I was doing veg deliveries last week. I stopped at a house and delivered their box. As I made my way back to the van, a lady ran out of the adjacent house. She had been reading these newsletters and said it was about time I wrote a book. Over the years I’ve been encouraged by some of you to write a book. I’m not quite sure I know how, but I have been writing down my thoughts and experiences. Maybe one day they will make it into a book. And if they do, it will be thanks to all of you that have encouraged me along the way. As of now, I’m going to start sharing what might be called ‘chapters’ of this book with you. Given it is you who have encouraged me to write, why not try and somehow write this book with all your help. I’m sure the encouragement won’t go astray when I’m feeling unmotivated or stuck.

Emily got back from deliveries this week and told me “Susan said she wouldn’t buy our veggies if you don’t write your weekly newsletter”. What a great compliment, it certainly put a lot of wind in my sails. This farming journey has made me realise I enjoy writing, and I’m thrilled that others enjoy reading it! This week I passed our vegetable fields as I motored past on the tractor. All I can see now is a field of weeds. Nature has taken back what was once neat, productive rows of mixed vegetables. Something I thought was so permanent—something I believed would last forever—has all but disappeared.

Sorry for the lack of newsletters the past two weeks. I have lacked inspiration and cannot write just for the sake of it. All is well here on the farm, but naturally, when the mind and the heart pull you in a different direction, they often turn your world upside down. And with this comes an emotional ride consisting of fast and exciting rapids, mixed with slow meandering bends which naturally lead to time for introspection. The highs, the excitement — well, they are the easy parts. They are the times when you feel confident and surefooted that the decision you’re making is the right one. In those moments, you feel as if the strongest gale-force wind could not knock you off course. And yet, as irony would have it, it is when the sea is calm and still, like a sheet of glass, when doubt bubbles up from the depths, and we are left sitting in our canoe with nothing but the negative thoughts that try and convince us we are mad or just plain silly.

Somehow—miraculously—we managed to get all but 15 veg boxes delivered to you all. The messages of support, the offers to donate veggie boxes to people who’ve lost everything, and the general outpouring of kindness reminded us of why we keep doing this. Thank you. Truly. We feel incredibly lucky to be part of a community like this. Our hearts go out to those who’ve lost homes, animals, and loved ones. The floods were devastating. And the road to rebuilding—physically, emotionally, spiritually—will demand resilience most of us can barely imagine.

This week I’m not going to talk about the weather. We are all over it, so let us not dwell on it. But what I want to talk about is your body’s ecosystem. Yes, ecosystem! Something I have come to understand along this farming journey is the relationship between a rich and diverse living soil and the microbiome within our body. You see, just as the soil beneath our feet is alive—with billions of microorganisms teeming through every handful—so too is our gut. It’s a landscape of its own, made up of bacteria, fungi, and other microbes that play a vital role in digestion, immunity, mental clarity, and overall well-being. What’s truly incredible is how connected these two worlds are.

The past few weeks has seen a persistent pattern of showers, and the forecast for the next seven days promises even more. The ground is saturated, our vegetables are barely holding on, and those that do survive are stunted, producing far less than usual. We haven’t been able to prepare new ground, weed, or plant any new crops—everything has come to a halt. Thankfully, we still have two to three weeks’ worth of veggies that were planted months ago, which should carry us through for a little while. But beyond that, we’re likely to see a significant gap in supply from our farm. With winter approaching and the days growing shorter, even if the rain does stop and the ground dries out, most farmers along the east coast will struggle to produce a decent crop over the coming months; most won't have anything decent until Spring. Cold and short days slow everything down.

Since announcing that we are selling the farm. I’ve been asked many times: Why are you selling the farm? What made you want to pack everything up and hit the road with your family? To be honest, each time I was asked, I still didn’t fully understand why. Six years ago, we packed our bags, left the city, left our comfort zone, and embarked on this farming journey. Are we doing the same thing now or is it different this time? I came to this farm chasing a dream — the romantic idea of a quiet, simple life in the countryside. I pictured a few chickens, some farm animals, kids running barefoot under a golden sunset. That warm, gentle glow of rural life — I thought that was it. I thought I had found my utopia. The first 12 months shattered that illusion.

We can now say without doubt: this model works. Technology has allowed our family to bypass the supermarkets and connect directly with YOU. I sincerely don’t think we fully grasp the full potential of what’s been unlocked. Over the past few weeks, our family has been deep in discussion—reflecting on what we’ve learned, what we know works, what doesn’t work and where we go from here. Now, we feel ready. Ready to share it. Six years ago, we left our jobs in search of something we couldn’t yet quite understand. But we do now, what we desired deep down was simple, it was freedom. Along the way, we’ve experienced the full spectrum of human emotions, crashing over us as frequently as waves along the shore. Like a river finding its way to the sea, we’ve braved the chaotic rapids and gut-wrenching waterfalls—and now find ourselves drifting peacefully along the meandering bends.

It’s 3pm, Monday, April 7th. Autumn’s finally decided to show up. The sky is blue again, clear and still, until a gust of wind kicks up dust and dead leaves. I squint as it rushes past, and for the first time in weeks, I feel grateful just to be dry. After all the mud and dying plants, it’s a relief to be squatting in the sun. I’m picking capsicums with my daughters under a big old camphor laurel. A flock of white-headed pigeons are up in the branches, tearing into the ripening black fruit. Every now and then a hawk passes overhead and the whole tree erupts—branches shaking, birds panicking, wings flapping into leaves and branches. Then somehow, within seconds, they’re gliding in perfect formation, like a scene from a fighter jet movie. It’s wild how quickly chaos becomes harmony.

Sometimes I wonder if the supermarkets meant to build a wall between the farmer and the eater. A silent wall, like the one that once split Germany from East to West—keeping both sides from seeing, from speaking, from understanding. Because that’s what it feels like to me. When we began this journey, it wasn’t about business. It was about being together—as a family. Not just sharing a house, but sharing something real. Something hard, something beautiful.

Autumn arrives not with a whisper, but with a test. We were spared the worst of Cyclone Alfred, yet the relentless rains still carved their mark upon the land. And just as the storms relented, a new challenge emerged—roving stags, their hunger untempered, pillaging our vegetable fields in their nightly feasts. The bowerbirds, too, have turned their appetites from insects to our tender greens, feasting upon the young seedlings we so carefully transplanted. What the prolonged rains weakened, the sudden surge of heat—days soaring beyond 30°C—became the final death knell. It feels as though we are being tested on all fronts, the transition between summer and autumn demanding our patience and resilience. Each passing year, March seems to slip further from autumn’s grasp, lingering instead in the clutches of an ever-extending summer. This shift is no longer subtle; it is undeniable. March, once a critical time for planting winter crops, now bears the weight of hotter, wetter conditions that threaten both seedlings and soil alike. We are left to wonder: can we continue as we have, or must we adapt to a new rhythm dictated by a changing climate?

Bunkering down during cyclone Alfred offered some time for reflection and deeper thinking. In just under six years Sohip has grown from delivering 20 boxes of vegetables a week to over 300. What started out as a desire to sell only what we grew, evolved naturally into a business that now sources produce from farms locally and from around Australia. This journey has unravelled many contradictions along the way. People have told me we should focus only on local and seasonal produce, whilst they pull the cork from a bottle of wine produced in South Australia, cut into a wheel of cheese from Tasmania and reach for a cracker made with organic grains from South America. I’m not pointing fingers because the same contradictions exist within myself, and truth be told, If I could peek inside the cupboards and fridge of even the most ardent local foodie, I will find more than one contradiction on their shelves.