Tahu Hollis: From Gambling Harm to Healing Through Storytelling
When a reel of Tahu Hollis talking about his gambling past went viral, it struck a chord. For many, it was the first time hearing his story. But for Tahu, though, sharing isn’t new – it’s something he’s done for years, hoping his honesty might help someone else.
He lost more than twenty thousand dollars before he turned twenty. But the money wasn’t the hardest part – it was the shame, the lies, the way he lost himself, and the cruel self-talk that chipped away at who he was. Gambling had wrapped itself around every corner of his life.
For Tahu, gambling harm wasn’t a single mistake or one bad bet. It was a slow spiral, fed by a culture that normalised it and an industry designed to keep people hooked.
Today, he’s a pāpā, husband, and storyteller. But when he looks back, he knows how close he came to losing it all.
Tahu grew up with rugby dreams. Like many boys, he thought making the All Blacks was the way to make his dad proud. At 18, he was taken in by a provincial union, Counties Manukau, and moved from his small hometown of Manaia in the Coromandel to the team house in Karaka.
It ended up to a point where I was stealing from my parents, lying to them about why I needed money, and using it to gamble.
“I was introduced to the world of being a man and I thought this is what men do – you work hard in the week, and you play harder on the weekend,” he said.
“You play rugby for the beer and at the end of the game, every Sunday I was gambling away every dollar I made.”
At first, it felt harmless. A few of the boys were what they thought “good gamblers,” making a bit of coin, and he believed he could do the same. Shortcuts had always been tempting.
“I’ve always been a dude for shortcuts, always looking for the easiest, fastest way, which often it’s the half-pai way of getting things done.”
That need for shortcuts, mixed with the buzz of winning and the cultural norm, pulled him in. Before long, gambling wasn’t just a sideline – it was consuming. And with the highs came the lows. Those lows turned into a belief that he was a failure – something that, over time, began to eat away at him. His wairua feeling defeated.
“It ended up to a point where I was stealing from my parents, lying to them about why I needed money, and using it to gamble,” he said.
He remembers being down to his last $1,000 after already losing more than $20,000. In one desperate swing, he put it all on the horse – on Lucky Days. That single bet doubled to $2,000, then $10,000, then $20,000. He was back to even.
But in gambling, even is never enough. One more bet, one more race – and it was all gone again.
The loss was brutal.
Sitting in that low, he thought about ending his life. There were two options in his mind: driving his truck off the road or calling his dad.
“I called my dad, pulled over, crying and spewing from the stress. He told me to wait there. He drove from Tauranga to Auckland – three hours – to come get me.”
There’s no shortcut out of harm, but there are pathways to healing.
His parents took him out for dinner that night and laid it out plain. They showed him the truth – the money he’d lost, the cycle he was stuck in, the way it wasn’t adding up. And they offered him a way forward.
That was also the moment he admitted something big: he didn’t actually love rugby. He’d only been chasing the All Black dream to make his dad proud. But his dad told him something that stuck: the path that would make him proud was Tahu being happy. They encouraged Tahu to move home.
Leaving rugby behind didn’t mean the battle was over. Tahu still carried the weight of his pō, his depression and the restlessness that gambling had fed. He tried uni, but the spiral of self-doubt followed him there too.
What cracked the surface was something unexpected. Out of boredom, he started watching YouTube. David Dobrik vlogs, silly videos. He realised his own whānau were just as funny, just as worth filming.
With $1,000 from his course-related costs, he gambled yet again – but this time, on himself. He bought his first camera, a Canon 80D. He didn’t know how to edit, how to shoot, or how to build a channel. He just knew he wanted to capture stories.
“I started making senseless videos, just us having fun,” he said. “I realised storytelling had always been my passion, even when I was lying.”
But the real healing came when his brother, moko artist Keanu Manuel, called him home. Tahu thought he was going to help on the farm. Instead, the tables were set up for something different – his puhoro.
He didn’t know it then, but it was what he needed.
“As Māori, moko is an outward way to express inward pain,” he said. For eight days straight, twelve hours a day, he sat for his puhoro.
That experience stitched together the threads of his life – whānau, creativity, and healing. From there, Tahu committed himself to kaupapa-driven storytelling. He made Mokopapa, filming his entire whānau getting their faces adorned with moko. Iwi started calling with work offers. He dropped out of uni and went all in on media.
Now 26, Tahu is a husband and pāpā to his baby daughter. They are the reason he chooses a different path every day.
He still feels the pull to do more, to be more, but he knows now there are no shortcuts. The quick fixes that once tempted him are gone.
“My advice to anyone stuck in the cycle – everyone’s situation is different, but start by admitting it.”
Something his dad has always said to him which has stuck is, “āta haere.”
Which he interprets as being patient with yourself. Go slowly. Give yourself grace.
For Tahu, the story has never just been about gambling losses. It’s about what whānau support, cultural grounding, and creativity can rebuild. It’s about shifting the focus off personal shame and back onto an industry that profits from it.
His journey is living proof – there’s no shortcut out of harm, but there are pathways to healing.
Pātea
Pātea – digital platform designed by Māori, for Māori, to help free whānau from the burdens of gambling harm.
