Travel – Practical Homesteading

Why I Chose Homesteading

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I turn 36 this week, and it feels like as good a time as any to tell you who I am.

I am

a wife
a working mother of 2 beautiful children
an environmental professional
a homesteader
a gardener
a reader
an animal caretaker
an aspiring writer (the blog you’re reading is me practicing)
an amateur historian
a perfectionist
a ruminator
a friend
a daughter
a sister

Growing Up on a Wisconsin Dairy Farm
I grew up on a dairy farm in Southeastern Wisconsin during the 1990s. It was a tumultuous time in farming—small family-run dairy farms were rapidly disappearing into larger, consolidated operations.

My dad secretly never wanted to be a farmer. Born an only child into a multigenerational operation, he inherited the responsibility anyway. Despite that, he managed to hold onto his land and his 60-cow herd through years of stress and hardship. All the while, there was this undercurrent—he’d tell us kids, “Don’t farm. There’s no money in it.” That story deserves its own post someday.

In 2001, my dad sold the herd and rented the land to a nearby large farm. By that point, my five older sisters had mostly graduated high school and left to make their own way. My parents took “city jobs”—Ma at the local grocery store, my dad first as a farmhand, then for a local horizontal drilling company. They bought beef cattle for me to care for during my teenage years.

The Teenage Rebel Who Wanted Out
Before my dad took over from his father, farmers traveled no more than a mile to access all their land. By the time he changed careers 25 years later, some had to drive an hour or more to reach the farthest corners of their acreage. The world I grew up in was already shifting fast beneath my feet.

But as a teenager, I couldn’t have cared less about the cattle I was entrusted with. Farming felt pointless. I was determined to “get out of Dodge County” and go to college in nearby Madison. Books came easily to me, and I wore that like armor. I had a chip on my shoulder—I thought I was smarter than the farm life, better than staying put, that I had everything figured out.

Pride, Pain, and Coming Back to Earth
Pride comes before a fall, as they say. I never had one dramatic crash, but I had low moments that humbled me.

When I was 17, I sustained serious burn injuries on my arms and chest. I received skin grafts on my arms. I spent a long season wrestling with shame and the fact that I was marked by scars. When I finally reached Madison—the dream I’d chased—I felt small next to high achievers who hadn’t come from farms and had flawless skin.

Even after landing a job as an environmental professional, I stood in rooms feeling inadequate beside people who seemed to know so much more. It took years to accept I wasn’t the smartest person in the room—but I still had something valuable to offer.

Love, Long Courtship, and Hotel-Hopping 20s
I started dating my now-husband at 19. We’d known each other longer, but that’s when our story began. He didn’t grow up on a farm but found agriculture fascinating. He thought it was neat that I’d spent my childhood around cows, even as I ran away from that identity.

After a long courtship, we married when I was 27. We loved each other deeply, but finding our rhythm took time. Through trial and error, we landed on shared ground: children, homesteading, and country living.

All along, I’d quietly loved making things from scratch, even if I didn’t call it homesteading. Freshman year of college, I made pizza entirely from scratch (except the cheese). It took three times longer than it should have. I ruined zucchini bread by confusing tablespoons for teaspoons of salt. Junior year, I bought a crockpot (affiliate link) that made my dorm floor jealous of the dinner smells wafting from my room.

Motherhood Opened My Eyes
I graduated grad school at 24 and we moved near Green Bay for my job. For the next six years—my freewheeling late 20s—we traveled heavily—for work and fun—with each other, family, and friends. Hotels became our second home. It was a wonderful season of freedom I hated to see end.

Then I had my son just before turning 30. Motherhood was like someone handing me color television after a lifetime of black-and-white. The challenges were endless—physical, emotional, exhausting. But when he smiled and grabbed my finger with his tiny, chunky hand, everything faded. I wanted to be better for him.

That first year coincided with Covid. No village. Husband working a lot. Our beautiful house on 18 acres of “dream land” suddenly felt hollow. Land doesn’t raise children. Pride in property lines doesn’t fill the gaps. As we talked about baby number two, we made a deliberate choice: we moved back to our hometown near Mayville, Wisconsin.

