A Story of Belonging
- Alliv Samson
- 8 hours ago
- 5 min read
On winning EY Entrepreneur of the Year, and why New Zealand will always feel like home
A few months ago, Hengjie and I were named EY New Zealand Entrepreneur of the Year, and in the quiet that followed, something in me shifted. I came home carrying more than gratitude. I came home carrying memory. Emotion. A deep and steady sense that I did not want to wait any longer to say what this moment had stirred in me. There are things I want to remember. There are things I want to share. So I want to begin here, with the question that has stayed with me since the lights came up.
What makes me an entrepreneur?
The EY Entrepreneur of the Year programme is known for its prestige and recognition. But what I want to speak about first is everything that comes before that recognition, everything that leads up to the moment itself.
The process is long. It is exacting. It is filled with workshops, interviews, and conversations with judges who have built more than most of us will build, seen more than most of us will see, and questioned more than most of us will question in a lifetime. There is no coasting on a polished pitch. There is no hiding behind a highlight reel. They want to know who you are. They want to know what compels you. What would you do if it all fell apart tomorrow? Why did you begin? And if given the chance, would you do it all again?
I entered the process expecting an evaluation. What I received was something closer to a mirror, a chance to ask not only who I am as an entrepreneur, but who I hope to become.
In our final interview, we were asked a question I am still carrying with me:
“Why should you be the best representative for New Zealand?”
You cannot fake your way through a question like that. I sat with it for a moment, and the answer that came was the truest one I had: because we are immigrants.
As first-generation immigrants to New Zealand, we embody the opportunities this country offers and our decision not to waste them. Hengjie and I moved to New Zealand with our families at different points in our lives and at different times in the country's immigration history. Although we took different paths in life, we (and our families) naturally acknowledge that we are very lucky to have been allowed to live in this beautiful country. This is why we have spent our years giving back and showing our gratitude to New Zealand and its people. To me, that is one of the most quintessentially New Zealand stories.
The Night
On the night of the awards, I wore a Filipino-inspired outfit, embroidered with memories of school and childhood. I wanted to wear something I could carry with pride, something that honoured both who I am and where I came from.
It was a beautiful night. The energy in the room was electric. And as I looked around at the other finalists, people building extraordinary things across farming, retail, technology, food, design, and manufacturing, I found myself thinking: of course. Of course, New Zealand produces people like this. Because New Zealand also creates rooms like this. Rooms that show up. Rooms that cheer a little too loudly. Rooms where success is not something we measure against one another, but something we celebrate together.
A few of those finalists are people whose stories I know I will carry with me for a long time. I will not name them here. But if you are reading this, and we met that night, thank you. You reminded me what excellence looks like, and you raised the bar for all of us.
A Place to Stand
There is a word in te reo Māori I have been returning to often: tūrangawaewae. It means a place to stand. Not a place to visit. Not a place to pass through. A place where your feet have the right to rest. A place that is yours.
For a long time, I think many immigrants, myself included, have measured belonging through achievement. Visas are approved. Jobs are earned. Companies are built. We work, and we work, and still there is often a quiet question beneath it all: Am I really from here yet?
Hengjie and I came to Aotearoa with our families and with nothing. We had debt. We had dreams. We had the kind of stubborn, slightly reckless hope that belongs to people who do not yet know what cannot be done. Over thirteen years, from a small office in Auckland, we built Kami into a company that now reaches more than 75 million teachers and students around the world.
But standing in that room a few months ago, surrounded by people I now consider mentors, peers, and friends, I realised something I had not fully allowed myself to accept: belonging is not earned through trophies. It is received, quietly, somewhere along the way. And then one day, you look up and realise you are home.
Aotearoa, you made room. You made space. You said try. And then you said stay. I will spend the rest of my life saying thank you.
What I Carry to Monaco
Next week, Hengjie and I will travel to Monaco to represent New Zealand at the EY World Entrepreneur of the Year. Even now, that sentence feels a little unreal to write.
The girl who left the Philippines with nothing but a dream would not have believed it. The young woman who landed in Auckland with too many suitcases and too few certainties would not have believed it either. But I will carry them both with me. And I will carry this country with me too — every Kiwi who took a chance on us, who mentored us, who invested in us, and who believed us when we said we could build something the world would notice.
I am not going to Monaco by myself. I am going for every founder in this country who still believes they are too small, too unknown, too far from anywhere to matter. I am going for the parents who pack up their entire lives so their children can have a chance. I am going on behalf of New Zealand, and for every lift this country has given us along the way.
What Comes Next?
This award is not a finish line. It is a turning point.
The next chapter of my work lives in two places: Hiraya Ventures, where we invest in globally ambitious Kiwi founders, and soon, the Hiraya Foundation, which is only just beginning and will focus on education and the next generation of dreamers.
Hiraya is a Filipino word. It means the fruit of one’s hopes, dreams, and aspirations. I chose it because that is what Aotearoa gave me, and because it is what I want to spend the rest of my life giving back.
In Filipino culture, there is a concept called bayanihan, the idea that no one builds alone, that a whole community lifts the house together. In te reo Māori, there is mahi tahi, working as one. Different languages. Same truth. We rise together, or we do not truly rise at all.
A Beginning
So this is the beginning of something. The beginning of writing here, in this space, more often. The beginning of sharing what I am learning, what I am building, and what I am still figuring out. The beginning of inviting you in.
If you have ever stood at the edge of a room and wondered whether you belonged in it, I see you. Walk in anyway because someone in there is already cheering for you. And sometimes, that someone is the country itself.
Maraming salamat. Ngā mihi. Thank you.
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