Right now, our days overflow with three big works. I’m writing this when I’m 36 years old. I hope you’re looking back on this time fondly, with a loving husband, two beautiful young children, and a growing homestead and writing hobby that is starting to bear some fruit.
Raising Emotionally Intelligent Kids
I’m working hard to help my children grow into emotionally intelligent, successful people who can easily integrate into society. I’m working internally on myself before I radiate love out to them. All while making sure they pick up their socks and eat their dinner. Will my work be worth it, and will they look back on their childhood fondly?
Building Our Homestead
My husband and I are also working on building our homestead. Last year, I learned how to grow mushrooms (the logs are colonized!), and this year we’re learning how to farrow pigs (first litter due Mother’s Day). Things don’t always go smoothly, but every homestead lesson learned is one that we can apply to the next set of skills. Will we continue to build and expand our homestead?
Growing My Writing Community
I’m also working hard on a writing hobby. Ever since I was a little girl, I loved to write. My first short story was about a herd of cows that escaped and exacted revenge on their owner (I was 8, and I grew up on a farm). And now I’m sharing homestead stories about my family and my hobbies. And people are listening and writing back! It is amazing to find kindred spirits out in the world. I hope we meet in person someday. Will I become a successful writer and continue building this community?
A cooking disaster in my freshman dorm set me up for homesteading success I never expected. One apparent failure became the foundation for kitchen confidence.
Freshman Year Pizza Disaster
My first “from-scratch” pizza took three times longer than delivery. The crust was a brick, sauce too acidic, toppings slid everywhere. My future husband politely choked it down. Mortifying.
That flop taught me two things: failure stings less when shared, and every kitchen mistake teaches something concrete. I started measuring flour properly, tasting as I went. Zucchini bread followed (once ruined by tablespoons of salt instead of teaspoons—inedible).
Homesteading Kitchen Payoff
Fast forward to our rural homestead. Now I confidently make:
Pizza dough my kids beg for weekly
Sourdough from wild yeast I captured
Crockpot meals filling our home with irresistible smells
Garden sauces from our own tomatoes
A couple of weeks ago, I pulled winter carrots (candy-sweet from the freeze) for pot roast. No one would guess this calm came from serving weaponized pizza.
Failure’s Gift: Iteration Over Perfection
Cooking disasters built my homesteading confidence through kitchen iteration:
Honestly, the three objects I couldn’t live without are surprisingly ordinary: my cell phone, my wallet, and my keys. As a working mother in a rural area, they’re not glamorous. But they quietly hold my daily life together, from parenting to work to community.
My Cell Phone: Brain in My Pocket
My cell phone is how I stay organized and connected as a working mom. It holds my calendar, reminders, notes, and grocery lists—the invisible scaffolding keeping family life and work from falling apart. It’s how I juggle meetings from home, text my husband about pickup times, message teachers, and look up last-minute recipes when dinner planning slips my mind.
Living rural, it’s also my lifeline. If the car breaks down, a kid gets sick, or something unexpected happens, that little rectangle becomes my map, flashlight, and emergency contact list all in one.
My Wallet: Quiet Security for Daily Life
My wallet isn’t exciting, but it represents security and flexibility for a busy mom. It holds my ID, bank card, maybe a little cash, insurance cards, and a few too many crumpled receipts—the boring but essential pieces of adulthood.
I always keep my Kwik Rewards card tucked inside for that 15th visit reward. When someone suddenly needs snacks, school supplies, or a quick pharmacy run, my wallet means I can handle it without hesitation. It’s the difference between feeling stuck and responding smoothly to whatever the day throws at us.
My Keys: Rural Freedom and Independence
Because we live in a rural area, my keys are completely non-negotiable. They’re my way to get everywhere: school drop-offs, work meetings, grocery runs, appointments, visits with family and friends. No corner store walk or public transit here—if I don’t have my keys, I’m not going anywhere.
They also symbolize independence as a working mother. Being able to load everyone in the car and just go—to town, the park, a friend’s house—makes rural life workable, even wonderful.
