Here, the saying is not
about ambition. Instead, it reflects a response to changing conditions, a movement toward places where life remains possible.
Many years ago, while visiting a friend close to Whirinaki Park, I was reminded of this saying. I had brought my 7-year-old daughter with me. Everything around her felt new and fascinating.
My friend’s family owned a large dairy farm in the area. That afternoon, she showed us the milking shed. My daughter stood beside me, watching the cows move forward one by one, flowing through the space in a steady rhythm. To her, it was simply a visit, something new to observe, and a moment that would stay with her.
My friend told me she had four siblings. Over time, her brothers moved to the cities, while she herself lived mainly in Rotorua. As their parents grew older, it was her sister’s family who remained on the farm, taking over and continuing the family operation. Her sister had three children. That day, I saw the eldest wearing gumboots, helping her father with farm work. It was simply part of daily life on the farm.
At lunchtime, we sat in her kitchen drinking tea. As often happens, the conversation shifted from daily routines to changes in the town. She told me that many young people had already left, drawn elsewhere by work and opportunity. At the time, her sister still had three young children, and life continued to revolve around the farm and the family.
When I saw my friend again later last year, she told me that two of those children were now attending school in Rotorua. It was a practical decision, shaped by work, education and transport, a quiet adjustment to new circumstances.
She spoke calmly, as if simply stating something that had long been accepted. The slow change of a small town no longer seemed surprising, but expected.
Her words carried my thoughts beyond New Zealand.
In China, I have seen similar scenes in many rural villages, including places familiar to me. Young people gradually leave, heading to cities in search of education, work and opportunity. Many families now have their younger generations living elsewhere.
The houses and farmland remain, but daily life grows quieter. Villages often come alive again only during major holidays. Those who stay behind are usually the elderly, tending gardens, maintaining routines, and holding on to memories of when villages were filled with children and movement.
Different countries, it seems, follow remarkably similar paths.
From there, my thoughts moved further, across the Pacific.
Not far from New Zealand, Tuvalu faces a more fragile reality. People are not leaving because jobs have disappeared or opportunities have shifted, but because the land itself is changing. As sea levels rise and fresh water becomes harder to secure, staying is no longer simply a matter of attachment or resilience.
In places like this, migration is not driven by ambition or adaptation, but by the loss of the most basic conditions required for everyday life.
From the Pacific, my thoughts returned closer to home, to the community of Tokoroa, not far from Rotorua.
In recent years, the town has experienced significant industrial change. As long-standing jobs have disappeared, many families have had to reconsider their future. For them, leaving is not about seeking something better, but about maintaining a viable way of life.
What is happening is not simply a story of young people choosing brighter futures elsewhere. For many families, movement is a response rather than a desire. When work declines and the conditions that support daily life shift, staying becomes increasingly difficult.
Life continues, and some patterns are hard to resist.
At times, the change of a small town mirrors the growth of a city. This is not a matter of right or wrong, but a natural outcome of population movement. Cities absorb people, opportunities and resources, while facing rising living costs. Communities with shrinking populations struggle to sustain what once felt ordinary.
The old saying takes on a quieter meaning here. People do not move upward simply because they want to, but because the ground beneath them has changed. Leaving is not a rejection of where one comes from, but a response to what has gradually disappeared.
Even so, understanding why people leave does not stop us from wondering what remains.
Fewer children. Quieter streets. Homes filled with memory rather than noise. And those who stay behind, learning how to live with both continuity and absence.
That afternoon on the farm, my daughter stood watching the cows move calmly through the milking shed. Years later, I still think of those children, now travelling to school in the city. Time moves quietly, carrying people with it.
Some places grow smaller. Others grow larger.
Life continues, moving steadily, shaped by changes in the ground beneath it.
