What 80 Acres of Stillness Feels Like

Stillness isn’t something I’d ever sought out. Like many of us, I live life at full tilt — juggling work, motherhood, expectations, and endless to-do lists. But when I first stepped onto the land that would become Rea Rea Lodge, something shifted. The noise fell away, quite literally. All I could hear was the wind moving through the gums and the chatter of birds. I didn’t know it yet, but I had found stillness. And it was 87 acres wide.

There’s something about this land that calms the body before the mind even catches up. Maybe it’s the escarpment, towering and ever-present, ancient and grounding. Or maybe it’s the way the light changes throughout the day—from the golden softness of dawn to the blush hues of dusk. I’ve seen it stop people in their tracks—guests arriving mid-conversation, only to fall silent as the landscape welcomes them in. It’s as if the Valley asks nothing of you, except that you just be.

For me, stillness doesn’t mean nothing happens. It means that everything meaningful has space to emerge. My daughters run squealing through the paddocks playing games with our dog, find injured insects and create “animal hospitals”, chip away at jigsaw puzzles and collect kindling for the evening fire. I walk the bush trails in the early morning and notice tiny signs of life—a wombat trail, wildflowers blooming, birds I’ve never learned the names of. Even cooking feels different here. Slower. More enjoyable. A shared meal feels like a small ceremony.

This stillness also gave me the courage to rebuild. When I first purchased the property that is now Rea Rea, I was finding my feet as a single mum. The world felt unfamiliar and hard. But in this space, I had room to process, to feel, and ultimately—to exhale. As I redesigned the interiors and outdoor space, I found myself also reimagining the shape of my own life. With the help of thoughtful designers and generous collaborators, we created a space that’s deeply personal, but also perfect for sharing.

Guests often tell me they sleep more deeply here. That they’ve reconnected with their partner, their kids, their friends or themselves. That the land “feels alive.” And I believe it is. The land of the Gammeya Dharawal people has long been a place of spiritual renewal. I don’t think we realise how much we crave stillness until we experience it. I mean the kind of stillness that lets you hear your own thoughts clearly. That reminds you what really matters. That brings you home to yourself.

Eighty-nine acres of stillness is not isolating — it’s full. Full of life, presence, connection, and possibility. And once you’ve felt it, it never really leaves you.