's mother's marae. Her mum was adopted, and last year they connected with her birth father's whānau. Otherwise, they're looking forward to time at home.
Lockdown was a lesson that "it's okay to be at home and not off on yet another day-trip to entertain people," says Jenny-May. The plan is to hang out by the pool, appreciating the things they have become ever more grateful for during this year – their jobs, home and having loved ones around them.
"I'm a real homebody," says Jenny-May. "It's the simple things that make me happy."
A live cook-off featured ox heart, wapiti, wild boar and plenty of edible wildlife.