Practical Homesteading

Tag: love

  • Real Happiness Isn’t Perfect—It’s Present

    Real Happiness Isn’t Perfect—It’s Present

    When are you most happy?

    When I stop and think about it, I realize happiness isn’t a single moment or destination. It’s a rhythm that threads quietly through daily life. I’m genuinely happy right now, and to be honest, that still scares me a little. After enough seasons of joy and hardship, I’ve learned happiness is fragile—and I hold it more gently now. Things aren’t perfect, but I’ve grown steadier, more willing to face the bumps with grace.

    I’m happiest when life feels balanced—when I can handle its joys and challenges without losing my footing. Moving my body helps clear the fog; it’s how I reset my mind as much as my muscles. Eating food we’ve grown or cooked slowly pulls me back to the present—the smell of herbs, the warmth of a skillet, the satisfaction of work made real. And sleep, when I finally give myself enough of it, has a way of making everything else fall into place.

    Family time fills me in a way nothing else can. The laughter around the dinner table, a quiet morning coffee before the kids wake, even teamwork in the garden with dirt under our nails—all of it reminds me why this slower, more intentional life matters.

    And then there’s friendship—the kind that weaves into daily life like a second family. Friends I can call when I need help, and who know I’ll show up for them too. The ones I meet for coffee to swap stories and laughter while the kids race through the yard. Those moments—ordinary and real—anchor me in community, reminding me we’re not meant to do life alone.

    Finally, happiness shows up when I allow myself to feel everything. To laugh without restraint. To cry when I need to. To be seen in all my humanness and still be loved. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

    So, when am I happiest? When life feels honest and steady—rooted in family, nurtured by friendship, and grounded in the quiet rhythm of being human.

    Now it’s your turn—when do you feel most at peace or happiest? Is it in your family routine, shared laughter, or that first quiet sip of morning coffee? Share your thoughts in the comments below. I love hearing your stories and reflections.

    If this post resonated with you, please take a moment to like, share, or subscribe. Every bit of support helps grow this small community where we celebrate family, simplicity, and the honest pursuit of happiness.

    Related Posts

    More Than a Meal: Raising Our Own Thanksgiving Turkeys

    Discover the joys and challenges of raising backyard turkeys in this heartfelt story about patience, humor, and the journey from fluffy poults to Thanksgiving centerpiece. Learn personal lessons and practical insights from a family’s wild turkey-raising adventure.

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    Stone by Stone

    Stone by stone, a farmer’s patient craft built more than a wall – it built a legacy. Discover a story of endurance, purpose, and quiet strength that still stands a century later.

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    The Choreography of Cattle and Grass

    Experience a vivid farm story about rotational grazing, resilience, and regenerative land stewardship through the eyes of a family and their Red Angus herd. Discover how cattle, people, and pasture move together in balance

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1



  • Making People Feel Known: Memory, Family, and a Slower Homestead Life

    Tell us one thing you hope people say about you.

    I Hope People Say I Make Them Feel Known.

    I get a little thrill every time someone says I have a great memory. To me, it means they felt remembered—seen in some small but meaningful way. Remembering a friend’s child’s name, a neighbor’s birthday, or a detail from a conversation months ago is my way of saying, “You matter to me.”

    Over the years, through college, grad school, and now in my work and home life, I’ve been lucky to cross paths with so many different people. I’ve learned that connection rarely comes from big, dramatic moments. It usually comes from the quiet things. I listen closely, ask follow-up questions, and circle back to the small details someone trusted me with.

    When I ask about a new baby, check in on a big project, or remember to follow up on a hard week someone mentioned, it doesn’t feel like a task on a to-do list. It feels like a privilege. I love learning about people’s families, work, and hopes and letting them know their stories didn’t just pass through my mind and disappear.

    That same mindset is woven into how I think about family and homesteading. Both require paying attention. You learn the rhythms of your people, your animals, your garden, your land. You notice when something is off, when something is thriving, when something needs a little extra care. It’s a slower pace, but it’s richer because you’re actually present enough to see what’s happening.

    In a world that moves fast and often skims the surface, I hope people say that I slowed down and truly paid attention. That I listened well, cared deeply, and made even ordinary conversations feel like reminders that they mattered. