In my first year up north, I posted a TikTok.
Nothing dramatic. No dehorning, no animal welfare issues, nothing that would raise eyebrows.
Just life as a first year on a remote cattle station, the kind of content I'd have killed to find before I went up there. Because before I left, I searched for that property everywhere. I wanted to know what people wore, what the days looked like, what I was actually walking into.
Not because I was precious about it, because knowing what to expect makes you better prepared, more comfortable, more capable from day one.
I found nothing.
So when I got there and started living it, I posted it. And within no time at all, the company got in touch with my head stockman and had me take it down.
I remember sitting with that for a while.
Not because I was angry, but because of what it meant on both sides.
They didn't want people to see what they were signing up for. And they didn't want people to see what they were missing out on.
Meanwhile, there were people exactly like me, sitting somewhere googling that station name, trying to find anything that would help them decide if this was the life for them.
That's when it clicked.
The people doing the most incredible work in this country are completely invisible online. Not because they don't have a story worth telling. Because nobody's helping them tell it - or worse, the people who are supposed to be helping don't understand it well enough to get it right.
