Practical Homesteading

Tag: Life Lessons •

  • A Proud Badger Journey: Lessons, Friendships, and Lifelong Connections at UW–Madison

    A Proud Badger Journey: Lessons, Friendships, and Lifelong Connections at UW–Madison

    What colleges have you attended?

    A Proud Badger Journey
    They say you never forget where you came from—especially if where you came from taught you who you are. For me, that place is the University of Wisconsin–Madison. I’m a proud Badger through and through, and UW–Madison shaped my future in ways I never expected.
    It took me about four and a half years to earn my undergraduate degree. I didn’t take the straightest path, but somewhere between long nights in the library, crowded buses, and the first hints of autumn around Lake Mendota, I found my footing. The campus pulsed with life—students weaving through lecture halls, the buzz of State Street on game days, and the sound of “On, Wisconsin!” echoing across the stadium. UW–Madison wasn’t just where I studied; it was where I started to become myself.
    From Research to Teaching
    When graduation rolled around, the job market was rough. At the time, I was working as an undergraduate researcher for a graduate student, helping with data collection and analysis. What started as a temporary position quickly became a turning point. My mentor didn’t just hand out assignments—he encouraged curiosity. He taught me to think critically, to ask better questions, and to explore the “why” behind what we were testing.
    With his guidance, I learned to build my own hypotheses, test them, and interpret my results. Eventually, I put together my first research poster and presented it at a conference of around 400 people. Standing there, explaining my work and answering questions, I realized I truly enjoyed translating complicated ideas into something approachable. That experience changed how I saw myself—I wasn’t just completing assignments; I was discovering my own potential.
    By the time I finished my undergraduate studies, my curiosity had outgrown the classroom. I wanted to keep asking questions. So when the department offered me funding for a full research project, tuition coverage, health insurance, and a modest stipend, it felt like the universe was giving me a nudge forward. I said yes, and graduate school became my next step.
    Graduate school came with a new kind of challenge. I served as a teaching assistant for soil mechanics, which pushed me far outside my comfort zone. Standing in front of a classroom for the first time, trying to explain shear strength and compaction testing, I learned quickly that teaching requires more than technical knowledge—it takes patience, clarity, and a calm voice when questions come faster than answers.
    That experience reshaped me. I discovered that true understanding isn’t about what you know—it’s about what you can help others learn. It also taught me time management, humility, and confidence under pressure. By the end of my program, I felt ready for what came next, both professionally and personally.
    Shortly before graduation, I received a job offer in my field from a nearby city. It was the perfect next step and proof that all those late nights and lessons had paid off.
    The Friendships That Last
    Even now, years later, that connection to Madison hasn’t faded. Some of my closest friendships were born there, forged through shared deadlines, football games, and spontaneous coffee breaks. A few of us still make time each year for a camping trip at a local state park—a weekend to slow down, unplug, and remember who we were when we met.
    Many of us are married now, raising families and chasing careers, but that same camaraderie still lives strong. And true to Badger tradition, every alumni wedding includes one sure thing: “Jump Around.” The moment those opening notes hit, every Badger in the room is on their feet, laughing and bouncing as if we’re back in the student section again. That song has become our unspoken promise—we may have grown up, but we haven’t grown apart.
    Looking back, my UW–Madison years were about much more than degrees or professional milestones. They were about growth—learning how to ask better questions, finding mentors who believed in me, and building friendships that stand the test of time.
    The University gave me an education, yes—but also perspective, gratitude, and a lasting sense of belonging.
    Once a Badger, always a Badger.

    If you’re a fellow UW–Madison alum (or college grad with fond memories), I’d love to hear your story. What lesson, tradition, or friendship from your college days has stayed with you the longest? Share below — let’s celebrate the memories that never fade.

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  • From ‘For-Et’ to Fortitude: A Story About Big Boxes and Big Feelings

    Sometimes the most important thing we build isn’t made of cardboard.

    A Big Idea (and a Bigger Mess)

    My 5-year-old son was determined to build a fort, though he pronounced it “for-et,” which made it even more endearing. I try hard to encourage his creative play, if it doesn’t involve wrecking things, so I said, “Of course, go ahead!”

