Four years ago this month, everything changed.

Yesterday, on Red November, New Zealanders gathered in remembrance and solidarity, not to stir division, but to honour the cost carried by so many. The cost of mandates. The cost of silence. The cost of being told you had no place unless you complied.

It was a moment to acknowledge both the seen and unseen losses, health, careers, communities, faith in institutions, and for some, even their very sense of belonging.

This is my story. It is only one thread among thousands, yet every thread matters.

The mandates triggered me back into childhood lies, chaos, manipulation, and control trauma. The depression I had so painstakingly overcome for just over a year threatened to overwhelm me once more.

I was appalled and deeply ashamed at the apartheid our authorities were implementing, and at the speed with which nations, and even churches, embraced vaccine passports to enforce it. Communities were separated based on medical status, with devastating consequences.

Where I was born, in Germany 🇩🇪, it was called the Holocaust.

Where I was raised, in South Africa🇿🇦, it was called apartheid.

This was no different to me. It was medical apartheid and discrimination.

I had spent my life standing against apartheid, and I was not about to stop. In solidarity with those being marginalised, I chose not to take the injections. My father’s history of blood clots placed me at increased risk, as clotting was already a known side effect. I refused the shots and said no to discrimination, knowing full well what it would cost me.

By 5 December, I hit an all-time low.

The news that my art classes would restart only for the double-jabbed cut deeply, yet nothing prepared me for the sting that followed when I eagerly opened an email from my church, my home, my family, asking for welcome team volunteers. My heart leapt at the chance to serve again.

Clicking the link felt like a door slamming shut.

“No, not you.”

A vaccine passport requirement excluded me.

I was too upset to finish reading the message. Only later did I learn that smaller gatherings for the “undisclosed” were mentioned almost as an afterthought. How could the very place that had nurtured my faith now draw lines through its family 🤔 How could we speak of the Body of Christ when part of that Body was deemed unwelcome in the house of worship 🤔 Our life group split in half. The elderly vaxed were afraid of the unvaxed, so we ended up watching church online at Lifeboat, a community of outcasts.

It grieved me deeply to see how mandates became a dividing wall in places meant to be refuges of grace. Everything I held dear, the art, the choir, serving at the community kitchen, even January’s B-School, hung in the balance of a passport I could not, in good conscience, obtain. My allergies and family medical history made the risk too high, yet beyond that, I could not submit to a system that marginalised others for their convictions.

By 12 December, the weight had only increased.

I learned that volunteering at Mairangi Bay Art Centre would also require a passport. It became clear that churches implementing passport systems were effectively forcing staff and volunteers to comply. We had hoped for small gatherings across the board, spaces where everyone could remain included without anyone needing to backtrack on deeply held convictions just to serve. That hope quietly slipped away.

Everything that had helped me remain strong in my victory over depression rested on a requirement authorities refused to exempt me from, despite my allergies, past medication reactions, and my father’s medical history. In doing so, the church I had called home for three years effectively told me I was no longer welcome in the building.

How does one remain part of a family when they are not allowed to come home for family celebrations 🤔

Quite honestly, if this had happened before all the Elijah House prayer ministry I received the year prior, I would have likely crawled back into the pit.

Around this time, I also began struggling with my breathing. Anxiety tightened my chest, and my doctor prescribed an asthma pump again, something I had not needed for years.

I lost the church I had called home. I lost the choir that felt like a second family. I lost the welcome team I had served with joy. Friendships I believed were strong could not withstand the pressure of those days. Some faded quietly, others ended with painful clarity.

I watched people I loved being cut off from their own families, banned from gatherings, and treated as outsiders in their own communities.

My trust in the medical establishment, and in our government, was shattered when I watched my husband suffer injury after receiving the Novavax injection. Nothing prepares you for that kind of fear, or for the silence that follows when you seek help and find none. The division cut through workplaces, churches, friendships, and neighbourhoods.

These wounds did not disappear. Much was simply swept under the rug.

The medical apartheid created by mandates fractured communities and consciences alike. The injustice, trauma, and grief of those months did not vanish. Many still carry wounds few speak of openly.

I nearly fell back into depression during the first lockdown, yet God intervened. Bible journaling became my refuge, a way to breathe through the suffocating despair and process what threatened to overwhelm me.

I did not return to the life I had before.

I stepped into something entirely new, reshaped by loss, yet marked by unexpected grace.

My path shifted toward creativity, ministry, and healing work. God used what was taken to form something deeper, helping others make sense of their stories while I continued to tend my own.

This is what I lost.

This is how it impacted my family.

This is how my life changed.

The mandates took much from me, yet they also pushed me into a new calling, a place where God continues to restore what was broken.

💡Reflection

• Where did loss reshape your faith rather than destroy it 🤔

• What convictions did you hold onto, even when it cost you dearly 🤔

• Where did exclusion or silence wound your sense of belonging 🤔

• What losses have you never fully named or grieved 🤔

• How has God met you in the rubble of what was taken 🤔

• What new calling emerged through the pain 🤔

🎺Affirmation

I am not forgotten, discarded, or disqualified. God sees what was taken, honours my convictions, and continues to restore my life with purpose, dignity, and grace. I am not defined by what was taken from me. God is restoring, redeeming, and re-weaving my story with purpose and grace.

🙌 Prayer

Lord, You see the losses we carry and the wounds that remain unseen. You know the cost of exclusion, the grief of loss, and the ache of betrayal. Thank You for meeting me in my darkest moments and for guiding me into a new calling shaped by truth and compassion. Heal what was broken, restore what was stolen, and teach me to walk forward without bitterness, anchored in Your love and faithfulness. I place my story, and the stories of all who suffered, into Your loving hands. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.