Three years ago yesterday, we moved to this farm.

I remember the feeling vividly. Equal parts excitement, determination, exhaustion, and a healthy amount of naïveté. We arrived carrying plans, spreadsheets, ideas, dreams, and probably a few unrealistic expectations. Like most people building something from the ground up, we believed that hard work, persistence, and time would eventually get us where we wanted to go.

And for a while, it felt like that was exactly what was happening.

A year ago, I found myself standing in the middle of projects finally taking shape. The kind of season where the long-term vision begins to look less like a dream and more like a reality. It was overwhelming, but in the best possible way. There were always too many things to do, but they felt like the right things.

Lately, though, I've been reflecting on how much can change in a relatively short period of time.

A friend recently reached out and asked about my noticeable absence from Threads. The question stuck with me because I didn't have a simple answer. I haven't disappeared intentionally. I haven't been avoiding conversation. Life has simply required my attention elsewhere.

The last year has felt like a slow narrowing of focus.

Drought conditions have forced difficult decisions. Prices seem to climb faster than anyone can realistically keep pace with. The cost of basic necessities has become something many of us think about daily. Everywhere I turn, conversations that once revolved around growth, plans, and opportunities now seem increasingly centered on uncertainty, adaptation, and contingency plans.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped spending as much time talking about life and started spending more time simply trying to live it.

I've taken on more client work. I've harvested what was willing to grow. I've tended our spaces, cared for our animals, and spent more evenings sitting with people I love discussing questions that none of us seem to have clear answers for.

Questions like:

What comes next?

How long do we wait for conditions to improve before acknowledging they may not?

Which plans need more time, and which plans need to be reimagined entirely?

At what point do temporary adjustments become permanent realities?

I wish I could say these changes were simply part of the natural evolution of life. The kind of redirection that becomes obvious in hindsight. The kind where you eventually look back and understand why the path curved when it did.

But if I'm being honest, that isn't what this feels like.

Many of our plans have changed because the conditions around us have changed.

There is a tendency in our culture to frame every challenge as a personal obstacle to overcome through grit and determination. While resilience certainly matters, there is another truth that feels increasingly difficult to ignore: sometimes external forces reshape our lives in ways that individual effort alone cannot solve.

Economic realities matter.

Policy decisions matter.

The stability of institutions matters.

The availability of affordable housing, food, healthcare, education, and opportunity matters.

When those things begin shifting beneath us, the impact eventually reaches our homes, our communities, and our futures.

Some chapters do not end because they are complete.

Some chapters end because the environment that allowed them to exist no longer does.

That realization has occupied more of my thoughts than I expected.

Lately, I've found myself thinking often about family stories. The stories many of us inherited from parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents who left places they loved in search of something better. Not because they were chasing adventure. Not because they lacked attachment to home. But because the realities around them no longer supported the life they hoped to build.

I'm not suggesting our circumstances are identical.

But I understand those stories differently now.

For much of my life, those decisions felt distant and historical. Now they feel deeply human.

What do you do when the future you've been building toward begins to shift?

How do you know whether to stay the course, adapt, or begin imagining something entirely new?

These are not questions I expected to be asking this chapter of my life.

Yet here we are.

And perhaps that's what I've been learning lately: uncertainty is not always a sign of failure. Sometimes it is simply the acknowledgment that the world has changed and we must decide how to change with it.

I don't have neat conclusions.

I don't have a five-step plan.

I certainly don't have all the answers.

What I do have is a growing appreciation for slowing down long enough to honestly assess where we are. To recognize what is working. To acknowledge what isn't. To remain open to possibilities that may have seemed unimaginable a few years ago.

Three years into this farm journey, I still love this place deeply.

I still believe in building meaningful things.

I still believe in community, self-reliance, creativity, and the quiet power of tending what is right in front of us.

But I am also learning that building a future requires more than vision. It requires flexibility. It requires honesty. And sometimes it requires the courage to admit that the map has changed.

Maybe that's why I'm writing again.

Not because I've figured everything out, but because I haven't.

Because I suspect many of us are standing in similar places…looking at plans we made under one set of conditions and trying to determine what still makes sense under another.

If that's where you find yourself too, know that you're not alone.

We're all trying to figure out what comes next.

And while I don't have answers, I do have plenty of chicken photos, which feels like a reasonable contribution to the collective effort.

Because you don’t wait on a farm. You act.

This week, I lost two chicks. And I want to be clear about something…

Every hatch matters. Every single one.

Rare breed or barnyard mix, carefully planned pairing, or surprise. They are all watched. They are all counted. They are all loved.

There is no such thing as “just a chick” out here. But there is a different kind of weight when it’s a rare breed. Not more love, never more love. But more… responsibility.

Because you’re not just raising an animal. You’re holding a small, living piece of something that almost didn’t make it forward. Generations behind it. Fewer ahead of it than there should be. And for a moment…That future sits in your hands.

I am the first human they see.

The first warmth that isn’t the incubator.

The first set of hands that lifts them into the world.

The first voice, even if they don’t understand it.

