I’ve had a long time to sit with everything that happened to Robert—time to reflect on the why, the how, the when, and the where. Now that we’re in a new place with it all (as I shared in my last post), my perspective has shifted in ways I never expected.

For years, I lived in a kind of shock. I couldn’t understand how easily people accepted things said about him, how few paused to ask questions or look deeper, or how quickly rumours became “truth.” The environment around us felt heavy—charged with hostility, coldness, and a level of spiritual dullness that left me feeling like I’d stepped into another era. It reminded me of the old days when crowds condemned a person based solely on whispers, without compassion or consideration for the value of a human heart.

Watching that unfold against someone I knew to be humble, kind, and deeply genuine was traumatising.

What made it even harder was Robert’s natural tendency to stay silent—to let people think what they wanted, hoping they would judge him by his character rather than by noise. But people are fragile without God. Over time, I began to see how envy, entitlement, and resentment can twist into something destructive. Some believed he had a life they deserved for themselves, and that misunderstanding became its own kind of fuel.

Robert has talked openly with the public about how fame shaped his ideas about relationships when he was younger. Growing up in a complex environment didn’t turn him into what others tried to paint him as—it made him more sensitive to people who had suffered, especially women who said they needed protection or support. He often put himself at risk to help them, not realising how misplaced that heroism could be or how high the cost would eventually become.

One thing the public doesn’t see is his refusal to speak badly about anyone, even when silence cost him dearly. He has carried people’s secrets, mistakes, and betrayals without throwing them back. I’ve been frustrated with him for that at times, but it’s also part of who he is: fiercely loyal, even when it hurts.

I think I’m the first woman he has fully trusted—with his soul, his heart, and his love. Maybe that’s because I never wanted fame, money, or attention. I’ve always believed in the richness of what God created: free will, honesty, simplicity, and kindness.

I’m a country girl at heart. I spent years living and working on farmland in the Australian countryside near Byron Bay. My family has farmed for generations—growing their own food, raising animals, living close to the earth. Even when life pulls us into cities, the land never leaves us; it’s in our blood.

Robert never grew up around that kind of life, but it’s the kind of richness that fits his soul. The land gives back in peace, joy, fulfilment, and a kind of contentment fame could never offer.

And honestly, land life suits the strongest of men—men like him. It gives them a place to use their strength and protective instincts the way God intended. Animals never lie or betray; they are steady, honest, and aligned with God’s natural order. Nature can protect and threaten in the same breath—wild and unpredictable, yet deeply peaceful and harmonious.

I believe many men carry a primal longing for this way of life. And for women like me, it allows us to return to our own natural rhythms—to nurture, grow, create, tend to the garden, bake, and love in a way that feels true to who we are. We get to be women without performing roles that were never ours to begin with.

The richness of farm life is simple and powerful: peace, freedom, love, gratitude, adventure, beauty, harmony, and joy. After everything we’ve been through, I believe this is our reward for holding on. This is our season to take the land God has given us and create something meaningful from it—to build a legacy that rises above human fragility and reflects what is possible when we follow God’s design and live at one with His creation.

And honestly… I’ve never felt more at home.

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J.