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.

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.