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What I’d Tell My Homestead Turkeys: You’re Safe Here

If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?

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Every morning, our little homestead stirs to life—snorts, clucks, rustles, and all. The pigs grunt impatiently for breakfast, the chickens dart around my boots like gossipy toddlers, and the black cat takes her morning post on the fence, tail flicking in quiet judgment.

And then there are the turkeys—watching from their enclosure, eyes wide, feathers puffed, too afraid to venture near the very hands that feed and bed them.

If I could make my animals understand just one thing, I’d tell them, “You are safe and valued, every single day you’re here.”

The truth is, one day we will butcher the turkeys. That’s part of the rhythm of the homestead life—raising animals with respect, giving them good days filled with deep bedding, and ensuring they’re never hungry or afraid. But that doesn’t make their time here any less meaningful. It actually makes the responsibility deeper. If they could understand one thing, I’d want them to know that their days matter. That their comfort matters. That I’m grateful for the life they live and the life they’ll one day give .

The pigs already seem to get it. They’ll eat, play, and then flop into straw with satisfied sighs, blissfully unbothered by anything beyond their next meal. The chickens scurry and squawk, confident in the routine they’ve built around their 25 lb self-feeder (affiliate link) and DIY 5-gallon bucket waterer (affiliate link). Even Black Cat, aloof as he pretends to be, knows he belongs to this rhythm—this gently imperfect, beautifully grounded life we share .

That’s what sustainability really means to me—caring deeply, even when the hard parts come. I can’t explain to my animals that I love them, that I worry about them on cold nights, or that I always want their lives to be good ones. But I can show it. Through full buckets, soft hay, and calm voices. Through care that doesn’t need translation.

Because this life, this work, is built on gratitude—on giving more than we take, and honoring every part of the cycle that feeds us. And if my animals could understand that, even for a moment, it would be enough.

If your animals could understand one truth, what would you tell them? Comment below 👇

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The Story Behind My Name: From “Face” to Embracing Faith

Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

As the last of six girls, I drew the “leftover” name that ended up rewriting my story.

Faith was not the name my parents had planned—because they hadn’t planned any name at all. The night I was born, my mom kept suggesting options and my dad kept turning them down. Nothing felt quite right. Then my mom suggested Faith, adding almost offhandedly, “Everyone needs a little Faith.” This time, my dad didn’t argue. Just like that, Faith became mine.

For years, I didn’t love that origin story. My name felt too different, too noticeable. On the phone, if I said it too fast, people would ask me to repeat it or guess something else entirely. One child dubbed me “Face” in a moment of childhood brilliance. That pretty much summed up how I felt—misheard, slightly awkward, and more than a little self-conscious about a name that drew attention I didn’t want.

Names have a way of catching up with you, though. As I got older, I started to sit with the meaning of Faith. At its simplest, it means “belief in something greater than yourself.” That “something greater” is different for everyone—God, the universe, a calling, a purpose, or even the quiet conviction that life can be better than it is today. There is a tenderness in that idea, a kind of built-in hope. My name stopped feeling like an odd label and started feeling more like an invitation.

Faith, on its own, doesn’t magically fix anything. Belief without action can easily turn into wishful thinking. But when you pair faith with hard work, grit, and determination, it becomes a powerful force. It keeps you moving when the path is unclear. It nudges you to try again after a setback. It whispers that the effort is still worth it, even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed .

Now, when I introduce myself, I do it with a little more warmth toward that younger version of me who cringed at her own name. I carry a word that reminds me daily to look beyond what I can see, to trust that there is more possible than what is obvious, and to keep showing up and doing the work anyway.

Everyone may not need me, exactly—but everyone does need a little faith. And somehow, over the years, that has become something I’m proud to embody.

Feature photo by Alex Shute on Unsplash

What’s the story behind your name? Share below—let’s uncover what we carry .

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I Already Have My Dream Job: Work-from-Home Wins

What’s your dream job?

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Most chase dream jobs like unicorns—elusive, shiny, and always just out of reach. Turns out, mine was hiding in plain sight: my home office, flexible deadlines, and a career that fuels both family and purpose.

