'At 56, my husband left me and our rural property. I had to become a farmer overnight.'

A year ago, my husband left our farm and family home. He left like a man who was never coming back, despite his "don't know" answers to my questions about what this meant for our marriage and future.

He cited depression and exhaustion at the devastation of our beautiful riverside property after the distress caused by three years of climate induced chaos. The debilitating drought saw almost half our cattle either sold so they could survive, or lying down and giving up despite our best efforts. He shot my beloved pigs as they ransacked the feed supplies day after day. We lost our cherished family dog and lactating bitch and then the fires raged towards us. 

Hot on the heels of that tangible trauma - I will never forget the hot winds, the sweet stench of death, the eerie silence of those last months of 2019 - was the devastating flood of 2021 which wiped out so much of the infrastructure we relied on for daily life. 

It was exhausting. 

But unlike him I knew I needed help navigating this messy thing called life and worked with my psychologist to find hope and beauty amongst the darkness. He stumbled from work to endless farm tasks in despair. He could see no end in sight.  

Maybe the flood was indicative of the perilous state of our marriage. It swept away our physical bridges to the outside world and emotional connection to each other. We limped on through COVID, me grateful for the time to reconnect with my land, he under ever more stress as he travelled NSW for work, careful not to bring COVID home to us.

In one of my phone psychology consults, she asked if I could accept my husband "exactly as he is" - silent, intransigent, unable to have hard conversations or talk about needs, emotions, working together as parents, unwilling to work on our marriage, hear how he could learn to communicate or even care about how his actions harmed and triggered me. 

She had asked me that before. I had pondered and prevaricated. This time my answer came from deep within my unsatisfied soul: "No, I can't."

Image: Supplied.

The writing was on the wall. I instigated the 'I can’t do this anymore' conversation. He left without a backward glance. I opened the door, and he fled through it like a rat from a sinking ship.  

I respected his need for time and space to heal - we all need that. I reached out with information as I immersed myself in the unravelling of our marriage - our different attachment styles and how we triggered and spiralled in harmful habits forged in childhood. I thought there was a glimmer of hope we could work together to change. But in March he told me he wanted a divorce. 

For years I had sensed the unhappiness he had told me I was imagining. Now he finally recognised it himself. The slow cooking of his resentment and hostility towards me and the farm was finally ready to be served.

I have to respect him for putting our marriage out of its misery. But I broke. I fell to my knees with fear and despair. Sobbing for dreams smashed and the fear of starting again at 56. The abject terror of the loss of the only place that has ever granted me sanctuary, safety, home.

I had the wisdom to admit I had a plan for a permanent exit and had two psychologists calling me every day for an incredibly painful and frightening week. 

It felt like the end of the world. It was the end of a fairy tale I had constructed in my head of who we were. How had the dream born in ivory satin in the garden in 2007 been ripped apart? I had to unravel the threads and snarls on my own, unable to unpick anything with a silent Australian male.

I was alone with my grief as the river raged past my house, stranding me with my whirring thoughts, shame and inadequacy. Instead of saying "I can't", I had to learn.

Image: Supplied.

I spent four hours with two chainsaws, a crowbar, chains, and rope under my tractor after being impaled on a stump. I had to ask the guy delivering fence posts to fix my chainsaw after I freed myself. 

I asked around for a tractor repair man and learned to rely on someone other than my husband. I celebrate my 'bush fixes' - fixing a blown tractor hose with steel straw from the kitchen drawer and cable ties, wiring down a blown bung so I could pump water from the river, and so forth 

I have learned to muster cattle and horses on my own, to fix fences, and put tools back where they belong. Never a patient person; I am learning patience, persistence and resilience.

I have built a repertoire of 'go-to' tools and became adept at thinking outside of the square. There’s only me now, so I have to be canny and creative. Sometimes I have to walk away and wait... for inspiration or a man or a more practical mind to help me.

I ask for help on Twitter, in Bunnings, at suppliers and mechanics. There's no shame in asking questions and growing our repertoire of practical knowledge. I am getting stronger - mentally, physically and emotionally.

I might lose my sacred space but I will fight like hell to keep it. What felt like the end of the world was the end of a book. I’m starting a new one, with a wilder, wiser me at its heart. I gave away my power, I won’t do that again.

I have to keep evolving, changing, growing to deal with my new reality. We all do.

The feminist in me is arising from the ashes more ferocious and enlightened. I’m still in the nest, fledging my wings, clamouring for succour. But the day will come (soon) when I can soar free and unfettered. 

I have become a farmer in the past year. I look forward to seeing what else I can achieve alone.

You can find Sophie on Instagram, Twitter and TikTok as @LoveFarmOz.

Feature Image: Supplied.

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