I’m the one who checks on them in the quiet hours.

The one who watches them find their footing.

The one who knows them, even in the smallest ways.

And when something isn’t right… I’m the one who knows that, too. I did everything I knew to do.

Warmth adjusted.

Electrolytes mixed just right.

Isolation.

Observation.

Intervention at exactly the moment experience tells you it might still make a difference.

All the things that have worked before. All the things that should work. And still…there’s that instinct. The one you don’t talk about much. The one that shows up anyway.

The one that says, quietly but clearly:

This isn’t going to turn.

That’s the part people don’t understand about this life. It’s not that we don’t try hard enough. It’s not that we’re detached. It’s that we try knowing…

Knowing the odds. Knowing the signs.

Knowing that sometimes you’re not fixing…you’re just accompanying something to its end. And you still try anyway.

Because sometimes you’re wrong. Because sometimes they rally. Because sometimes life surprises you in ways that keep you doing this at all. So you go through the motions, but they’re not just motions.

They’re hope, dressed as routine.

But when you lose them, even two, even small, even “part of farming,” it doesn’t land small. Loss doesn’t scale the way people think it does. It doesn’t matter how many you hatch in a season. It doesn’t matter how many successes you’ve had.

Each one is its own story. Each one is its own interruption. Each one leaves a mark in the timeline you had quietly started to imagine. And here’s the truth, people don’t say out loud:

You don’t get used to it.

Not really. You might get quieter about it. You might move through it faster on the outside. You might not explain it to anyone who wouldn’t understand.

But when it happens, you still feel it. The tears still come, whether you want them to or not. You still hold something impossibly small in your hands and wish, just for a second longer, that effort could outweigh outcome.

You still tell them you love them. Because you did. Because you do. Because for however long they were here, they were yours to care for.

Today, I’ll check on my birds like I always do, watching them play, listening for what feels right and what doesn’t. I’ll celebrate these new lives, even as I miss the two we lost. I wish I could promise there won’t be more losses, but there always are. That’s part of loving something this fragile. And still, I will love them all. I will grieve them all. Because they deserve to be held in both.

Not announcing it.
Not explaining it.
Just… not showing up where you’re expected to.

Lately, I’ve been practicing the art of disconnection, not as an escape, but as a form of preservation.

This time of year always asks more of me than usual. My clients need more. My farm needs more. Life, in general, seems to press a little harder, a little louder, a little longer.

Because this is the season where everything begins again.

Chicks are hatching; tiny, loud, insistent reminders that life doesn’t wait until you feel ready. They need heat, food, water, and attention…constant and immediate.

Seeds are going into the ground. Trays, soil, timing, weather, everything matters right now. What gets planted (or missed) in this window shapes the entire season ahead.

And behind it all, there’s planning. Quiet, unglamorous, necessary planning. What gets grown, what gets raised, what gets sold, what gets let go. Decisions that don’t just fill time…they define it.

It’s not passive. It’s not aesthetic. It’s work that demands presence.

And at the end of it, there’s nothing left.

Not for posting.
Not for engaging.
Not for performing a version of myself that feels polished and presentable.

Just… quiet.

And honestly? That has to be enough.

We live in a world that treats visibility like value.

If you’re not posting, are you still relevant?
If you’re not engaging, are you falling behind?
If you’re not showing up, are you disappearing?

But what if none of that is true?

What if stepping back is actually a sign that you’re deeply engaged…just not in a visible way?

Because here’s the truth: real life is heavy right now.

Not just personally, but collectively. The social climate is loud, reactive, and emotionally charged. It’s a constant stream of urgency, opinions, crises, and commentary. Even on a good day, it’s a lot to process.

On a day when you’re already carrying the weight of your own responsibilities?

It’s overwhelming.

And adding to that noise, forcing yourself to contribute, to perform, to stay “active” can feel less like connection and more like depletion.

So I stepped back.

Not because I don’t care.
But because I care enough to recognize when my energy is better spent elsewhere.

In the work that actually matters.
In the animals that depend on me.
In the rhythm of new life unfolding, whether I document it or not.
In the quiet planning that sets the entire season in motion.

There is an honesty in tending to your actual life that no curated feed can replicate.

Disconnection isn’t absence.

It’s discernment.

It’s knowing the difference between:
What needs your attention, and what is simply asking for it?

It’s choosing depth over visibility.
Presence over performance.
Energy conservation over constant output.

And maybe most importantly, it’s about allowing yourself not to keep up.

There’s a strange pressure to always be “on.” To respond, react, contribute, stay informed, stay visible. But being constantly plugged in doesn’t make us more effective; it often just makes us more exhausted.

And exhaustion doesn’t create anything meaningful. It just drains.

So if you’ve been feeling it too, that quiet resistance, that fatigue, that sense that showing up online feels heavier than it should…consider this your permission slip.

You don’t have to add to the noise.

You don’t have to keep pace with an environment that never slows down.

You don’t have to turn every part of your life into something shareable.

You are allowed to live it instead.

I’ll come back when it feels right.
When I have something to say that feels worth the energy it takes to say it.
When showing up feels like connection again…not obligation.

Until then, I’m choosing to stay rooted in the real.

In hatch days and soil trays.
In seasonal planning and long to-do lists.
In the kind of work that doesn’t ask to be seen, only to be done.

And trusting that not everything meaningful needs to be seen to matter.

Seventy degrees in Kentucky in March! The kind of warm that makes your bones loosen and your brain start sprinting ahead of you. I had plans. Real ones. The kind you stack up all winter while watching gray skies and muddy boots. Outside work, projects, progress. The season finally opening up.

And then, by that evening, the sky reminded me who’s actually in charge.

Storms rolled in hard. The kind that make you stop what you’re doing and listen. Tornado potential. That eerie, electric air that doesn’t sit right in your chest. You shift from productivity to vigilance real quick when you farm because it’s not just about you. It’s about everything depending on you.

And just as fast as it came, it flipped again.

By the next morning? A full-on polar plunge. Temperatures tanked. Snow on the ground. Not a dusting…a couple inches. From seventy degrees to winter overnight, like the seasons got shuffled and dealt out wrong.

Every single outside plan I had? Done. Irrelevant.

Because farming will do that, it will take your carefully thought-out schedule, your lists, your timelines… and replace them with a single priority:

Keep everything alive.

That became the work.

Checking waterers before they froze solid. Watching birds for stress. Adjusting feed. Making sure no one got caught in that brutal swing from warm to freezing. You learn quickly that animals don’t care about your plans but they will absolutely feel the consequences of your environment.

So you pivot.

You always pivot.

There’s this idea people have about farming, that if you just know enough, plan well enough, work hard enough, you can stay ahead of things. And don’t get me wrong, knowledge matters. Experience matters. Good systems matter.

But none of it outranks the weather. None of it outranks the land. You can be prepared. You can be skilled. You can be good at what you do.

And Mother Nature will still humble you without hesitation.

That’s the part people don’t always see. The quiet recalculating. The constant adjustment. The way your “productive day” turns into a “protect what you have” day without warning. The way success in farming isn’t always growth…it’s survival, stability, making it through another swing intact.

It teaches you a different kind of discipline.

Not control but respect.

Not certainty but adaptability.

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to it, even on days like this. Because there’s something honest about work that refuses to bend to your expectations. Something grounding about being reminded, over and over, that you are not in charge here…you’re just in relationship with it.

And that relationship?

It’ll keep you humble. Every single time.

The days are full. The kind of full that leaves dirt under your nails and a long list still waiting for tomorrow. But it’s also the kind of full that reminds you why this life matters.

And right now, the world outside the farm gate feels… uncertain.

There’s a lot of noise, a lot of tension, and a lot of reasons people feel anxious about what’s ahead. But instead of letting that uncertainty paralyze me, I’ve felt a growing pull to lean in…to share more, to connect more, and to build something meaningful out of the work we’re already doing here.

That’s what this humble little Substack is about.

Consider this the beginning of something. A place to document the rhythms of the farm, the lessons we learn (sometimes the hard way), and the small moments that make this life so rich. Eventually, I hope it grows into a full, free-standing blog. But every good thing starts with planting a seed.

And this is the seed.

Because when the world feels unstable, the answer isn’t isolation. It’s community.

I believe deeply that community and empowerment are the things that will carry us through whatever comes next. Not fear. Not panic. But people showing up for each other with the skills they have.

We all have something to offer. Some of us grow food. Some of us raise animals.

Some of us cook, preserve, teach, mend, organize, or simply care for others when times are hard.

Those things matter. Those things are resilience.

Making sure your neighbors can eat, sharing knowledge, swapping seeds, helping someone fix a fence, teaching a kid how to grow their first tomato or hatch their first chick. These are the quiet acts that keep communities strong.

That isn’t alarmist thinking. It’s just realism. And frankly, it’s the way people have survived for generations.

Here on the farm, we’re trying to live that out every day.

This is not a conventional farm. We grow food, raise poultry, and steward the land but we do it in ways that are rooted in diversity, creativity, and deep respect for where traditions come from. Our work is shaped by ancestral practices, folk knowledge, and cultural threads that have been carefully woven into what we do.

It’s a place where heritage breeds matter.

Where strange and beautiful plants find a home.

Where folklore, food, and farming intersect in ways that might look a little unconventional from the outside.

And that’s exactly the point.

Agriculture doesn’t have to look one way. Farms can be places of inclusion, curiosity, and cultural preservation. They can be spaces where old knowledge is honored while new ideas are planted right beside it.

So here, I’ll share the journey.

The successes and the inevitable failures.

The realities of raising poultry and growing food.

The experiments, the traditions, the weird farm stories.

The moments that make you laugh when everything else feels heavy.

My hope is that along the way you might learn something useful. Maybe a practical skill. Maybe a piece of forgotten knowledge. Maybe just the reminder that there are still people out here trying to build something good.

And maybe, together, we can grow a little community around it.

Because the truth is, we’re going to need each other. So welcome. Pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and stay awhile.

The farm is waking up. And this is just the beginning.