Right now, I work as an environmental professional from home. I set my own hours, within reason—I still need to respond to emails promptly, deliver quality work on time, and show up for meetings. But between those responsibilities, there is space. Space to step away for ten minutes to start dinner. Space to take my kids to a doctor’s appointment without begging for time off. Space to grab an early lunch from a reliable stand-up desk (affiliate link) setup like mine, keeping energy steady without back strain .

Financially, this job allows me to both support my family and save aggressively for retirement. That combination—being present for my family in the day-to-day while also planning for their future—feels like a rare gift. I am not choosing between meaningful work and stability; I have both. The paycheck is not just about bills, but about building a cushion that will give us options and freedom later .

The work itself matters deeply to me. I am in a discipline I care about, doing environmental work that has a tangible impact on the world around me. My efforts contribute, even modestly, to healthier ecosystems and communities. That sense of purpose changes how Monday mornings feel. I am not just logging in to pass the time; I am showing up for something bigger than myself .

Is it perfect every single day? Of course not. There are stressful deadlines, long meetings, and moments where the balance tips and I feel stretched thin. But when I step back and look at the full picture—the flexibility, the trust, the financial stability, the meaningful work, and the ability to weave my family life into my workday—I realize something important.

For all intents and purposes, I already have my dream job.

Feature photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash

The views from this post are my own.

What’s one “dream” perk you already live? Share below—let’s celebrate the wins we’re missing in the chase .

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Good Leaders Delegate: Lessons from My Toddler

What makes a good leader?

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Ever watch a toddler triumphantly pull up their own pants and beam with pride? That’s leadership unfolding—in the everyday chaos of family life, where small wins build big resilience.

What Self-Awareness Builds
A good leader knows their strengths and recognizes when others have strengths they don’t. This self-awareness keeps them humble and helps build strong, well-rounded teams instead of trying to do everything solo. Rather than feeling threatened by others’ gifts, they feel grateful and make space for those gifts to shine .

Delegation That Empowers
That mindset fuels effective delegation. Good leaders don’t just hand off tasks; they match people with responsibilities that fit their abilities, interests, and growth areas. This empowers others to take ownership, build confidence, and develop skills—making leadership contagious as people step up .

Stress Without the Spillover
Good leaders handle stress well—like staying calm through potty regressions or toddler meltdowns at home. Pressure from deadlines, conflict, or surprises is inevitable, but they pause, prioritize, and respond calmly instead of reacting. By staying grounded, they create safety for their team and family. They also prove it’s possible to navigate challenges without losing compassion or perspective.

Leadership at Home
I see this at home too. Delegating laundry to my 6-year-old son lets him tackle it on his own schedule, building ownership and resilience. With my 2-year-old daughter, encouraging her to pull up her pants herself after the bathroom means she gets better each day through small wins. Ours started with a Baby Bjorn potty seat (affiliate link), toilet seat insert (affiliate link), and wooden step stool (affiliate link) for that independent reach.

That’s good leadership in action. Recognizing each child’s unique strengths, giving age-appropriate responsibility, and inviting them into solutions instead of just following orders. The key? Commitment: leadership means little if you’re emotionally absent at home .

Leadership isn’t about holding the reins—it’s about releasing them wisely so others can run. Who are you empowering today? In families, teams, or communities, the best leaders steward growth, leaving a legacy of capable, confident people who carry the torch forward.

Feature photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

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What I’d Uninvent: Addictive Convenience Foods Working Moms Hate

If you could un-invent something, what would it be?

Those addictive convenience food ads haunt every tired mom—here’s what I’d uninvent instead.

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Why I’d Uninvent Ultra-Processed Foods as a Busy Homesteading Mom

If I could wave a magic wand and make something disappear, I’d choose the ultra-processed foods that pretend to take care of us while quietly making us sick. Not every packaged shortcut is evil—there’s a place for frozen vegetables and canned beans. But the engineered, addictive ultra-processed foods that hijack our taste buds and leave our bodies exhausted? Those are the ones I’d gladly uninvent.

