Falling in love with a farmer wasn’t the country dream I thought it would be

A born-and-bred Sydney girl with a thirst for the bright lights of the city and the adrenaline rush of a newsroom, I never gave a second thought to life in rural Australia, or to the women in it; I was too busy cursing traffic. My world revolved around stake-outs, script deadlines and the stress of live TV. Climbing the ladder and doing whatever it took for my reporting career to flourish was my life’s sole purpose. That is, until I fell in love with a very handsome farmer.

It was 2013, and at the time I was based in Rockhampton managing Channel Seven’s Central Queensland newsrooms as reporter and producer. Sourcing the news each day for the 6pm evening bulletin was my responsibility and Rocky could get a little sleepy from time to time.

One muggy December morning, I vividly recall literally sweating as I scrambled to find another story to fill the bulletin; I was in the middle of a story drought – every journalist’s worst nightmare. I’d read the newspapers, phoned my police contacts, called the council and sifted through my little black book. Nothing. There’d been no car accidents, no serious crimes committed, no politicians in town and no significant announcements. Rockhampton was dead, but, as it turns out, love wasn’t.

As a last resort, and desperate for a story, I dragged my cameraman along to an agriculture event being held in town. The guest speaker was a young farmer from Tasmania named Sam Trethewey, and not only did I manage to squeeze a decent story out of my interview with him, I also nabbed myself a boyfriend in the process.

This chance meeting with my future husband set my soul (and my ovaries) on fire and kicked into motion a chain of events that would change the course of my life forever. After I’d interviewed him, Sam asked me for my business card claiming he “wanted a copy of the story”, but I saw his cheeky smile and caught his flirtatious gaze.

As it turned out, there was much more in store for the two of us than the half-baked story about meat consumption that we’d conjured up together in an effort to fill my evening news bulletin.

When I got back to the office that afternoon, Sam had emailed me and asked me where he could get a good steak while he was in town. I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes as I typed “Literally, anywhere. Rockhampton is the beef capital!” We emailed back and forth a few more times before he asked me out for a friendly drink over the weekend before he left town.

So on Sunday, December 8, 2013, full of curiosity and hungover as hell after a night out with friends, I dragged myself to the pub to meet this smooth-talking country man. A casual afternoon drink turned into a seven-hour-long catch-up that neither of us saw coming, followed by an incredible dinner and endless conversation.

It wasn’t long before the glamour of our jobs wore off, and my country boy and I were getting itchy feet.

As the restaurant started closing up for the night and we prepared to part ways, I realised I didn’t want the night to end and I knew Sam felt the same. I was intrigued by him and felt deeply connected despite the fact I’d not even so much as kissed the man.

When he hopped in a cab and headed back to his hotel, I felt a pang of sadness. I liked this guy a lot. And although I’d sworn off men at the time, having had my heart broken into a million pieces in my early 20s, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that we were destined to meet again. And sometimes destiny needs a little nudge.

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A couple of weeks later, I did the unthinkable. After several long phone calls and some flirty texts, I agreed to hop on a plane and meet Sam for a weekend in Brisbane. I stepped off the plane to see Sam waiting for me, and in that moment, I knew that whatever this was, whoever he was, I wanted him. Sam, ever the gentleman, offered to book separate hotel rooms for us for the duration of our stay. It’s safe to say we never booked that second room.

A whirlwind, long-distance romance followed our weekend and Sam and I got very serious, very quickly. He even temporarily moved to the Rockhampton region to work on a farm two hours away to be closer to me. I lived for Friday nights, counting down the hours until I’d hear his ute pull up at my apartment.

In mid-2014, I got my big break and was offered a job with A Current Affair in Brisbane. I resigned from my Rockhampton role, and a few weeks later jumped into my little blue Honda Jazz to make the eight-hour trip south.

Sam took a big leap of faith by moving to the big smoke to be with me, and we’ve been inseparable since. For the next five years, we travelled around the country together for our respective careers; I was busy grinding it out in TV while Sam dusted off his suit and tie and forged a career in the corporate agribusiness world.

However, it wasn’t long before the glamour of our jobs wore off, and my country boy and I were getting itchy feet. It was at a resort in Thailand, while on our honeymoon in late 2017, that Sam and I first crafted the idea of creating a beef business and moving back to his home state of Tassie.

I knew Sam yearned to move back to the land and, despite being born and raised in the city, I had been depleted by metropolitan living. I’d had enough of the stresses of the corporate world and was ready for something new that would breathe life back into me.

There was something so romantic and enticing about swapping the city for the country, so when Sam broached the idea of buying our own farm, I didn’t need any convincing. After all, I’d watched enough episodes of Farmer Wants a Wife – life on the land looked so idyllic and relaxing, and the thought of running our own business together seemed incredibly liberating.

I should add – a minor detail – that before our big country move, we were living and working in Melbourne and had recently welcomed our son Elliot into the world. And while I’d spent my career fearlessly confronting criminals and chasing conmen, those encounters had nothing on the challenges I faced as a new mum.

In the early months, I spent many hours on the bathroom floor sobbing as I struggled to connect with my inconsolable, colicky newborn. The sleep deprivation I experienced with a baby who woke up every 45 minutes throughout the night was excruciating, and the impact on my relationship with my husband was heart-wrenching as we shifted from a spontaneous, madly-in-love couple to two exhausted people passing like ships in the night.

I assumed it would be easier, that it would be a natural transition and that life and motherhood would be less stressful than the day-to-day chaos of the city.

I didn’t enjoy the early weeks and months of motherhood, and I’m not afraid to admit that. I have no doubt that I suffered from postnatal depression as well as what I like to call “postnatal shock”. For my entire life, I’d been in control. I was in the driver’s seat when it came to my career, and that in many ways had shaped my identity. But when I became a mother, I lost control. I was untethered. So, farm life and the picturesque setting of rural Tasmania felt like my ticket out of hell, a fresh start in a new environment. However, I wasn’t at all prepared for what awaited me.

In 2019, we boarded the Spirit of Tasmania and made the trip across Bass Strait. Before arriving at our new farm, I had a firm idea of what being a rural mum would be like. I assumed it would be easier, that it would be a natural transition and that life and motherhood would be less stressful than the day-to-day chaos of the city.

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I naively thought that being married to a farmer and working from home meant that Sam would be around all the time to help with the kids. However, my romanticised, city-fuelled ideas of what being a mum on the land would be like were obliterated the moment I became one. To begin with, there was nothing romantic about it. It was an incredibly hard transition and I was navigating it alone as a new mum. I thought, if they say it takes a village to raise a child, then where the hell is mine?

As the weeks turned into months, the sinking feeling of loneliness in the pit of my stomach just wouldn’t go away. I finally realised that, deep down, what I really yearned for was to connect with other rural mums.

I wanted to know that, despite how isolated I felt, I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t failing, and that some of the challenges I was facing as a mum on the land were understandable.

Since then, I’ve harnessed the power of a virtual village of rural mums to support me through some of my toughest times. And there’s no doubt that social media has enabled me to form meaningful, long-distance friendships with women across Australia who have been a lifeline for me when I have needed it most.

Edited extract from Motherland (Allen & Unwin) by Stephanie Trethewey, out now.

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