Finding Our Way Back to the Country

"Sometimes life's greatest gifts arrive disguised as uncertainty."

When the world came to a sudden standstill in 2020, so did ours.

Like so many small business owners, we found ourselves staring into an uncertain future. As wedding photographers and artists, our calendars emptied almost overnight. Weddings were postponed, events cancelled, and we had no idea what the coming months—or years—would mean for our business.

It was frightening.

Our livelihood had always depended on bringing people together, and suddenly the world was being told to stay apart.

With no certainty about what lay ahead, the thought of watching our hard-earned house deposit slowly disappear on city rent was difficult to accept. So we packed up our Fremantle art studio, put our belongings into storage, and moved back to my family's hobby farm near Quindanning in Western Australia.

We thought it would simply help us get through a challenging season.

We had no idea it would become one of the greatest gifts we'd ever receive.

At the heart of the property sits a humble World War II repatriation house.

It's far from glamorous, but it's rich in something far more valuable—history.

My family has owned the farm since I was two years old, and almost every room, every paddock and every old fence line holds a memory.

Growing up, we lived in Perth during the week, but almost every weekend we'd pack up the car and head south to the farm. The moment we turned off the highway, life changed pace.

Weekends weren't spent in shopping centres or in front of a television.

They were spent mustering sheep, riding horses, building cubbies, helping Dad with whatever jobs needed doing, and disappearing for hours on motorbikes to explore every corner of the property.

We came home sunburnt, dusty and exhausted, only to do it all again the following weekend.

Looking back now, I realise those weekends shaped me more than I ever understood at the time.

The farm taught me resilience.

It taught me the value of hard work.

It taught me that creativity doesn't need expensive studios or fancy equipment—sometimes it just needs wide open spaces and time to think.

More than anything, it became my happy place.

Returning years later didn't feel like moving somewhere new.

It felt like coming home.

Life in the Australian bush can feel painfully slow.

The mornings arrive quietly.

The days are measured by the weather instead of meetings.

The loudest sound is often birds greeting the sunrise or the wind moving through the gum trees.

After years of city life, the stillness almost felt uncomfortable.

We were used to rushing.

Used to filling every hour.

Used to believing productivity meant progress.

But somewhere between the endless sunsets, dusty boots and cups of tea on the veranda, that slow pace began to transform us.

What had once felt unfamiliar became something we craved.

For Jake, the transition felt just as natural.

Growing up in the outback mining town of Leonora, he'd always understood the pull of country life. The wide-open spaces, the freedom and the endless horizons had shaped him too.

The slower pace gave him permission to experiment.

He picked up a spray can for the first time and unknowingly began a whole new chapter in his artistic career.

I found myself reaching for my camera almost every day.

Not because I had clients to photograph.

Simply because I was inspired again.

The landscape was never the same twice.

Morning fog drifted through the valley.

Storms rolled across distant hills.

Golden light spilled over paddocks each afternoon before disappearing behind the trees.

The seasons became nature's greatest storyteller, constantly reminding us that change can be beautiful.

When our daughter Sienna arrived, the farm took on an entirely new meaning.

Watching her discover the same world that had shaped my childhood felt incredibly special.

Collecting eggs.

Following chickens around the garden.

Picking fruit straight from the trees.

Helping in the vegetable patch.

Coming inside with dirty feet and muddy knees.

It reminded us that some of the greatest luxuries in life aren't bought.

They're grown.

There's something deeply satisfying about harvesting vegetables you've planted yourself, picking fruit while it's still warm from the sun and spending an entire afternoon preparing a meal together.

The farm taught us that slowing down wasn't wasting time.

It was living.

Life also seemed richer because we shared it with animals.

The horses waiting patiently at the gate.

Working dogs always one step behind.

Sheep appearing where they definitely weren't supposed to be.

Chickens scratching around the garden.

Every day offered something unexpected.

Every season brought something new.

There was never a shortage of entertainment.

The farm also reminded us how important people are.

Friends and family made the journey south.

Without busy schedules pulling everyone in different directions, weekends stretched longer.

Conversations became deeper.

Meals lasted for hours.

Memories were made without anyone really trying.

Somehow, time together felt more meaningful.

And then there were the nights.

With almost no light pollution, the stars stretched endlessly across the sky.

Standing beneath the Milky Way has a remarkable way of putting life into perspective.

Looking up at something so unimaginably vast makes your own worries feel wonderfully small.

The universe doesn't solve your problems.

It simply reminds you that they aren't the centre of it.

Looking back now, I realise we didn't simply move to the farm because we were trying to save money or ride out an uncertain season.

We moved because, deep down, it had always felt like home.

What began as one of the most uncertain chapters of our lives quietly became one of the most transformative.

It reminded us what kind of life we wanted to build.

A life connected to family.

To creativity.

To nature.

To slower mornings and longer conversations.

To dirt under our fingernails and sunsets that tell you it's time to come inside.

Years have passed since that unexpected season, but its influence is woven through every chapter that has followed.

The choices we've made.

The places we've travelled.

The work we've created.

And the home we're now dreaming of building.

Sometimes I wonder whether we ever really left that little World War II repatriation house.

Perhaps we've simply been carrying the lessons it taught us wherever we've gone.

Because home isn't always a place.

Sometimes it's a way of living. ❤️