How Ultra-Processed Foods Target Tired Parents

Just this morning, I scrolled past an ad for a “new, one-of-a-kind food,” all bright colors and bold promises. It didn’t need to list ingredients; the script writes itself: salt to keep you reaching back, sugar to spike then crash your blood, industrial oils, artificial flavors, lab-designed textures ensuring you can’t eat just one.

These products come from test kitchens with tech-gadget precision—except the goal isn’t nourishment, it’s consumption. And most of us, especially tired parents, are the target market.

The Hidden Cost of “Convenience” Foods

What bothers me most is how ultra-processed foods dress up as help. Labels like “fun,” “easy,” “family-sized,” or “better for you” slide into our overfull lives. No time to cook? No energy to plan? Here’s something tasting like comfort for less than good groceries.

The bill comes later: health costs of processed foods show in obesity, type 2 diabetes, chronic disease rates rising alongside ultra-processed food consumption. As a homesteading mom, this hits close—5:30 p.m. with hungry kids orbiting while my brain feels like an empty pantry.

Real Food Parenting: Energy for Family Life

On those nights, ads for magic ready-to-eat solutions feel like mercy. But I know how ultra-processed foods leave me: foggy, irritable, hungrier despite eating more. Real food parenting takes time—chopping vegetables with this knife (affiliate) after using this honing steel (affiliate) to sharpen it, storing ingredients in these glass Pyrex containers (affiliate).

The difference? Energy to play with kids, meaningful talks with my husband. Whole food meals over processed products.

What I’d Replace Ultra-Processed Foods With

If I could uninvent anything, it wouldn’t be every packaged shortcut. I’d erase food-like products designed irresistible first, nourishing last (if at all). I’d trade “new, one-of-a-kind” snacks for old foods our bodies recognize—homestead cooking prioritizing ingredients over inventions.

Until that wand appears, I opt out where possible. I choose real food parenting and whole food meals. I teach my kids food helps us live well—not just keeps us reaching back into the bag.

Feature Photo by Behnam Norouzi on Unsplash

What’s your biggest ultra-processed food temptation? Share below—let’s support each other’s real food journey!

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When Toddler Dishes Taught This Working Mom to Feel Loved

Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

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Ever feel like love keeps reaching for you, but some old instinct makes you duck away?

That’s been my story for most of my life, a quiet belief that something was fundamentally wrong with me—something that disqualified me from being truly, deeply loved. When people went out of their way with kindness, whether it was a thoughtful gesture or words meant to affirm me, I found myself almost unable to bear it. I’d deflect with a joke, change the subject, or pull back to what felt like a safer distance, convincing myself I didn’t really need anyone after all. And yet, from that very distance, I’d ache and complain that no one truly cared.

Where the Pattern Began
Looking back, I can trace much of this to childhood on our Wisconsin dairy farm. Farming carried relentless stress—long days in the fields, milking cows, haying season pressures that stretched my parents thin. The farm always came first, and while they poured everything into keeping it alive, we six girls learned to need less, do more, and stay out of the way. We never needed words to feel the pressure, but children read rooms like seismographs, absorbing every sigh, every moment of bone-deep tiredness. I internalized that needing anything made me a burden. So I shrank myself: good student, low-maintenance helper, hyper-independent. Better to be useful than to be needy.

That pattern wove into adulthood. My love language became acts of service—cooking, cleaning, organizing, stepping in quietly. It became both how I loved and my shield. Always doing meant never done for, staying safely in control as the helper, never the helped.

When My Children Started to Change Everything
Motherhood began unraveling this through hundreds of small moments. When my babies nestled against me, their complete trust felt like a start. But deeper change came as they grew, each finding ways to love me back through acts of service—their tiny mirror of what I’d modeled for them.

My two-year-old adores doing the dishes. She drags a chair to the sink, climbs up purposefully, rag in hand, and tackles plastic bowls and spoons. Counters grow wetter, floor becomes a puddle, but her earnest eyes shine with pride. The old me wants to take over. Instead, I hand her another bowl and say softly, “You’re such a good helper. Thank you.”

