Remote family on life in the outback: '900km round-trip for nappies'

Yahoo

10-05-2025

Millions around the country will be clinking glasses over brunch, handing over fresh blooms or scented candles, and treating Mum to a well-deserved massage this Mother's Day. But for Dr Rebecca West, a mum of two, the occasion looks a little different — and far more extraordinary.
Living on a sprawling 86,000-acre property in Fort Gre — one of the most remote corners of New South Wales — Bec, her husband Reece, and their two young kids are hundreds of kilometres from the nearest cafe or day spa. Instead, about five hours north of Broken Hill, their Mother's Day tradition unfolds on a far grander scale. The family unfurls an aerial map of their outback station, chooses a patch of land they've never visited before, and sets off to explore.
It's not just a celebration — it's an adventure, carved out in red earth and endless sky, and stitched deeply into the fabric of their family life.
"We often name the locations, whether it's Mother's Day swamp, or Mother's Day sand dune or something, just to experience a new place as a family and make it a special occasion," Bec told Yahoo News Australia. "It's really cool, actually. It's very special."
Bec and her partner Reece, both ecologists, moved to Fort Grey, a region in Tibooburra, to carry out important conservation work eight years ago. There, she focuses on ecosystem restoration and reintroduction ecology through her work on the Wild Deserts project.
She has, so far, reintroduced seven vulnerable native mammal species back into their natural habitat, the Sturt National Park, after they were driven out — and almost to extinction — thanks to notorious invasive species like cats and foxes.
After almost a decade living as one of NSW's most remote families, Bec's well accustomed to life in absolute isolation, but she said it's not without its challenges. One of the biggest hurdles Bec faces is the mental load that comes with having to plan ahead for everything. Everyday tasks, even simple ones like feeding the family, require much more logistical effort.
"If I run out of something critical, like baby nappies, I've got a 900 kilometre round trip to get those," she said. "So there's a lot more planning, which for us is a challenge across everything we do, as well as parenting, our work as well."
That means constantly thinking ahead, having back-up supplies, and being prepared for things like plumbing failures or sudden shortages. While her family has modern comforts like power, internet and running water, it's the isolation — and the pressure to always be ready — that makes remote life uniquely demanding.
On the upside, Bec said life in the outback has created a special kind of closeness within her family. "A lot of people would think that this is a really hard way to bring up kids," she said.
"But I think there are often a lot of opportunities that aren't noticed, being a mum out in the bush, particularly the ability to have that really strong, deep connection with your family. That's one of the reasons I love doing it the way that we've done it."
Fellow regional mother Phoebe White, who lives just outside the tiny NSW town of Scone — about two hours northwest of Newcastle — echoes Bec's sentiment about the unique realities of bush life. A proud seventh-generation farmer, Phoebe inherited Mount Woolooma in 2017, and while she says regional living has "absolutely" enriched her family's life, she also knows it comes with added demands.
"There's an innate understanding when you're in a rural community that things aren't as easy," she told Yahoo. "You can't just pick up the phone and call someone to fix something, you've got to learn to do it yourself, or plan ahead."
While Phoebe describes Scone — dubbed the "horse capital of Australia" — as having a "fantastic" sense of community, she also acknowledges how vital that network becomes when formal supports are lacking. That local connection, particularly with other mothers, has helped her not only navigate parenting but find joy in it.
Having previously called Sydney, London and Miami home, Phoebe says there's nothing quite like the bond shared between bush mums. "Whether or not they're your blood family, they become family by nature, because you're all so supportive of one another," she said.
Her experience highlights a common thread among many regional mothers. While the landscape can offer beauty, freedom and deep community ties, the need for strong, accessible support — both emotional and practical — is just as important.
It's something former TV journalist turned farmer Stephanie Trethewey is fiercely passionate about. In 2019, she left behind her Melbourne media career and moved to a remote Tasmanian farm for love — a move that came with life-changing challenges.
"I didn't realise that when I married a farmer, that ultimately what I married was the land," she said.
Swapping a bustling city life with endless resources and a strong support network for an isolated property, Stephanie soon found herself alone with a newborn while her husband worked seven days a week. The nature of farming, much like parenting, is relentless, she said.
Without access to a mother's group or any friends or family nearby, her mental health began to spiral. "You hear people say it takes a village to raise a child, and I just thought, where the hell is mine?" Stephanie recalled.
That moment of raw frustration sparked something bigger — the birth of Motherland, a grassroots charity now helping women across the country. Through a suite of support services aimed at building resilience and improving mental health outcomes for rural mums, Motherland launched Australia's first online mothers' group specifically for the bush, creating a virtual village for those who have none nearby.
According to a national survey, 90 per cent of rural mothers believe the postnatal support available to them is inadequate. More than 70 per cent gave birth in a hospital over an hour away from home, and 80 per cent have experienced postnatal depression or anxiety. Yet fewer than half have sought professional help, citing stigma, shame or simply no access to services.
Motherland is working to close that gap. What started as a simple podcast in December, 2019 now boasts over 1.1 million downloads. "We're now a national charity where the podcast is just one small piece of what we do," Stephanie said.
Her mission has since helped Motherland expand out of Tasmania and into other states, including Queensland, where it's now backed by a $1 million government grant to extend support to rural mums doing it tough. "Rural mums are the linchpin," Stephanie said. "They are the glue holding these households together, as mums usually are in general.
"That's why I'm so passionate about supporting them, advocating for them, and raising awareness. That's why I do what I do."
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