    He began his mission by gathering the many cardboard boxes we had stacked in our basement waiting to be cleared. Soon, these became a haphazard fortress-in-progress outside our back door. It quickly turned into a cluttered obstacle course we had to navigate. My husband was less than thrilled.

    The Deal

    The next morning before leaving for work, my husband struck a deal with our fort architect:

    If he could move all the basement boxes for disposal and clear a large new box we’d just acquired, he could use that big box as the foundation of his fort.

    Simple enough.

    So before breakfast, my son excitedly dragged everything out of the biggest box and scattered its contents across the driveway, completely ignoring the deal. Then he bounded in, wide-eyed, asking me to help cut a door into the fort.

    One Box, Infinite Overwhelm

    I stepped outside and surveyed the scene. None of the other boxes had moved. And now, there was a fresh mess on top of the old one.

    When I gently reminded him of the first part of his task, his smile drooped. He looked at the towering stack of boxes and sighed.

    “There are so many,” he said. “It will take 100 years to move them all!”

    At first, I wanted to say what I usually say: It’s not that many. Or: If you’d started earlier, you’d be almost done by now.

    But I caught myself.

    Would those words help him—or just shame him?

    Choosing Empathy

    Instead, I sat down, pulled him into my lap, and gave him a squeeze.

    “Sounds like you’re feeling overwhelmed,” I said.

    He nodded, eyes watery.

    “You know, I feel that way sometimes too. When I have so much to do, I don’t even know where to start.”

    “You do?” he asked, brightening.

    “Of course,” I smiled. “When that happens, I take a deep breath.”

    I took an exaggerated inhale and exhale, which made him giggle. Then I added:

    “And I try to do just one thing at a time for half an hour. You’d be surprised how much you can get done that way.”

    “Okay!” he said.

    Momentum (and Breakfast)

    “But first,” I said, “you need breakfast. You’ll have more energy after eating.”

    “I’m already strong enough,” he insisted.

    “I know,” I smiled. “But strong people get hungry too.”

    After breakfast, he set to work. Later, he proudly announced:

    “Mom! I stacked some boxes inside others. It made moving them faster!”

    “Genius!” I said. “What about the other pile?”

    “Huh?!”

    A short follow-up pep talk was in order, and before long, he had moved all the boxes.

    It didn’t even take 100 years.

    Somewhere along the way, the project transformed from a for-et into a clubhouse (don’t ask me how).

    The Clubhouse Reveal

    Next came door-cutting. He wanted it done immediately.  I made him wait until I finished a task of my own.

    Then, I carefully helped carve a doorway into the giant box to his exacting specifications.

    After lunch, armed with a black Sharpie, he decorated the clubhouse with the enthusiasm that only kids can generate. He led me out for the grand tour:

    “See the man on the door? He’s inviting everyone inside.
    Here’s a sign that shows who can come in, even old people.
    What do these letters spell?” (They were random, adorable runes.)
    “There’s a whale… and another whale… and my name.
    And these are solar panels to power the clubhouse. Come inside!“

    I squeezed through the narrow doorway. He followed.

    “Turn on the light, Mom!” he said. “The switch is right behind you.”

    Of course it was.

    What His Fort Taught Me

    Watching my son struggle reminded me how easy it is to feel overwhelmed when faced with a big, messy task.

    His honest frustration echoed feelings I often hide behind adult composure.
    And instead of rushing to correct him, I chose empathy, and it changed everything.

    Helping him break the job into tiny steps, encouraging him to breathe through the hard parts, taught both of us that real progress doesn’t come from powering through:  it comes from pausing, noticing, and taking the next small step.

    Final Thoughts

    I still lose my patience more often than I’d like to admit. But in moments like these, I’m reminded that the real “for-et” we build each day isn’t made of cardboard at all:
    it’s built of patience, understanding, and kindness.

    And just like my son’s fort, it might not look perfect.

    But it stands strong:  messy, magical, and full of love.💬 Got your own “clubhouse moment” or parenting win (or fail)? I’d love to hear it in the comments. Don’t forget to share and subscribe if this resonated with you.