The Juggle – Fire, Family and the Weight of it All

A confronting scene on our farm—too weak to get out, too late for help.

People always ask me, “How do you manage everything?”

The short answer is—I don’t.

Life feels like one big, chaotic mess most days. I’m lucky to have incredible friends who help keep the wheels turning at home, and a husband who cheers me on like no one else. Without them, I honestly couldn’t do any of this.

But the juggle between my art, my family, and trying to keep everything from falling apart? It’s a lot.

Right now, on top of everything else, we’re in a drought. One of the worst in 70 years. The stress it’s putting on our community is huge. I see it in my husband, the way he carries it quietly, how it's there in everything he does. You can feel it in the air, in every conversation. The waiting. The hope. The shadow hangs over all of us while we look to the sky for something to change.

We got a bit of rain last weekend, which normally would feel like a blessing. But it came in cold, and our sheep, already weak from months of little feed, didn’t stand a chance. Cold and wet is a bad mix. We lost a lot of them. And with the dams so low, the stock get stuck in the mud trying to drink. They're too weak to get out. And then they die.

That’s the reality. And it breaks my heart.

What makes it harder is that I’ve been away, travelling with Just A Farmer, pushing to get the film in front of people, while my own family is living through this. That guilt eats at me. I know I’m doing something important, but it doesn’t make being away feel any better.

The film was made to help. To open up conversations around mental health and suicide, especially in rural communities like ours. It’s a tough thing to carry, but I care too much to stop. I need people to see it. I need it to make a difference.

But it’s exhausting. I didn’t realise how much it would take out of me, being away, showing up, doing Q&As, trying to hold space for other people’s emotions while carrying my own. It’s not glamorous. It’s lonely. It’s tiring. And some days, I just want to be home.

But I keep going because I said I would. And where I come from, your word is your bond. If you say you’ll do it, you do it. Don’t say it if you can’t follow through.

I read something recently that really hit me, it reminded me that creativity doesn’t switch off. It doesn’t wait for the kids to go to sleep or the house to be clean. It’s always there, tugging at you. It’s a gift, but also a burden. Especially when life’s already heavy.

Being a woman who creates and cares deeply is complicated. You’re expected to keep things nice and tidy, not to take up too much space, not to be “too much.” But I’ve done enough shrinking. I’ve spent enough years trying to tone myself down for other people’s comfort. I’m done with that.

I feel things deeply. I see the world differently. I notice the things others miss. And yeah, I know that can be intense, but that’s just who I am.

What I hope is that one day, when my kids are older, they’ll understand why I did all of this. That I wasn’t choosing my work over them, but that I was fighting for something that matters. That I was building something real, not just for me, but for them too. I hope they see me showing up, even when it’s hard. I hope they see me living with purpose, not just surviving.

There’s no neat balance here. Just one big juggle. Some days I drop the ball. Some days I get it right. Most days it’s a bit of both.

But I’m still here. Still going. Still trying to live with fire. Even when that fire flickers.

Even when the paddocks are bare and the dams have turned to mud. Even when I come home to find sheep that didn’t make it, too weak, too stuck, too late.

That’s the weight we carry out here. It’s not just mine, it’s our community’s.

And I’m not sharing this for sympathy, but so people understand it’s real. This is the cost of silence. Of pretending we’re fine.

So I keep showing up. For the film. For the farm. For the ones still here.

xx

Leila