As the flood on their farm neared its peak, M'Liss and Nick Tyack noticed their young daughter wasn't sleeping well.
Three-year-old Adeline, they feared, was becoming more anxious by the day.
By November, farms around Condobolin in central-west New South Wales had been inundated.
The Tyacks tried to shield their toddler from conversations about the crisis — but as water rose around the levy bank protecting their new house, it became impossible.
"You hear people say that kids are like little sponges but until you actually go through something like this you don't actually notice that they do pick up on everything," Ms Tyack says.
The safest way to get around the Tyack's farm was by tinny and tractor — not ideal with a toddler in tow.
So, before the road out became completely submerged, Ms Tyack took Adeline and a few belongings and they made a break for town.
For the next five weeks, they relied on the generosity of family and friends for shelter.
Nick Tyack stayed behind to try to save the house and salvage remaining crops. He only saw his wife and daughter three times during the separation.
"There were long days, and when he didn't answer the phone, of course the first thing you do is go straight to panic mode,'" Ms Tyack says.
Adeline had never been a kid who cried at daycare drop-offs. Suddenly, she was in tears every morning.
"We'd both leave in tears. She'd go inside, and I would walk away and cry," Ms Tyack says.
The stress of the separation and moving around was taking its toll.
Women and children leave home
Farming families across dozens of flood-affected rural communities have been enduring similar separations.
Women and children have relocated to nearby towns, not just for safety but so they can keep working in their day jobs, and so children can attend school.
Buy from the Bush founder, Grace Brennan, was one of them. She's relieved that, after five months, the school bus can once again collect her three children from her farm's front gate.
Wet and damaged roads meant she would often drive an extra 300 kilometres — "the long way round" — to do pick-ups and drop-offs in Warren, 120 kilometres north-west of Dubbo.
Inconveniences like that have added even more stress to people's lives, as the ongoing La Niña weather pattern has wreaked havoc across the eastern states.
"It's the nature of how long it's going on for people and feeling like they can't catch a break," Ms Brennan says.
"It's a kind of collective depression in the sense that I think people are tired and their capacity to cope with things that are thrown at them on a day-to-day basis is really diminished."
She's concerned the younger generation, in particular, is struggling.
"The ground has been shifting under these kids with COVID and everything for so long," she says.
Recognising the strain on students, St Mary's Primary School in Warren started "Wellness Wednesdays". The school provided free school lunches and students spent the afternoon "just having fun".
For parents like Ms Brennan, as well as for their children, it is a "circuit breaker". One less school lunch to pack is one less thing to worry about.
It takes a village
In Condobolin, women like M'Liss Tyack are rallying to help each other.
Together with two close friends, Ms Tyack started a Facebook group to connect women who'd been forced off their farms during the floods. Many had young children.
The playfully named "High and Dry" group meets for activities such as swim dates, doing obstacle courses, and having dinners at the golf club where kids can run outside, and mums can unwind.
One evening, a local teacher joined them and presented the children with "floody buddies" — soft toys to hold and snuggle whenever they feel sad or anxious.
"Having that connection and support in town just made such a difference to everybody," Ms Tyack says.
"Not only for mums but for the kids too. It gave everyone a bit of an outing as well, to come together and not think about the S-H-ONE-T show at home."
She's confident the friendships and connections will be ongoing.
Those left behind
With waters around Condobolin gradually receding, many women have returned home to their farms. But some never left their properties, and still can't.
Trini Coupland and her husband have been cut off since early November because the "choppy ocean" on their farm has not subsided.
"I'd take a drought over this any day," she says.
The Couplands say they were lucky to have harvested much of their grain crop before the flood struck, but damaged roads and infrastructure have prevented them from getting it off the farm to sell.
Right on cue, Ms Coupland stops mid-sentence to take a phone call from her husband. He's bogged again. That's the 11th time in three days.
But the hardest part, she says, is the isolation.
"It's a bit like going back into COVID because we haven't been able to catch up with anyone in town or around us," she says.
"The separation is awful."
The forgotten flood
Rural Aid's chief executive, John Warlters, is concerned about the toll this year's flooding is taking on the mental health of farmers and their families.
Droughts, he explains, are "insidious and spread like cancer" — but they allow people time to make decisions and to prepare and manage as best they can.
Floods, on the other hand, are "sudden and dramatic and people's ability to respond is almost taken away".
He says "flood fatigue" has set in, particularly in metropolitan areas where waterlogged paddocks and flood-damaged roads are not daily sights.
"It's almost the 'forgotten flood', and the hardship that people are experiencing, it's been lost on people," he says.
Reunions 'bittersweet'
When the Tyacks finally reunited on their farm, emotions ran high.
"There was running and happiness and screaming … there was crying and laughter. It was pretty special," Ms Tyack says.
But there was also sorrow because while their home was still standing, many others weren't.
"You're so goddamn happy to be home and just so excited that you can sleep in your own bed and cook a decent meal," she says.
"And then there's this bittersweet feeling of absolute sadness for the people who did lose their homes.
"I get really excited about being alive. And then I think, 'Oh shoot, I can't, I can't be that excited in front of this person who's standing in front of me who's lost everything'."
Her empathy runs deep, and there are reminders of the ongoing disaster everywhere: in the battered landscape, flattened machinery, and even in homes that survived.
Each night when she puts Adeline to bed, the little girl still clutches her "floody buddy". It's a reminder of what everyone — young and old — is still enduring.
"My heart goes out to those who are still stuck out of town and who are still dealing with this flood. It's just very overwhelming," she says.
"I think the strength and resilience that everybody has shown throughout this whole catastrophe is just second to none. People amaze me."
