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I have spent the past few weeks watching Farmer Wants a Wife and I think I've finally worked out what's bothering me.

Despite the fact that everyone keeps randomly leaving, nobody can seem to finish a sentence and the chemistry between some of the contestants and their farmers is weaker than the phone signal on most Australian farms, this show doesn't have a romance problem.

It has a confidence problem.

This week, Farmer Dylan found himself at the centre of some drama after telling contestant Lily he wanted the women to "chase" him more.

"I need everyone to chase me. I need to know who's keen," he explained.

Watch: What we can expect from the latest season of Farmer Wants A Wife. Post continues below.

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Now, look.

I understand wanting reassurance. Dating is vulnerable, rejection is embarrassing and nobody enjoys putting their feelings on the line only to discover the other person is about as invested as they are in their gym membership (which reminds me, I really do need to cancel mine…).

But there is something objectively absurd about asking for proof that someone likes you when they have literally relocated to a remote property to date you on national television.

At a certain point, we have to accept that someone moving into a share house full of their romantic rivals who are also trying to kiss the same man is a fairly strong expression of interest.

Don't get me wrong, though: the women aren't much better.

Every time a farmer shows interest in another contestant, somebody inevitably spirals. Again, understandable. But also the entire premise of the show.

Farmer Wants a Wife is essentially a television program built around one of the most uncomfortable experiences known to humankind: watching somebody you like date other people, only in a paddock instead of your favourite wine bar.

Most of us would rather be hit by a small vehicle. 

But every season, contestants arrive shocked to discover that the man they've signed up to date alongside five other women is, in fact, dating five other women.

I actually do have a lot of sympathy for everyone involved, and it is very easy for me to sit on the couch eating ice cream and yell, "Pull yourself together!"

It's much harder when you're the one watching the person you have a crush on flirt with somebody else immediately after you've spent the afternoon pretending shovelling sheep manure is a romantic bonding activity.

Still, the more I watch this show, the more I think everybody is asking the wrong question.

The farmers want to know whether the women like them. The women want to know whether the farmers like them.

Everybody is seeking reassurance. Everybody is seeking validation. Everybody wants somebody to look them dead in the eye and say, "Congratulations. You have won the prize of being perceived!"

But when your entire focus becomes securing somebody else's approval, you stop evaluating whether the relationship itself is actually working for you.

You stop asking the important questions about whether you feel valued, respected or whether you actually like the other person as much as you've convinced yourself you do, and instead the conversation becomes entirely centred around one thing: Do they like me?

It's a trap a lot of us fall into, and not just on reality television.

It's why perfectly intelligent women spend six months convincing themselves that a man who replies "haha" every three days is just "really busy right now." It's why we stay in situationships that make us miserable. It's why a man can bring absolutely nothing to the table except a nicotine addiction and a dream, and we'll still find ourselves desperate for him to pick us.

I won't lie: being chosen does feel good. It validates us. It feels like proof that we're worthy.

And that's what happened between Farmer Dylan and Lily. He wanted reassurance that the women were invested. She wanted reassurance that Dylan was invested.

Just a man desperate to be told he is wanted. Image: Channel Seven.

Neither question is wrong (they are both human, after all) but Lily eventually arrived at a question far more interesting than whether a bloke in a cowboy hat and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate liked her.

She asked herself, "Do I actually like this?"

And once she stopped trying to win and started looking at the "relationship" itself — which at that point largely consisted of one date, several chats that were basically just "horses are pretty swell" and a level of reassurance-seeking usually reserved for me after sending a risky text message — the answer became pretty obvious: No. No she absolutely did not. 

Which is how we ended up with an absolutely elite piece of reality television as she self-eliminated herself from the show.

"The world's on fire, the oceans are dying, and I am finding it really hard to sit here," she told the room.

"The world is ending and, for some reason, I am literally sat here with you." Image: Channel Seven,

I nearly fell off my chair. One minute, we are discussing a farm love triangle. Next, we are confronting the collapse of civilisation. Was it dramatic? Absolutely. Was it slightly unhinged? Without question. 

But was she wrong? Not really. 

Underneath the reality TV chaos, her point was pretty simple: she wasn't happy and the dynamic wasn't working. She wasn't getting what she needed, so she left. Which, arguably, is the healthiest thing anyone has done on this show so far.

Ironically, on a show full of people desperately seeking reassurance, it was one of the most self-assured things we've seen all season, because she finally realised that she didn't actually need to stay and convince someone to choose her. 

And until everybody on Farmer Wants A Wife stops asking, "Do they like me?" and starts asking, "Do I actually like this?" I'm going to keep yelling the same thing at my television every Tuesday night.

Feature image: Channel Seven.