On the move

I’m probably the least “Instagram-worthy” human on earth. The TikTok crowd definitely won’t be flocking to hear my thoughts on alpacas, getting a fibre mill up and running, moving States, or my first escapades on the land — like mowing paddocks with a ride-on that was absolutely not designed for paddocks. My life has been, if anything, a precision execution of detours and walking against the tide.

So why start a journal? Great question. Right now, it’s because when I googled “how to start a blog about your next chapter”, the internet told me to start with a blog.

Truthfully, in 2026/27, we are set to open a fibre processing mill in the Derwent Valley. I want to meet and connect with people who will buy fibre from my animals in the next six months, and growers who want to use the mill. I want to draw people out from their second jobs, their balancing acts, and have virtual cuppas together. Find our tribe.

So yes — write a blog. Me? Panic rises. What the actual hell? Move States, learn about wood splitters, inject animals, drive tractors — and now write about myself? Panic! Ha.

I like reading other people’s blogs, but they always seem like experts. I’m more of a risk-taking generalist. I like to give things a go — preferably things that involve doing, learning, creating. Beekeeping, fibre animals, alpacas, fibre mills… all things I’m ridiculously excited about.

I grew up in New South Wales, the youngest child in my family. As an adult, I moved around NSW and QLD, but lived in NSW until 2016, when a work role brought me to Tasmania. At that time, I was burning out in a draining industry — the “fix-it person” flying in to restructure, make sense of chaos, and clean up other people’s decisions. I felt completely out of control. Exhausted. Done.

The silver lining? When I travelled to Tasmania for work, something whispered: stay.

I moved before Tassie was the “place to be” — which, if you know me, makes sense. I’ve never been early to a trend, and I don’t particularly aim to be. I’m more interested in understanding the world around me and finding the places that feel like home.

The voice wasn’t loud or dramatic. More a soft, stubborn pull — a romantic lull that you either hear or you don’t. I’ve seen the same look in other newcomers. They see the beauty in winter, the mountains, the 15-minute “peak hour,” the four seasons in a day, the under-600,000 population — and think: Yes. This is me.

It’s also where you move to Tasmania single, try online dating, and discover that the guy you met online is your colleague’s cousin. One degree of separation, not six.

Meanwhile, my mainlander friends were convinced I was making a mistake. And this idea of “mistakes” fascinates me. We’re terrified of making them, terrified of looking like we don’t know what we’re doing, desperate to seem successful. But moving to Tasmania? That didn’t feel like a mistake. I wasn’t happy in NSW. My family wasn’t happy. Trying something new felt far less risky than staying the same.

And I’m a mover — literally. I’ve moved over 20 times. The last three times, I swore, This is the last move. Maybe it was true in the moment. That has to count for something, right? So it stands to reason that the first far I bought (at 3 acres) wasn’t big enough, then I moved in the same Valley to 18 acres (and Riverdance Farm was created) … and this move to the Derwent, this one was for love.

During April 2016, I brought my son for a week-long visit. We stayed in a Hobart hostel, doing a “desktop survey” in real life: schools, work, community, property options. After driving in a 30-km radius, I narrowed it down to the Huon Valley. Over the next few months of work trips, I met with real estate agents at 7am in winter (which is apparently not prime viewing time).

July 2016: emotional burnout snapping at my heels. I put an offer on a 3-acre farm — sight unseen. Flew down and back in a single day to inspect and sign. The progression of settlement was 4 weeks, and then bam, I was booked on the Spirit of Tasmania, packed up and on the road to Tasmania.

The first night: my son back in NSW, me alone. Snow had fallen in August. I drove 4.5 hours from Devonport where the Spirit comes in to birth, and had some precious cargo in the car - with a few small animals in tow. The removalists handled everything with ease — unlike me. By the time they left, that rush of boxes into a house, truck departure. Quiet. It was dark by 4pm, freezing, and I couldn’t remember the layout of the house or even how to get water from the river to the tank.

I fumbled around in the snow, searching for the gas bottle while thumping wallabies made me jump out of my skin. And then I looked up. The sky — oh my. Stunning. A sense of displacement and fear collided with awe. If I died that night, I would have been happy.

Dinner: 2-minute noodles in front of the fireplace. Ice-cold bedroom. Dressed in every layer I owned. Slept. Woke at 4am. Headed to breakfast at Huonville. Week one: rough. But sorted before my son arrived.

Six months in, I had a full-blown panic: the island felt claustrophobic. But I breathed, reminded myself: Nothing is a mistake unless you do it twice. Keep moving, keep working, keep the body tired enough to sleep. Things feel better after a solid night.

Before I moved, I knew I wanted space and animals. Alpacas, some land. Hunter Valley was too dry, too close to the old life. I wanted a place that reconnected us — and it had to be real.

So Huon Valley. I moved to 18 acres, and the first of my three alpacas. I had no idea how much I didn’t know: different animals need different fencing, 18 acres may or may not be enough, water systems are tricky… reading and research help, but nothing replaces experience.

What I realised is that not knowing a lot didn’t kill me. Fear isn’t always bad. Humility is nice. And I’m sure my neighbours laughed watching me mow paddocks like a clueless newbie.

Maybe this space will be part confession, part storytelling, part journal. Maybe it will be therapeutic. Maybe it will help me make sense of rebuilding Riverdance Farm Tasmania from scratch down here in the Derwent — slowly, quietly, imperfectly — while working off-farm and dreaming big.

Either way, you’re welcome to follow along.

My advice for moving to Tasmania:

• You don’t need to know everything to start your next chapter.

• Learn from locals; they usually want to share what they know.

• Copperheads breed in February — stomp when you walk in the bush.

• 30 km outside Hobart? Don’t count on take-away — bring recipe books.

• Support local cafes and restaurants whenever you can.

• Road trips: always have cash for roadside stalls selling amazing local produce.

• Find your own way of doing life, and make friends who get you.