Everyday Objects That Make Rural Parenting Possible
There are plenty of sentimental objects I love, but these three form the quiet backbone of my days. Without them, the logistics of working motherhood, parenting, and building community in a rural area would get complicated fast.
Becoming a mother has been the single biggest catalyst for my personal growth.
Before kids, I was incredibly reactive—if things didn’t go exactly my way, I’d turn into a total grump and let it derail my whole day. Motherhood quickly showed me that life rarely follows a perfect schedule, and that’s been my greatest teacher.
Why Kids Test Every Limit
Kids have this amazing knack for upending even the best-laid plans. They’ll dawdle on shoes when you’re already late, take forever to eat (or skip it entirely), spill milk right after you’ve cleaned up, or melt down in the grocery store for reasons that make no sense in the moment.
It’s just kids being kids—no malice, just the beautiful chaos of childhood. Those situations used to trigger frustration in me. I’d snap or rush through, only to feel completely drained afterward.
Over time, I realized my reactions weren’t really about the spilled milk or dawdling. They came from my own exhaustion, unmet needs, and unrealistic expectations of myself and my family.
My Self-Care Mornings Changed Everything
Mornings have always been tough for my 6-year-old, who really struggles to wake up. This turns what should be a simple routine into a battle to get to school on time. But I’ve noticed a huge difference when I take care of myself first. When I prioritize a decent morning workout, solid sleep, and a general sense of calm, I allow myself to show up much more effectively for him.
This morning was a perfect example. Instead of rushing, I sat with him for a couple of minutes, just hugging him and saying hello. I told him how wonderful it is to see him first thing. From there, he headed to the kitchen, ate his dry toast (even though we asked three times what he wanted on it and he insisted on nothing… little monster, haha), and we were out the door with enough time for him to play with his friends in the classroom before the day really started.
We went from 25-minute morning battles to peaceful 15-minute exits, and it all starts with me feeling steady inside.
Tools That Actually Work for Emotional Regulation
Now, I make it a habit to tune into my body first. When I feel dysregulation creeping in—my chest tightening, voice getting sharp, jaw clenching—I pause instead of powering through. Sometimes that’s a few deep breaths at the kitchen sink, sometimes stepping into another room for a moment, or just saying out loud, “I’m feeling overwhelmed right now.”
Journaling has become another lifeline. After a tough moment, I write out what triggered me, the worries bubbling under the surface, or the guilt I’m carrying quietly. It helps me sort through it all and parent myself a little, not just my kids. And when I mess up, which I still do plenty, growth shows up in the repair—apologizing to my son, noticing what works next time, and choosing breath over snapping.
The Real Growth Isn’t Perfect—It’s Daily Practice
Motherhood grew me most because it gave me daily practice at my weakest spots: patience, self-awareness, and repair. I’m still a work in progress—there are days when I’m more grump than grace. But our mornings feel noticeably lighter now, and he sees me trying.
Growth doesn’t look dramatic or perfect; it’s in those small choices—to hug instead of hustle, listen instead of lecture, apologize instead of pretending I had it together.
What experience grew you the most? I’d love to hear your story in the comments below!
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The pink line said everything I couldn’t. My husband and I were expecting our first child.
I couldn’t say I was surprised—we had been trying for a couple of months. But I was a little sad to see an era end. For the first time, I had true freedom: spontaneous road trips with friends, solo coffee dates that stretched into afternoons, disposable income that let me buy plane tickets without a second thought. We’d just bought our first homestead after driving to Alaska for our honeymoon. Life felt wide open and full of possibility.
I wasn’t sad he was coming—I was nervous about losing that independence and learning to be a mother, but equally excited to meet him, like a blind date with the love of my life. Saying goodbye to that version of me was hard.
Pregnancy: Holding Joy and Fear Together
Holding that positive test, I felt both gratitude for this wanted gift and quiet grief for what was changing. No one prepares you for motherhood’s bittersweet beginning, when you’re thrilled about the baby but apprehensive about who you’ll become.
Throughout pregnancy, my love for him grew right alongside very real nerves. I cherished feeling his first flutters—those tiny “butterflies” that made him real—and hearing the rapid whoosh-whoosh of his heartbeat at every doctor’s appointment. I talked to him constantly through my belly, telling him about the adventures we’d have someday together. Choosing his name felt perfect, like we already knew him. But I also wondered if I’d be a good mom, grieved the end of solo adventures, and felt my independence quietly slipping away as my body changed.
Labor and Those Early, Raw Days
Labor brought everything into sharp focus. When my water broke and my body started shaking, it wasn’t just the contractions—it was the weight of knowing there was no going back. Breastfeeding tested me too. Anxiety made it harder than it “should” have been. I worried constantly if he was getting enough, if I was already failing at the one thing my body was made to do.
The Small Moments That Changed Everything
Slowly, the cloud of doubt lifted—not dramatically, but through ordinary moments that felt sacred. His first sleepy smile lit something up in me, whether it was gas or not. His tiny hand gripped my finger with surprising strength. His body finally relaxed into mine when he fell asleep on my chest. That pure belly giggle when I tickled his neck cut straight through all my self-doubt.
I watched him skip crawling altogether and go straight to walking with those wobbly, determined steps. He explored the world with toddler intensity—picking up rocks, chasing bubbles, staring at ants on the sidewalk like they held all life’s secrets. His questions grew more complex over time, moving from “What’s that?” to “How does it work?” and “Why?” That curiosity pulled me back into wonder I didn’t know I’d lost.
The Adventures We Promised Each Other
Those belly conversations came back to me often—they became reality, just more locally than my pre-baby dreams. Instead of cross-country drives, we’ve explored Lake Michigan beaches together, giggling as waves lap our toes. We’ve visited the zoo, marveling at animals that fascinate him more than any faraway landmark could. Now at 6, with his 2-year-old sister tagging along, we’ve spent countless hours at parks, pushing swings and hunting for the perfect climbing tree. The adventures came true—they’re just the ones that fit our family life together.
The Trade-Off That Was Worth Every Goodbye
Life before kids offered a particular kind of freedom. Now my money goes to toddler shoes he outgrows in three months and snacks that disappear in two minutes. Late nights with faraway friends have been replaced by early mornings and sticky hands around my neck.
But I’ve gained something irreplaceable: a front-row seat to a whole human becoming himself. The “Mama?” calls from the next room. The love that shows up in the ordinary and the hard.
He was deeply wanted from that very first pink line. I was nervous about motherhood, yes. But I was thrilled to meet him. The trade-off hurt, but loving him made every goodbye worth it.
Is this a trick question? As a homesteader near the Horicon Marsh, I feel like my entire life is one big DIY project.
We grow our own food, raise our kids, and build community. Very little is pre-packaged in our life. Homesteading is being in a state of constant learning: new skills, fresh challenges, figuring things out as we go. One long series of experiments riddled with dirt, sweat, and grace.
But if I have to pick the most ambitious DIY project, it’s our century farm renovation.
How We Found Our Fixer-Upper
We bought this retired century farm direct from an elderly gentleman who really shouldn’t have been living alone anymore. That detail always hits me hardest—the house and outbuildings told his story before he said a word: sagging floors, peeling paint, leaning sheds, untouched corners for years. It’s heartbreaking how someone can quietly tolerate an increasingly difficult life until clutter and inconveniences feel normal.
Truth be told, I was reluctant to take on something of this magnitude. I was pregnant when we bought the property in May 2023, and we gave birth and cared for a newborn while gutting the house. My husband saw the potential first: the grand century farm history, an established apple orchard out back, that stone building one previous owner built stone-by-stone over years. I slowly fell for its charm though.
The established apple orchard was a big draw to the place. There are more trees behind me.There’s so much history in this stone building.The barn has a straight roof, but the foundation is crumbling.
DIY Property Cleanup: The Early Days
This homestead renovation kicked off with multiple dumpsters and serious elbow grease. And we had huge help from family who pitched in by cleaning inside and outside, gutting the upstairs, drywalling, and painting. A project this big would be impossible to tackle alone.
Some days it was just hauling—load after load of scrap metal from the barn and yard. We’d sift trash from treasure: broken tools, mystery parts, an old milk can a previous owner painted with a beautiful farm scene. Each dump run made the place feel lighter, easier to breathe.
We patched dilapidated outbuildings and tamed overgrown grass. Slowly, this century farm started showing its grand history.
As we cleaned up the long grass.
Gutting the Victorian Farmhouse (While Living Here)
Inside, we gutted the upstairs. We ripped out lath and plaster, those weird tiny rooms, and bizarre “fixes.” As we did so, we uncovered the beautiful Victorian farmhouse bones.
All while raising little kids (including that newborn!) and working our day jobs.
My husband handles the heavy DIY homestead projects: hauling, demo, repairs, and those endless “little jobs” that are never little. To us, it makes perfect sense. He loves fixing things, which has been perfect for reviving this tired place. I’ve managed kids, work, and keeping our half-gutted household running.
I never did capture the actual gutting process and removing the lath and plaster. But this is after some drywalling was done on the upper floor.
3 Years In: Where We Stand
Three years into this century farm renovation (bought May 2023), two-thirds of the upstairs is done. Every finished room feels like a small miracle. I still pause in doorways thinking, “Remember what this looked like?”
What’s Next: Future DIY Projects
Still ahead:
Finish the upstairs for a more cohesive feel
Remove the downstairs drop ceiling, uncover tall Victorian ceilings
Decide what to do with the old barn foundation (it’s caving in on itself). Do we restore or tear down?
Construct an outside workshop for my husband’s impressive collection of tools and equipment
What Living Through Renovation Teaches You
If I step back and think of it all, it’s incredibly overwhelming. We’re years in, and still have years left. But here’s the thing about ambitious DIY projects you live inside: they grow you while you’re working on them.
We’ve learned patience, because nothing happens as quickly as we hope. We’ve learned teamwork, because we each bring different strengths to the table. We’ve learned to spot progress in inches instead of miles: a cleared fenceline, a finished room, a barn corner that no longer feels dangerous.
Most of all, we’ve learned that “ambitious” doesn’t always mean flashy or fast. Sometimes it looks like showing up for the same project, day after day, year after year, believing that it’s worth the time, the money, and the heart it requires.
So yes, our Victorian farmhouse and century farm renovation is the most ambitious DIY homestead project we’ve ever undertaken.
But it’s also the one that’s slowly shaping us into the kind of people who can see beauty in broken things and are stubborn enough to try to fix them.
What’s YOUR most ambitious DIY? Tell me below! 🛠️
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If I could permanently ban a word from general usage, I’d choose “should.” Not for every use, because grammar would fall apart. However, the way we weaponize it in self-talk and conversations: as judgment, measuring stick, and source of quiet shame.
The Heavy Weight of “Should” Statements
“Should” rarely arrives alone. It brings judgment riding shotgun:
“I should be farther along by now.”
“You should really be feeding your kids __.”
“We should have known better.”
In these moments, “should” statements aren’t neutral verbs; they’re verdicts. They imply one right way to live, parent, work, or heal—and we’ve missed it. Overcoming should thinking means recognizing they leave no room for context, growth, or simple humanness.
How “Should” Poisons Self-Talk
Most of us don’t need help being hard on ourselves. Yet should statements psychology slips into our inner dialogue, turning observations into accusations:
“I’m tired and scrolling” becomes “I should be more productive.” “We had frozen pizza” becomes “I should be the perfect homesteading mom.”
Instead of asking what we need, should thinking demands performance. It narrows life to two outcomes: success or failure. Replacing should statements reveals something tender underneath: “I wish” or “I feel insecure about…”
3 Better Phrases to Replace “Should”
Banning “should” from casual speech would soften our conversations. Try these replacements:
Instead of: “I should be farther along” Try: “I wish I were farther along” or “I expected different progress”
Instead of: “You should do it this way” Try: “I’ve found this helpful” or “Have you considered…”
Instead of: “We should have known better” Try: “We didn’t know then what we know now”
These alternatives to should statements open curiosity instead of guilt.
Why Banning “Should” Frees Us
Should statements carry cultural expectations—from family, social media, perfectionism. They turn life into a constant trial where we’re always on trial. Overcoming should thinking creates space to say:
“Here’s where I am.”
“Here’s what I wish for.”
“Here’s what I’m trying next.”
Without that heavy word whispering, we could treat ourselves—and each other—with kindness we actually need. Should-free living trades judgment for honest desire, fear, and hope.
Content note: Brief mention of burn injuries and trauma recovery
That is an excellent question. I’ve made many, many mistakes throughout my adulthood, and some of the most painful ones trace back to my teenage years.
For those who are not aware, I sustained serious burn injuries on my arms and chest at age 17 that led to an 18-day hospital stay and a long recovery. I have not yet told this story online, but I plan to at some point, if only to reach those who may feel alone in their pain.
At my lowest, I thought that I was unlovable. The accident happened due to my own shortsightedness, and I couldn’t stop blaming myself. If I wear a high-neck shirt and long sleeves, you would never know what happened to me. But the scars—both physical and emotional—run deep.
Advice to My Teenage Self: You Are Loved
If I could go back and talk to my teenage self, I would start by telling her the following:
That you are loved—no matter what.
Love isn’t something you have to earn by being perfect, pretty, or put-together. Even on days you feel broken, ashamed, or “too much,” you’re still worthy of kindness and care. The people who truly love you aren’t keeping a tally of your mistakes.
There will be mornings when you wake up thinking about coffee first—not the accident. Laughter will come back without guilt chasing it.
Overcoming Trauma: Pain Won’t Define You
Your pain will not be the end of your story.
Right now, all you can see is this moment: the hospital room, the bandages, the mirrors you avoid. You’ll discover seasons where your life isn’t defined by what happened to you at 17. Overcoming trauma doesn’t erase the scars, but it makes space for new chapters.
Building Resilience Through Lasting Friendships
You’ll find lasting friendships even after pain—perhaps because of the pain you endured.
Those friendships will show you you’re not alone. Some of your dearest friends will be the ones who see your scars and don’t flinch. They won’t treat you like you’re fragile or broken. They also won’t pretend nothing happened. They’ll simply sit with you in it—and that will teach you how to do the same for others.
Turning Pain Into Empathy and Purpose
One day you’ll turn all this tenderness into quiet strength.
You won’t just feel deeply—you’ll learn what to do with those feelings. You’ll walk into a room and sense who else is hurting. You’ll notice the person shrinking into the corner, or laughing too loud to hide their pain. Because you know what it feels like to want to disappear, you’ll make sure others feel seen. You’ll hone your empathy into a skill that helps people feel loved and less alone.
Finding Meaning After Suffering
Meaning can be found in suffering, even if it takes time to see it.
The accident will never become “good.” You’ll always wish it never happened. But goodness will grow out of the mess: deeper compassion, a softer heart, a clearer sense of what matters. Healing from trauma often looks like this—the places where you feel most broken become the places where you can sit with others and say, “Me too. I’ve been there. You’re not beyond hope.”
Final Words of Self-Compassion
And finally, I’d tell you this:
You are not the sum of your worst moments. You are not your scars. You are not the accident.
You are loved, held, and still becoming.
If you’re carrying scars—seen or unseen—what would you tell your teenage self? Share one line in the comments. Someone else may need to hear it today.
If this touched something in you, please hit LIKE and share with one person who needs to hear they’re loved—no matter what.
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I honestly can’t think of much that really bores me. Honestly, it’s not because my life is wildly exciting, but because I’ve learned to stay curious. I try to see the beauty or thought behind most things and find them interesting in some fashion.
Everyday Curiosity and Boredom
If I’m in a conversation that might seem dull on the surface, I pay attention to the other person’s body language. Do their eyes light up when they mention one topic but dull when they shift to another? Do their shoulders tighten when they talk about work, even if their words sound cheerful? It becomes less about the subject itself and more about the story their body is telling alongside their voice.
Finding Beauty in the Ordinary
Even something like watching television is layered for me. I love noticing the sets and imagining the work that went into them. Someone spent time choosing the wallpaper, the way a bookshelf is styled, the mug a character always uses. None of these choices are accidental. Someone cared enough to place every object, choose every color, and make the scene feel lived in. When I think of it that way, I’m not just consuming content; I’m admiring a moving piece of art.