Dad Endured. I’m Choosing.
Dad held onto that farm through brutal years—not because he loved it, but because he was born into it as the only child carrying a multigenerational legacy. He’d tell us, “Don’t farm—there’s no money in it.” Now I’m choosing this life freely—not out of obligation, but because it fits who I’m becoming. We’re gardening, raising chickens, baking bread, and raising two children. The girl who couldn’t wait to escape Dodge County came back on her own terms.

At 36, I’m still a perfectionist and a ruminator. Still learning that I don’t need to be the smartest to serve well—I just need to show up, learn, and share what I find.

This blog is me doing that. Someone standing in the middle of her story. Rooted, growing, still in progress.

Practical Homesteading: growing food, raising kids, building community.

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Signed House Contract at Used Car Lot-On Our Honeymoon Trip to Alaska

Think back on your most memorable road trip.

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We signed a house contract at a used car lot—on our honeymoon road trip to Alaska.

My husband and I postponed our honeymoon for a year because we both dreamed of driving from Wisconsin to Alaska. At first, we planned to fly, but then he asked why we didn’t look up the driving logistics. I did, and it came out to about 60 continuous hours on the road.

“That doesn’t seem too bad,” I thought.

So we began planning a three-week road trip for June 2018. We bought a new Subaru Crosstrek, figured out the perfect gear and packing technique, and anxiously counted down the days.

Affiliate Links for Recommended Travel Gear:

Trailer hitch

Rear mounted cargo hold

Cooler

Blackout Shades

The House That Hijacked Our Honeymoon
What we didn’t plan for happened the day before we left. We toured a beautiful house and property that was for sale by owner. We were actively looking, and this one appeared on the market that Monday. The day before departure, we put in an offer. The next morning, already packed and driving down the highway, we got the call: they accepted it. Then came the catch—they insisted we turn around, come back without a realtor, and negotiate the terms in person.

In hindsight, the red flags were glaring. At the time, we were just young and excited. We’d only made it to the next town over, so back we went to sit with them and work out an agreement that we later learned was heavily biased toward the seller.

The Used Car Lot “Realtor”
They had plenty of experience. They’d bought rental properties before, were about thirty years older than us, and had their real estate friend there “just to write up the paperwork.” We met them at his actual business building: a used car sales lot. Meanwhile, we had a suitcase in the backseat, a printed itinerary to Alaska, and a lot of naive trust that people were generally fair. We signed what they put in front of us, then handed the agreement to a lawyer we hired sight unseen because the deal needed to close before we returned from our trip— because this was the trip of a lifetime we’d already postponed once.

We told ourselves it was fine. We didn’t know enough yet to recognize just how stacked against us the whole setup really was.

Alaska via Internet Cafés
From Velva, North Dakota, we hired a real estate lawyer over the phone. From Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, we tracked down a home inspector willing to examine a property we hadn’t even emotionally committed to yet. From a restaurant with spotty Wi-Fi, we opened our email and read the lawyer’s first warning that the terms weren’t great. From Watson Lake, Yukon—somewhere between the Sign Post Forest and actual spruce forests—we began to grasp just how bad the terms really were. And from Anchorage, Alaska, with mountains filling the windows and our honeymoon dreams fading in the background, my husband was completely fed up and trying to convince me to walk away from the whole deal.

I pushed on anyway, stubborn and hopeful as ever. I hunted down internet cafés and libraries in small towns, asking clerks if they had a scanner I could borrow. I hunched over public computers, printing documents, signing them, re-scanning, and emailing everything back to the lawyer and sellers while other travelers casually checked weather reports or email. There’s a particular absurdity to signing legal addendums about well inspections with bear safety posters hanging on the wall behind you.

