The Balancing Act | Reflections on a year of chef life
Life’s been a wild ride lately. Actually, calling it ‘wild’ feels like an understatement.
I’ve been meaning to share this for a while, but kept hesitating—probably because I wasn’t sure how to say it all. But here it goes.
The past year—travelling the world, working at Vue de Monde, throwing myself into pop-ups, writing my first cookbook—it’s been incredible. But it’s also been one of the hardest years of my life mentally, which says a lot. I’m still figuring out how to look after myself properly through it all.
I guess what I really want to say is: it’s okay if you’re struggling. I do too sometimes. And that’s human. What matters is finding ways to be kind to yourself. I’m learning that, slowly, every day.
Being a chef is so much more than what you see on a plate, or on TV, or on a screen. It’s stories, mine and yours. It’s listening. It’s constant learning. It’s endless cleaning and prep. It’s pushing yourself past exhaustion, sometimes too far. And sometimes it’s standing in quiet moments, just peeling herbs, grateful for the stillness. It’s this essence I aim to capture in my ‘For Now’ series.
Honestly, I didn’t become a chef for the reasons people might think. Cooking, for me, began as a coping mechanism. A way to manage my self-worth. I used to think the only way I could be ‘valuable’ in a room was to serve, to feed others. I felt safer in the kitchen, offering small acts of care through food — the one thing I knew how to give. I never really noticed how much of that came from low self-esteem.
These days, cooking is my full-time job. And that brings its own challenges. The hardest part has been trying to balance everything — my love of the craft, the relentless work, the travel, the business side of things, the creative side, and trying to keep a sense of self through it all.
When I’m in that zone of flow and creativity, I get restless and relentless. I’m a little like a border collie puppy (if you know, you know — those hyper Aussie farm dogs I grew up with, who will run themselves into the ground because they don’t know when to stop). That’s me when it comes to work. And sometimes, a lot of the time actually, that isn’t healthy.
Running pop-ups teaches me more than I can put into words, more than most chefs could learn in a decade if they weren’t thrown straight into head chef roles. But it also takes everything from me — building relationships with farmers and producers, planning menus for seasons I’m not even in yet, researching, designing dishes that honour the stories and origins of the ingredients, marketing, running the events, meeting people, dealing with surprises in every single service.
And then there’s the “Stage Nat” – the version of me that’s switched on for the public: the smiling, chatting, answering the same questions over and over, being present for every guest even when I’m drained. I do love meeting everyone, but I’m learning that I need better boundaries so that I don’t burn out or resent the things I love.
My brain runs fast. Manic, sometimes. But I also crave those quiet, peaceful moments—reading, writing, drawing, puzzle games, running, snowboarding, rock climbing—anything that helps me stay sane. I call it thoughtless focus.
Lately, emotions have been running high. I just approved the final edit of my cookbook and I feel this wave of relief, pride, fear, and overwhelming gratitude — all at once.
It’s been hitting me, too, after wrapping up my last pop-up for now and shooting the second season of my ‘For Now’ series in Nipaluna/Hobart: the hardest part hasn’t been the work itself, but how people frame it. Since winning MasterChef, so many conversations—with family, friends, strangers—come back to this idea that life has somehow been handed to me on a silver platter. That all my opportunities now are “because of MasterChef.”
Yes, MasterChef gave me an incredible platform and connected me with so many amazing people. I’ll always be grateful for that. But writing a cookbook? Planning and executing pop-ups? Building these relationships in the food world? All of that has come from me — from hustling, from taking charge of my own learning and growth as a chef.
That growth has only been possible because of the people around me. Like I wrote in my cookbook acknowledgements (which you will hopefully read one day), I didn’t do this alone. Not even close. This wild journey started as a tiny seed—a curious “maybe one day” thought—and like all things that matter, it only grew because so many people watered it.
Jamie Oliver, you planted that seed and nurtured it when I didn’t know how. Ben Liebmann, you pushed me to believe I could do more. To every chef I’ve worked beside, and every person in hospitality: your fingerprints are all over my work. We’re part of a new era now, one of open hands and shared wisdom, and I’m proud to stand in that.
To my parents, who raised me quite literally in a kitchen—Mum, Dad—you gave me resilience and the love of feeding others. To my brothers, for the family meals that inspired everything. To Bronte, thank you for being the calm in my storm more times than I can count. And to every single person who’s supported me, taught me, laughed with me, shared a meal or a moment — you are part of this story.
If I’m really honest, there were moments I didn’t think I’d be here. Without the love and support from so many of you, I could have been lost in some faraway place, literally between the pillars of some ice stalactites of a lake in Canada — a version of me that never knew how to come back.
And don’t worry, even though I don’t have any pop-ups lined up for the moment, there are so many exciting things on the horizon. Things I need to give more of my energy to. See! I’m getting better at knowing where to put my focus, how much to give, and when to recognise that some things take more from you than others. It’s all part of learning how to take care of yourself — and keep doing what you love.
Thank you, endlessly, to everyone who’s ever shared a meal, a story, or a word of encouragement with me. I’ll carry it all, always.
And remember, be kind to yourself.
Lots of love,
Nat ❤️