Screen-Free Parenting on Long Car Rides
That same habit of looking deeper has carried into how I approach screen-free parenting, especially in the slow or “boring” moments. When on long car rides with my kids, I largely refuse to rely on screens. I instead point out the “boring” things outside and turn them into something to notice. Some examples are bridges, city water towers, transmission lines, and the way the landscape changes from town to town. When long car rides were more frequent with my two-year-old son, I would keep ordinary containers up front. They could be old spice jars, boxes, and lids. I’d hand them back so he could stack, sort, and explore. Now that he’s six, he loves looking out the window and telling his now two-year-old sister about water towers and power lines. He’s now doing my work for me, passing on this little habit of paying attention. Those drives used to feel endless; now they feel like slow, moving classrooms and one of my favorite forms of simple, screen-free entertainment for kids on long drives.
If you’re stuck in traffic or in a waiting room, you might try this too. Turn the “background” into something worth noticing instead of reaching for a screen.
Noticing Design in Everyday Objects
I even find myself thinking about the engineering and design in everyday objects, like a door handle. Someone had to decide how it should feel in your hand, how much pressure it should take to turn, how it would work for small fingers or tired ones. There’s a whole quiet layer of thought behind things we touch without ever really seeing.
How Curiosity Keeps Life from Feeling Boring
So when I ask myself what bores me, I still come up blank. Life is full of tiny details, hidden stories, and quiet bits of creativity. A mindset of everyday curiosity and mindful attention keeps even the most ordinary moments—waiting rooms, car rides, reruns on TV—from feeling dull. When I stay curious, I honestly still can’t think of much that really bores me.
How do you stay curious in the “boring” moments? I’d love to hear your tips!
If you know another parent who’s trying to cut down on screens or feel less bored in the everyday, please share this post with them or save it for your next road trip.
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Favorite Shoes: My Alaska-to-Homestead Life Journey
I’d have to say my favorite pair of shoes was a pair of really comfortable sandals. They weren’t fancy, but they were perfect. They were waterproof enough for wet grass and surprise puddles (though they’d get slippery when truly soaked), durable, and so comfortable they practically disappeared on my feet. I bought them the year we got married. As soon as weather warmed, they became my summer uniform—tucked away only when socks and sandals crossed the line.
Alaska Honeymoon Adventure Shoes
Those sandals carried me through epic travel adventures. I wore them hiking on our road trip honeymoon to Alaska, when endless roads met impossibly big skies. They took me down trails in Denali National Park and Kenai Fjords National Park, where crisp air made me feel gloriously small.
I had them on gold panning outside Anchorage (real prospecting is unglamorous!), watching the sun barely dip at 3 a.m. in that surreal twilight, and waiting for grizzlies at Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site near Hyder. They climbed me to Salmon Glacier’s overlook, where I captured a magical shot—the straps already molded perfectly to my feet by then.
Homestead Life + Pregnancy Companion
Then life shifted from road maps to roots. Several months post-honeymoon, those same sandals walked our first homestead property. I squished through soft ground, stepped over pasture patches, and imagined gardens and animal pens. Soon after, pregnant with our son, they carried my slight waddle across that future home—trading Alaskan rivers for tall grass and fence lines.
Shoes That Lived My Story
They lasted several more seasons through new-mom routines—feedings, chores, sunset walks on our land. When frayed straps finally gave out, letting go felt like closing a chapter: newlywed adventures, homestead dreams, pregnancy possibility.
Replacements looked similar but lasted one season, not four. They didn’t live the same story.
When I think of my favorite travel shoes, they’re about transformation—from glacier overlooks to growing our family and homestead. They carried newly married me toward the life I’d only dreamed of.
Do your favorite shoes have a story? Let me know in the comments!
What’s YOUR favorite shoes story? ❤️ Like if sandals = life chapters 👶 Share with someone who loves Alaska travel stories 💬 Drop below: Hiking boots? Wedding shoes? Pregnancy sneakers?
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Practical Homesteading 