We felt like we were in a real-life Subaru commercial

Honeymoon Highlights Amid the Chaos
The road trip itself was everything we’d dreamed of and nothing like we imagined. We drove long stretches of highway that seemed to belong to no one, met kind strangers at gas stations, and watched the sky turn light again at 3 am . We ate sandwiches in the car, argued about which way to turn, and pointed out every moose sighting like excited kids. But running underneath all the glaciers and mountain passes was this constant undercurrent of “Did that email go through?” “What did the lawyer say now?” “Are we making a huge mistake?”

The glacier view to end all glacier views

What That House Meant to Us
Looking back, what makes this road trip so memorable isn’t just the honeymoon or the bad real estate decision. It was us—very early in our marriage—learning how each of us handles pressure. He was ready to cut our losses for the sake of peace. I was determined not to walk away from something we’d already invested so much in: time, money, emotion, and the dream of that house and property. We took turns being the calm one and the panicked one. We learned how to argue in a car without a door to slam and how to apologize at the next gas station.

In the end, the house did become ours, but not without real emotional and financial cost.

However, that property saw us bring home our first child, learn how to garden from scratch, fix a house that needed a lot of love, grade our first driveway, and bring home our very first chickens—the true beginning of our homesteading life. Five years later, we sold it. Not because we didn’t love it, but because we needed to move closer to family as we planned for our daughter.

The road from Wisconsin to Alaska became the backdrop for midnight phone calls, scanned signatures, and the slow realization that experience and age really do matter when you’re sitting across from someone at a negotiation table—or their used car lot “realtor.”

If I had it to do over, I’d bring a realtor, a lawyer, and a far more cautious pen. But that trip also forced us to grow up a little faster and see each other clearly, flaws, stubbornness, and all.

When I think of my most memorable road trip, I don’t just picture mountains or long stretches of Canadian highway. I see a young couple in an overstuffed Subaru, chasing one dream all the way to Alaska while fighting not to lose another one back home.

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When Nostalgia Sneaks In: A Journey Through Music, Memories, and Meaning

What makes you feel nostalgic?

You never expect it—the way a few chords of a song or the smell of something sizzling in the kitchen can throw open a door straight into your past. Nostalgia sneaks in quietly like that. One moment, I’m focused on the day in front of me, and the next, I’m somewhere else entirely—caught between who I was and who I’ve become.

The Sound of Self-Discovery
For me, music is the quickest time machine. Just a few seconds of a song, and I’m back in the place where it first meant something.

When “Fix You” by Coldplay plays, I’m no longer folding laundry or driving home—I’m back in my college dorm room, freshman year. The lights were harsh, the walls thin, and life felt uncertain in that way it only does when you’re eighteen and still finding your place in the world. I’d wait for my roommate to leave, turn up the volume, and sing at the top of my lungs—no audience, no expectations, just a girl trying to make peace with herself, one verse at a time.

A Taste of Freedom
A few years later, life expanded far beyond that dorm room. When I taste pupusas, I’m taken back to my first time traveling internationally—a trip to San Salvador where I turned twenty-one. That birthday was wrapped in humidity, adventure, and the quiet thrill of doing something new and a little bit scary.

I remember sitting in a small open-air restaurant, watching the cook press pupusas by hand—pinto beans and cheese sealed inside dough, sizzling on the griddle. The first bite was simple but unforgettable: chewy, salty, rich, and alive with flavor. Maybe it tasted like freedom.

Or maybe it just marked the moment I realized how big the world really was.

Even now, I still try to recreate them at home. My husband doesn’t quite share the same fascination. They never taste exactly like they did that day. For me, they carry the rush of youth and discovery and the quiet joy of realizing how travel can stretch your sense of home.

A Song for the Road Ahead
Years later, nostalgia found me again. It was during a bittersweet season of change. It was wrapped in the opening chords of “Helplessness Blues” by Fleet Foxes. I can still see it clearly. Our Subaru Crosstrek was packed with the last of our things as we left what I used to call our “dream home”.

My husband drove ahead in another vehicle. I followed behind, six months pregnant with our daughter. Our three-year-old son was strapped into his car seat. He watched out the window, humming softly. The sky was that early-summer color somewhere between gray and blue. It was the kind that feels like an ellipsis instead of a period.

