When I first started out as a dairy farmer four years ago, I loved it.
I had only ever worked in office environments, so for me, dairy farming was fun, exciting and I was out in the fresh air.
My husband, Stephen, is a sixth generation dairy farmer and has been following his family’s tradition for 34 years, producing a product that the country relies on.
As farmers, we can’t call in sick, and there’s no annual leave or the luxury of weekends. Cows don’t have days off; the girls have to be milked twice a day. Four months ago, Steve and I had two days off, but prior to that we had worked in excess of 420 odd days straight.
I work about 80 hours a week; my husband does up to 120. Then you’ve got all the other bits and pieces that also require attention: bookkeeping, fixing equipment, a household that needs maintaining.
I try to cook us a decent hot meal each night, but on the nights I don’t, I feel guilty for not having the energy.
My husband has a deep attachment to the land and the animals, but that passion gets squeezed out of you when it comes at the cost of your mental and physical wellbeing.
There’s not a union in this country that would allow its members to work even close to the hours that most farmers work. If they did have one, God forbid, they would‘ve shut the country down in protest.
Day in, day out it’s the same thing. For the most part I am unable to say what day of the week it actually is, but that doesn’t really matter because it’s irrelevant. Every day is a Monday for us.
I started to feel burnout about 18 months ago. It’s often talked about as something that affects lawyers, doctors, bankers – high flying folk. But with the state of the dairy industry at the moment, more and more farmers are struggling. I hear too, often of others and their heartache and struggles within the industry. I can’t tell you how many strangers I’ve cried for and how many I have wished better for.
With dairy farming the wheels have to keep spinning no matter how buggered you are. My biggest fear is that the morning will come where my alarm goes off but my mind or body refuses to follow.
We have had staff in the past, but as input costs continue to rise we realised that the money spent on an additional pair of hands was better used in other areas.
You don’t do this for money, you do it because you love it. My husband has a deep attachment to the land and the animals, but that passion gets squeezed out of you when it comes at the cost of your mental and physical wellbeing.
Guilt for us has become a daily event as many farmers out there are doing it a lot worse than we are. People in the cities might read this and think, ‘Don’t be a farmer if you can’t manage the workload.’ But you try kicking goals when the goalposts are constantly moving.
My husband says he knew he wanted to be a farmer at 7 years old, when he’d walk behind in his old man’s footsteps in the grass. He never thought he’d see an exodus from dairy at the rate it’s happening at now. We’re certain the industry will pick up again and will continue to be an exciting and dynamic, but we need the government to repair some of this damage.
Stephen and I have decided to sell up while it’s on our terms. We love the farm and the high standards we’ve kept, but it’s time for the next chapter in our lives.
We don’t know what’s next for us both. Maybe we’ll travel or finally have our honeymoon. As far as I’m concerned, as long as I don’t have to stare up the business end of a cow again, I’ll be happy.
