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March 08, 2026
Part Three: Whaikaha: The Cup of Tea That Revealed a Hidden Crisis
Matthew Tukaki
Posted On March 8, 2026
It is one of the saddest stories I have written.
And one of the saddest sights I have witnessed.
Last week I received a message through social media – the kind I often get from time to time. Usually they are questions about policy, about housing, about disability support or government services. But sometimes a message carries something heavier.
This one simply said:
I don’t know where else to turn – could we just have a cuppa?
Since my own life changed in 2023 when I became disabled, those messages land differently. You understand the quiet desperation that sometimes sits behind a few simple words.
So after reading through some of the woman’s Facebook posts and getting a sense of her situation, I grabbed a packet of biscuits, a few sachets of coffee, and headed over.
When I knocked on the door, it opened slowly.
Standing there was a middle-aged Māori woman who had clearly done her best to put on a brave face. But it was obvious she was struggling. She leaned forward almost immediately and wrapped her arms around me in a hug that felt like it had been waiting a long time to happen.
Behind her stood a cat.
Her baby, she told me.
The small unit we walked into was messy and cramped. The kind of place that looked like it had never been designed for someone living with a disability. She moved slowly with the help of a walking stick before easing herself into a chair.
We’ll call her “Marta.”
It’s a name she chose herself – after the character in The Sound of Music.
Seven years ago Marta had a stroke.
Then another.
And another.
The first one paralysed the right side of her body. While she was in hospital the first time she lost her job. Soon after that her partner left. Over time she became estranged from her family.
What remains now is a small rented unit that is clearly not disability-friendly, and a landlord who has done little to improve it.
Marta lives on a very small income. After the rent and bills are paid she is left with less than twenty dollars a week.
But even that is rarely enough.
She showed me the latest letter sitting on the table – another final payment reminder for the power bill.
Her internet connection had been cut off some time ago. To send me the message asking for help she had sat inside a nearby fast-food restaurant, using their free Wi-Fi.
For Marta this isn’t just a story about bills.
It’s about something deeper.
Loneliness.
Depression.
Isolation.
It is the quiet reality faced by far too many people living with disability in Aotearoa.
Loneliness itself is becoming a serious social issue in New Zealand. Data shows that more than 650,000 New Zealanders aged over 15 reported feeling lonely even before the COVID-19 pandemic, and that number is widely believed to have grown since.
For disabled people, the problem is even more severe.
Research shows mental health outcomes for disabled adults are significantly worse than for the non-disabled population. Psychological distress, loneliness and unmet healthcare needs remain persistent challenges, and the gap in wellbeing has widened in recent years.
Women are also experiencing rising levels of mental health distress. Recent figures suggest around 16.6 percent of women now report high or very high psychological distress, a significant increase from just over five percent a decade ago.
Housing conditions compound the problem.
More than half of disabled New Zealanders – about 53 percent – report struggling to meet basic needs such as food, clothing and housing. Many are also far more likely to live in homes that are cold, damp, mouldy or unsuitable for their physical needs.
Marta’s home reflects that reality.
After a few hours talking over coffee and biscuits, we agreed on something simple.
We would talk every few days.
Just to check in.
Since then a local community service provider has stepped in to support Marta. They say stories like hers are becoming increasingly common.
People living quietly on the margins.
People who are struggling with disability, poverty, loneliness and housing conditions that make their lives harder every single day.
People who are rarely seen.
People who are rarely heard.
The provider told me Marta is part of a growing number of whānau they describe as the unseen.
And sadly, there are many more stories like hers waiting to be told.
This one, they say, is only the beginning.
More to come.
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