As we drove, I sang along for my son, voice steady, heart full. We’d listened to Fleet Foxes so often that summer. He had chosen his own favorite song, “Quiet Houses.” He adorably called it “the Meh-me-gah song.” That tiny mispronunciation still makes me smile. It’s one of those details you don’t realize will someday become its own memory.

If “Fix You” reminds me who I was becoming, “Helplessness Blues” reminds me how far I’d come and how much life can change when you’re not looking.

Laughter That Lasts
And then there’s “Jump Around.” That one doesn’t carry reflection—it’s pure, unfiltered joy. It takes me straight back to Camp Randall Stadium, surrounded by thousands of college students in a sea of red and white. We jumped in unison until the stands shook beneath our feet. Later, it made its way into every wedding of my college friends—ties loosened, heels kicked off, laughter spilling loud and unrestrained.

Every time that song comes on, I catch a glimpse of all those versions of me—young, hopeful, tired, happy—and somehow, they all still belong to each other.

Memory You Can Taste and Hear
Music and food both have that power—to transport, to remind, to reawaken. Each song and flavor brings back a different version of who I’ve been, like pages from a well-loved journal I never meant to write but somehow did through living.

Nostalgia reminds me that our lives are stitched together by these small, unforgettable moments—songs, tastes, and places that once felt ordinary but now glow quietly in memory. It isn’t just remembering; it’s re-feeling. Every sensory spark reveals how much of us we carry forward, even without realizing it.

Maybe that’s what nostalgia really is—not a longing for the past, but a gentle reminder that who we were still lives within who we are. And when it sneaks up on me, I don’t resist it. I just pause, smile, and let the moment wash over me—one note, one flavor, one heartbeat at a time.

What sparks nostalgia for you? A song, a recipe, a smell you can’t forget? I’d love to hear what brings your favorite memories rushing back—share your story in the comments below.

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Raising Curious Kids: Travel Dreams From the Backseat

What cities do you want to visit?

I never expected a six-year-old to remind me what travel is really about — but that’s exactly what happened on our drive to school this morning.

I decided to ask today’s daily blog prompt to my son, thinking it might spark a fun pre-drop-off conversation. His answer caught me off guard in the best way. It was one of those simple parenting moments that shows just how quickly their little worlds are expanding.

He didn’t even pause. “I want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Capitol building,” he said from the backseat. He swung his feet as sunlight spilled across the dashboard. Maybe he meant the Capitol in Madison, Wisconsin — he was spellbound by it when we visited — but I’d like to imagine he meant Washington, D.C., that grand center of United States history. Either way, his answer made my heart swell.

We don’t travel far — not yet, anyway. Most of our adventures stay close to home. That’s what works for now with snacks, naps, and his two-year-old sister in tow. But this morning reminded me that curiosity doesn’t need a plane ticket. We journey daily through the library books scattered across our table, Nova episodes and Ken Burns documentaries that keep his questions coming. His curiosity is boundless. It’s such a joy to watch him connect the dots between what he reads, what he watches, and the world he dreams of exploring.

Out here on our little homestead, we tend a lot of things — the soil, our routines, our growth as a family. But maybe the most important seed we’re planting is curiosity itself. That gentle, persistent pull toward learning, seeing, and understanding more.
Someday, we’ll stand beneath that soaring Statue or climb the steps of the Capitol together. For now, I’m content to let the journeys begin from the backseat — one question at a time.

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And if you’d like to keep the conversation going, scroll down and tell me: what cities are your kids dreaming about?

What the World Taught Me About Home

Do you have a favorite place you have visited? Where is it?

The place I love most isn’t on any map. It’s not a landmark or an exotic beach, but it’s the center of everything I’ve learned about belonging. When I trace the path to it, I travel through every memory that once made the world feel both huge and intimate.

I remember a quiet afternoon on a Pacific beach in El Salvador—the crash of waves against the sand, the sun melting into the horizon, my first taste of discovery outside the familiar. The ocean taught me that beauty can silence everything, even thought.

