I could list a million good reasons why we started a farm. And on any given day, you might hear me say something different. The desire to grow our own food. To teach our children the rhythm of the seasons. To live more slowly, more intentionally.

But if I’m being honest, and I always try to be, it all comes back to one thing; Connection.

Not the kind that requires a password or shows up with a notification bubble. But the kind that’s felt in your bones when your hands are in the soil. The kind that appears quietly at sunrise, when you open the coop and let the chickens step into the morning light. The kind that doesn’t rush or ping or shout. The kind of connection we were always meant to have.

In today’s world, it’s easy to forget that kind of living even exists. We’re constantly tapped in. To the news. The noise. The opinions. The grief of the world, delivered in headline-sized pieces, stacked like bricks we carry in our pockets. Some days, it feels like too much to hold.

And maybe that’s why this shift happened slowly at first, and then all at once. A quiet turning away from scrolling and refreshing. A soft return to something more grounded. Something real.

That’s why we started a farm.

Not because we thought we’d be perfect at it. Not because we had farming in our family history. But because the world felt too loud, and this felt like a way to come home to ourselves.

Where the Online World Ends and the Dirt Begins

Ironically, much of my work lives online. I run digital businesses I love. I get to help other women chase dreams, build something meaningful, and create income in ways that support their lives. But working online also means I’m plugged in more than I want to be most days.

Some days, the tension is real. I’ll be in the middle of writing something that matters to me, and then a breaking news alert pops up. Or I log in to check analytics and find myself lost in a sea of content I never asked to see.

So while I haven’t left the online world, and I probably never will, I’ve found something that balances it a little better.

The farm.

It’s the garden that grows whether or not I post. The chicken that need feeding no matter what time my meeting ends. The wildflower seedlings that push through the earth without permission or performance. They remind me that growth can be slow, steady, and unseen.

Here, I don’t measure success by clicks or views. I measure it by how many eggs we gather. How many weeds we pulled. How many meals we made from scratch.

And in some quiet way, this work that rarely gets seen by anyone else is the work that fills me the most.

The Sacred in the Small Things

There’s something sacred about ordinary labor. It’s easy to dismiss it until you’ve lived it. Until you’ve eaten the tomatoes you grew yourself. Until you’ve cut enough firewood to last you through the winter. Until you’ve spent a Saturday knee-deep in the garden, hands covered in soil, sun-kissed by the sun.

A way of saying, “I’m still here. I still believe in the goodness of this world. I still want to care for something that matters to me.”

And maybe that’s the quiet truth no one says out loud when you ask why we started a farm. It’s not really about the farm at all.

It’s about remembering that we can live differently. That we don’t have to be constantly available. That we’re allowed to turn toward something simpler and find joy in it.

The Beauty of Community

If connection to the land was the first gift from this little farm, then connection to people was the second.

We haven’t lived here long, but already I feel more at home than I have in years. There’s a gentleness in the way people greet one another here. A quiet generosity in the way they show up. I’ve met neighbors who bring over fresh cucumbers just because they have extra. Who return egg cartons with handwritten thank you notes. Who wave as they pass by our old red house. We really do have the best neighbors here.

I didn’t realize how much I missed that until it became part of my life again. Now, I can’t imagine going without it.

A Quiet Life, by Choice

Sometimes I think people wonder if starting a farm in 2025 makes sense. It might seem a little too different. A little too impractical. Maybe even a little naive.

And to be honest, maybe it is.

But for me, it’s also the most grounded decision I’ve made in a long time.

There is something beautiful about choosing to spend your time on things that actually matter to you. Whether it’s letting the chickens out in the morning, harvesting herbs from the garden, homeschooling my kids, or baking sourdough for a neighbor down the road.

These things might look small from the outside. But from where I stand, they feel full and meaningful.

I’ve come to realize, this feeling isn’t something we stumble upon. It’s something we build. One small choice at a time. One seed planted. One hour unplugged.

And that, more than anything, feels like success these days.

