A handy little guide from an accidental farmer’s wife
Now that the dust has settled on Farmer Wants a Wife 2025 (four couples still together – who saw that coming?), I thought I’d offer up a few truths from someone who actually did the thing. Not the reality TV version, but the reality-reality one. The long-haul, weather-dependent, sheep-shit-on-your-shoes version.
Because while everyone online has an opinion about these new farmer-wives-to-be, including “She needs to get her hands dirty!” “She should help on the farm!” “She won’t last a week!” – let me tell you something… some of us didn’t grow up bottle-feeding baby lambs and dreaming of headers. Some of us didn’t even know what a header was. Some of us still call lentils “the little round ones” and have to Google how many mils of rain in an inch. Every. Single. Time (it’s 25. You’re welcome).
So, in the spirit of an honest, mildly sarcastic community service – here’s what no one tells you when you marry a farmer.
You marry the farm too
It’s not just him. It’s the whole operation. The land, the hours, the family politics, the paddocks, the weather apps, the 6am sheep dramas, the “just quickly” jobs that turn into full-day hostage situations. Also…you don’t get a sea change, you get a soil change. And you’re not moving. EVER.
You don’t have to be a farmer
But your life will revolve around farming. You’ll care about grain prices. You’ll care about whether someone had a breakdown in the middle of harvest. You’ll start saying things like “the wheat crop’s looking good” and scare yourself a bit. That’s okay. It means you’re in.
You might change careers
Country towns don’t always come with job openings that fit your resume. Flexibility isn’t just a trait – it’s a bloody survival skill.
Your in-laws?
They’ll be around. Not in a bad way – just in a “hello-I’m-in-your-kitchen” kind of way. And when caught braless in your PJ’s at 10am – just smile, make a cuppa, and hope they don’t notice the piles of unfolded washing – which they probably won’t bat an eye at because they’ll be too busy wondering what the hell their son married.
You’ll drink wine alone at social events
Because he’s running late. Again. Or didn’t come at all. Farm comes first – even if you RSVP’d yes three weeks ago and bought the fancy cheese.
Your routine will implode when he’s home
You’re juggling the solo parenting gig – you’ve got everything running like clockwork – then seeding ends and he returns to the land of the living and stuffs everything up. “Haven’t you got spraying to do?” becomes a genuine question.
You’ll end up volunteering
Because regional towns run on it. It’s the invisible engine of everything – sport, schools, fundraisers, CFS, Ambos – you name it. We’re all just little cogs in a big, country-themed wheel and that wheel is usually held together with donated raffle prizes and someone’s nan’s sponge cake.
You’re suddenly the default courier
Need a part from town? That’s you. Kids forgot their lunchbox? You. Heading to the city? You’re now transporting three bags of parts, and picking up a new tool he doesn’t need.
You’ll end up doing the bookwork
You said you wouldn’t. You meant it. But now you’re screaming at MYOB and reconciling chemical invoices while muttering, “I am not an accountant,” into your third coffee.
Some jobs will break you
Shifting sheep is my personal hell. His frantic hand signals? May as well be a sign for “let’s never speak again.” And yet, there I was… running like a kelpie (well – almost)
You get December – he doesn’t
You’ll do the Christmas tree, the shopping, the wrapping, the school concerts, the Santa photos, and the festive cheer – all while he’s still on the header. He gets a day off for Christmas, then it’s back in the paddock on Boxing Day. You’ll carry the holiday spirit for the both of you, and yes – he’ll be just as surprised as the kids when they open their presents.
You’ll solo parent – a lot
Especially during seeding. And harvest. And spraying. And shearing. And “pre-sowing prep.” And “fixing the thing that broke.” And every time you think, “Ooh what a glorious spring day – we can finally head out as a family this weekend” you’re brutally reminded that you’re flying solo again because “sorry babe – it’s a perfect spraying day.”
The weather will become your religion
Rainfall matters. You need to know how much, when it fell, and who else got it – or didn’t. You’ll be bailed up in the main street and people will ask. People will compare. And if you don’t have an answer, they’ll look at you like you have snot hanging out your nose.
Family bust-ups happen
Farms and families are like pressure cookers and it can be intense. Most survive. Some don’t. If it happens to you, you’re not alone. It doesn’t mean you failed – it just means it’s farming.
So to the new girls who think they know what they’re in for – you don’t. And that’s okay. None of us did.
Just remember – you don’t have to drive the tractor to be part of the farm. You just have to be willing to ride shotgun, bring snacks, listen when he shares his day, and above all be his partner, not just the on-call farm lacky.
And if you’re lucky, you’ll get a life that’s a little gritty, a little ridiculous, and full of heart – even if it smells like sheep shit.