In Glacier National Park, I learned that wonder thrives in stillness. My parents and soon-to-be husband and I climbed along the Going-to-the-Sun Road, chasing glaciers that remained just out of reach. A mountain goat appeared on the rocks as we paused, breathless. In that hush between sky and earth, I understood that some connections—like some landscapes—reveal their depth only in silence.

Las Vegas was the opposite of quiet. My sister and I rode an outdoor escalator lit by neon, laughing at nothing. I held a beer, feeling halfway mischievous, halfway adult. The city taught me that joy doesn’t need purpose—it simply asks to be felt.

Then came Hyder, Alaska, on our honeymoon. We walked a boardwalk beside a still river, two weeks too early to watch bears catching salmon. But the air smelled of ocean and pine, and the stillness felt earned. There, I realized peace is less a destination than a rhythm you carry home.

All those places remain with me—freedom, quiet, joy, peace—woven into the life my husband and I have built. Our home hums with life: a garden bursting with vegetables, pigs rooting in the dirt, chickens scattering across the yard, our children’s laughter rolling through the air. The world feels small here, in the best way, and full of meaning.

Sometimes, as evening settles in, I imagine a fireplace flickering in the corner—an extra measure of warmth for all that already glows. Because here, in this home stitched together from every place I’ve loved, every sunset feels both familiar and new, as if the journey never really ended—it just found its hearth.

If these words made you think about your own favorite place—or what “home” truly means—share them with someone who might need the reminder. If you’d like to read more reflections like this, remember to like and share. Subscribe for future stories about finding beauty in the everyday.

A Short Drive to Heaven: Why Lake Michigan Wins for Us

Beach or mountains? Which do you prefer? Why?

The crunch of gravel echoes under the car tires as I set out for what has become a cherished ritual: a short drive to the nearest beach. It’s funny. When people ask me if I prefer the beach or the mountains, the answer isn’t as simple as it seems. It’s never really been about the stunning landscapes or sweeping views for me. It’s about how these places fit into the messy, beautiful chaos of my life right now.

Living in Southeastern Wisconsin, the mountains feel like a faraway dream—the closest being nearly 800 miles away. That distance means days of careful planning and long hours on the road. Add to that a husband who prefers the comfort of home, a lively 6-year-old bursting with questions, and a fearless 2-year-old who demands constant attention. The mountains—with their towering peaks and crisp, cool air—are breathtaking. But for us, they exist more as a distant escape than a feasible weekend plan.

On the other hand, Lake Michigan beckons like a constant friend. Its vast stretches of blue only a short forty-five-minute drive away. Sometimes, I even go on my own with just the kids—escaping into that familiar comfort whenever I need it most.

Pulling into the parking lot, I inhale deeply: the fresh tang of lake water mingling with sunscreen and the earthy aroma of pine trees bordering the beach parks. The warm sand cushions my feet as the kids sprint ahead, their laughter weaving through the calls of distant seagulls. I spread our picnic blanket on the sand near the shore. Then I watch my husband lean back, eyes closed, a rare and peaceful smile crossing his face. In that moment, I see what this place really means to us—it’s not about grandeur, but about ease and presence.

No elaborate packing lists, no complaints about long drives or restless children. We dive into the spontaneous joy of splashing in waters that are crisp but inviting. We build sandcastles topped with shells, and simply soaking in uninterrupted family time.

Choosing between beach and mountains might sound like deciding between two types of beauty. For me, it’s about the heartbeat of everyday life. The shore is tangible and near—a source of small adventures and lasting memories without the stress of far-flung travel. The mountains will always be there, a majestic possibility for the future. But for now, the beach is where we belong: close enough to visit often, yet vast enough to still feel like a treasured getaway.

What’s your favorite escape — beach or mountains? And how does that choice fit into your life and family? I’d love to hear your thoughts and stories in the comments below!

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Where the River Slows Down: Finding Peace at My Favorite Local Park

What is your favorite place to go in your city?