My six-year-old is mastering the art of folding laundry. When our daughter arrived, survival mode hit hard. For a while it was simply faster to do everything ourselves. Now that we’re coming out of that season, we’re intentionally pulling him into family contributions, even though it takes more effort and patience from us. He folds t-shirts into neat squares, pairs up socks as best he can. Sometimes I open my drawer to discover one of dad’s underwear tucked in with my things. I gently correct him as I place it in dad’s drawer. Now he proudly asks first, “Mom, is this yours or Dad’s?” Him learning to be involved feels worth it for his well-being in the long run.

Then there are the rocks. He loves bringing me stones that he finds: smooth pebbles, bits of quartz, sometimes just muddy treasures he knows I’ll appreciate. As an environmental professional with a geology background, his rocks land right in the center of my heart. He’ll run up, eyes shining, holding out his find: “Mom, I found this special rock just for you!” I take time to study each one with him, turning it over in my hands before placing it in this clear container where his rock collection resides.

The Moment Love Finally Landed
These imperfect acts were their love language, mirroring mine. Rejecting them would mean rejecting their hearts. So I’m practicing receiving: drying toddler plates, keeping laundry stacks as-is, treasuring every rock.

One overwhelmed day, I found my two-year-old at the sink, surrounded by suds and her pile of “clean” bowls. Water dripped from her elbows, face earnest, clearly seeing my exhaustion. No words needed—her effort said, “Mommy’s tired. I’m helping.”

That cracked me open. All my life avoiding burdenhood, here was my toddler seeing me and choosing to lighten my load anyway.

The Homesteading Lesson Love Teaches
Love arrived not as overwhelming force, but through soggy dishes, earnest laundry folds, rocks gathered for Mommy—humble acts from small hands noticing my need. My lived-in home holds these lessons.

My children teach me love shows in ordinary service. When I receive without fixing, I rewrite “burden” as “belonging.” They prove I’m not too much—I’m exactly right for their help, their effort, their love. And teaching my son to contribute builds his confidence for life ahead.

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Kitchen Counter Clutter: Working Mom’s Real Homesteading Fix

Where can you reduce clutter in your life?

My kitchen counter is a disaster. You know the one—the magnet for mail, kid artwork, and random tools that multiplies like gremlins when you’re racing to set the table for supper. Here’s how I tame mine.

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As the mom of two kids, this could be an easy prompt to answer by just pointing at the toy bins and calling it a day. They get a lot of toys and clutter, and my older one brings home a staggering amount of paperwork from school. Some weeks it feels like the trees of Wisconsin are being felled one worksheet at a time. We’ve invested in a Montessori-style bookshelf (affiliate link) and toy shelves (like this one and this one, affiliate links), rotating toys so only a small number are out at any one time. The rest live in bins in the closet, ready to reappear when boredom hits.

But today, I’m talking about my clutter.

Specifically, this counter.

This counter is where all our kitchen table collectings come to die. It’s the landing pad for everything that doesn’t have a place—or that does, but we’re too rushed to walk those extra twenty steps. Art projects, mail, library books, notes from work, random tools, torn pants, a stray sock, half-finished crafts—they all land here.

The ritual is always the same: supper’s approaching, someone spots the chaos on the table, and everything gets scooped onto the counter. Table looks perfect. Counter silently absorbs the mess. Out of sight, out of mind—until we need that space again.

That next thing is often my husband’s sewing projects. He bucks the stereotype by loving to sew and fix clothing. When seams rip or buttons pop, he grabs the machine—his grandmother’s cherished heirloom, used at least twice a month. There’s poetry in mending happening where our clutter gathers: one space holding what’s broken and what’s fixable.

My approach isn’t glamorous. About once a month, I get fed up and drag a garbage can over. No big project, no speeches. Just relentless culling.

Books return to shelves. Important mail hits my office. Kids’ art gets sorted—some displayed or binned, most released. Junk, expired coupons, ripped envelopes: trash. I ask: “Do we need this? Does it have a home?”

In a Pinterest world, I’d have labeled baskets and a command center. In my world, it’s monthly irritation-fueled blitzes. And that’s enough for now.

What this teaches me about homesteading: Progress isn’t pretty systems or spotless counters. It’s clearing space for what matters—family suppers on a cleared table, a sewing machine keeping clothes alive, kids’ art earning its keep. My home stays lived-in, not staged. That counter reminds me daily: make room for real life, even if piles return tomorrow. Clutter reduction isn’t elimination—it’s choosing what earns its place.

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Why Seahorses Are My Favorite Animal (Not Chickens!)

What is your favorite animal?

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I’m going off script here. You’d expect a homestead star from a homestead girly like me—like the clever pigs rearranging their shelter to face the sun or chickens pecking frogs and toes with equal fervor. I cherish those animals. They shape our daily lessons.

Yet today, I’m choosing the seahorse. I’ve never kept one. It serves no farm purpose. But that’s its magic—it prompts reflection on family roles from an ocean’s distance.

What fascinates me is its gentle role reversal. The female deposits eggs, but the male tucks them into his pouch, nurtures them, and births the young. This challenges “men provide, women nurture.” It models shared responsibility where both partners stay strong, gentle, and committed.

That’s not just ocean poetry—it’s our story since returning to our hometown. My husband and I share caretaking duties seamlessly. He minds the children during my work calls (sometimes after I paced with our baby in this baby carrier (affiliate link). No toy chaos waits behind—hard-won after frank talks that tested us both. He tends evening chicken feeds amid dusty clucks while I plan garden rows, much like seahorses exchanging roles beneath the waves.

Caregiving thrives on that flexibility. It’s the yin-yang balance of roles shifting as needed—under ocean depths where seahorses trade pouches and responsibilities, or right here in the farmyard dust where my husband and I pass the load back and forth. Whether it’s him stepping up with the kids so I can wrap a call, or me tackling garden rows while he handles the coop, this give-and-take nurtures what endures: a family that bends without breaking.

What animal has shaped your view of family? Or what’s your unexpected favorite animal? Share your story below!

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How Teams + Chickens Power My Work-from-Home Mom Life

In what ways do you communicate online?

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Online communication wraps my days like an old quilt—patched from COVID chaos into something warm and steady, threading work demands with homestead heart.

Work: Coworkers Made It Possible
Picture March 2020: lockdown just hit, my 4-month-old screaming through a call with all my coworkers, less than a week into daycare closures. A kind voice chimed in—”Hey, there’s a mute button”—a small grace that eased my overwhelm and turned chaos into control.

I wouldn’t have built this virtual career stride without my amazing coworkers who saw me through. That moment etched Teams mastery into me: nailing the mute through fussy spells while pacing in this baby carrier (affiliate link), leaning on chat pings for quick collaboration, sharing OneDrive links for big files without inbox jams from my stand-up desk (affiliate link), and email for the decisions that stick.

Now both kids know to hush during calls—proof of growth from raw survival to steady rhythm, all thanks to that team support.

Personal: The Good Stuff We Share
You know how Google Calendar just saves us? Color-coded birthdays popping up for relatives, schedule nudges so nothing falls through the cracks. Facebook, though—that’s our family laugh album. Me posting those glorious flat “nailed it” pancakes with a giggle, plus coop fixes glowing in sunset light. Email is for the heartfelt catch-ups that stick with you. It’s all that unpolished joy keeping far-flung friends and family right there with us, cheering the wins through the quiet stretches .

Homestead Recharge
Those personal connections keep me going, but after the workday’s emotional drain—especially tough Teams calls and tough reports—it’s the chickens that truly reset me.

I slip out to the run where hens cluck hello amid dust baths. Their simple rhythm grounds me in why I grind. It’s a feathered reset that clears my head for garden plots ahead. Those quiet moments remind me this online hustle fuels real soil and seeds. It’s where virtual threads meet tangible roots, weaving work grit into family purpose one contented cluck at a time .

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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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