It started with a soft snowfall on a Saturday morning. I stood in the kitchen, still in my cozy wool slippers, watching my husband stack firewood outside while steam curled from my coffee mug. Our two younger kids were tugging on boots, begging to go help. And in that quiet moment, I thought: this—this might just be it. Not the end goal, not the retirement plan. But the thing we were always chasing in some abstract way.

For years, we’ve worked in the digital space. Tech, startups, digital products—we built our dream life with Wi-Fi and willpower. We’re deeply grateful for it. And yet… there’s been this quiet longing we couldn’t shake.

What if the dream you built starts to evolve?

What if you have everything you once asked for… but your heart keeps tugging you toward something different?

What if success isn’t about scaling up, but slowing down?

This post isn’t about quitting everything and moving off-grid. It’s about adding depth. Texture. Dirt-under-the-fingernails kind of fulfillment. If you’ve ever felt like your online business is thriving but your soul is asking for more, you’re not alone. And maybe—just maybe—you’re allowed to want and do both.

Where the Dream Started to Shift

We thought success looked like laptops and launches. But these days, it looks like early mornings, muddy boots, and and hatching baby chicks in our kitchen.

A few years ago, we were living in a little beach cottage. Two blocks from the ocean, sunshine nearly year-round, and all the amenities that made remote work feel like a dream. But when we saw the listing for a old red house in New England—on 45 acres, no less—something in me lit up. (We had never even been to new england).

We told ourselves it was a good investment. We said the land was just a bonus. But really? We were craving something deeper. More grounded. A place to put down roots in more ways than one.

At the time, our work lives were at full capacity—meetings, launches, emails, and endless tabs open at once. But on weekends, we’d be outside: planting apple trees, hauling rocks, fixing fences. My husband started chopping firewood to heat the house. I started dreaming about what we could grow.

We always say that if we just work hard enough, earn enough, and keep pushing, we’ll finally have the time to do what we love. More time outside. More time growing things. More time together, hands in the soil.

But what if the thing we were working toward… was already right here?

What if this was the life we were meant to build?

Not as a side project. Not as a someday dream.

But for real. For now.

So we made it official.

We started a farm.

And just like that, the shift began.

Turns Out, “Perfect” Wasn’t What We Needed After All

Joy wasn’t found in inbox zero or perfectly polished sales funnels. Joy showed up in quiet, ordinary moments:

• Mucking out the chicken coop at sunrise.
• Watching our kids collect eggs with their little yellow rain boots.
• Sharing sourdough and soup with neighbors.
• Looking up from our laptops and seeing trees, not traffic.

It hit us hard during a recent trip to Europe. In Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, we visited farms—small ones, nestled into hillsides, run by families. These farms didn’t have perfect land. Some were steep. Some were rocky. But they worked with what they had.

We realized you don’t have to have it be perfect in order to start. You don’t have to quit your one dream job to build something new. You can start with what you have. And do both for as long as you want to.

Maybe This Was the Dream All Along

We still have Zoom calls. We still build funnels and send newsletters and doe and sell digital products. But we also plant apple trees, mend fences, and teach our kids how to plant seeds.

And we’ve never felt richer in those mundane moments.

This farm isn’t a backup plan or an escape route. It’s an expansion. A slower dream, layered on top of the fast one. A place where both ambition and peace can live side by side.

We still run our digital businesses. My husband still codes. I still take client zoom calls and build things on the internet. But now, we also build things in the real world—with our hands, with our kids, with the seasons.

The farm isn’t a replacement. It’s an expansion. A widening of what success can look like.

Because the goal was never just freedom.

It was meaning.

It was connection.

It was building a life that feels rich in ways no metric can measure.

So if your heart is pulling you in a new direction—toward something slower, messier, more rooted—I hope this reminds you:

You don’t have to wait until everything’s perfectly aligned.

You don’t have to burn it all down to begin again.

You’re allowed to evolve.

You’re allowed to want both.

And sometimes, the life you’re chasing?

It’s already under your feet.

You just have to plant something and begin.