There’s a park by the river on the edge of my city—and it’s my favorite place to go. I visit as often as possible, drawn by the winding trails that twist through the woods, trace the water’s edge, and climb the hills overlooking the quiet horizon beyond town. On most days, I pass families walking dogs, runners lost in thought, or neighbors pausing to greet one another. No matter the weather, the park always feels alive.

Each season transforms it completely. In fall, the air carries the sweet, earthy scent of freshly fallen leaves, and the trails shimmer in gold and crimson.

Winter hushes everything under a glittering blanket of snow, the trees turned to delicate sculptures of frost. Spring bursts with sound and energy—the maple trees drip with sap, the river swells with melting snow, and the rush of water fills the air. By summer, the forest hums with life. Sunlight filters through thick green leaves, and sometimes, if I look closely, I’ll spot clusters of wild mushrooms on a rotting tree stump.

My kids love coming here too. There’s a short, steep hill along one of the trails that my son never tires of climbing. Every time, he races to the top, then barrels down laughing, only to turn around and do it again. Watching him, I’m reminded that this place holds something for all of us—peace for me, adventure for them, and a connection that ties us together through every season.

The park is more than a patch of nature on the city’s edge. It’s where our family slows down, breathes together, and remembers what matters most: simple joy, shared laughter, and the quiet beauty of being present.

Everyone has that one special place that brings them peace. Maybe it’s a park, a trail, or even your backyard. Where do you go to reconnect with yourself or your loved ones? Share your favorite spot in the comments—I’d love to hear about it.

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Golden Days at Pike Lake: A Perfect Fall Family Escape

Pike Lake State Park in southeastern Wisconsin turned out to be one of the most beautiful and memorable places I’ve ever explored with my kids. Nestled in the heart of the Kettle Moraine, this hidden gem is shaped by ancient glaciers that sculpted the land into rolling mounds, kettle lakes, and forested ridges. Pike Lake itself glimmers like glass beneath the sun — a peaceful kettle lake framed by tall trees and sandy shores, the kind of place that feels like it’s miles away from everyday life, even though it was only a half hour drive from our house.

It was early October, but the weather surprised us with an incredible 80-degree day — pure Midwest magic. We packed up a picnic and headed straight for the beach at Pike Lake. We ate under the tree while watching people play games nearby or set up equipment for wind surfing. After lunch, the kids kicked off their shoes, running barefoot through the warm sand and laughing as they chased bubbles across the shoreline and build a giant “Egypt” (my son’s phrase). Watching them play under the bright autumn sun made me realize how special these simple moments are — the kind that linger long after you pack up and head home.

After the beach, we set off to explore the observation tower perched atop a glacial kame. The climb was worth every step. From the top, we could see Pike Lake shimmering below us, Holy Hill rising in the distance, and the Wisconsin countryside stretching out in a patchwork of greens, golds, and the first hints of crimson leaves. It was one of those views that takes your breath away — a perfect snapshot of fall in the Midwest.

Our afternoon hike took us along a trail lined with interpretive signs about the solar system — a total hit with my son. He couldn’t stop asking questions about space, planets, and stars. It was heartwarming to see his curiosity come alive right there among the trees.

By the end of the day, with tired feet and sun-kissed faces, we all agreed that Pike Lake State Park was the perfect fall escape. Between the golden light on the water, the sound of laughter echoing through the woods, and the quiet joy of discovery, it was a reminder that some of the best adventures aren’t far away — they’re waiting right in your own backyard.

Have you ever found a breathtaking spot close to home that felt like a true escape? Drop your favorite local gem in the comments! If you enjoyed this adventure, hit like, subscribe for more family-friendly travel stories, and share this post with someone who loves nature.

#FallVibes #FamilyTravelAdventures #ExploreWisconsin #HiddenGemDestinations #NaturePhotography #AutumnInWisconsin #WeekendGetaway #TravelWithKids #FamilyFunTime #FallColors2025 #MidwestTravel #NatureLoversParadise #OutdoorAdventure

October 12, 2025

Category: Travel

Why I Chose Homesteading

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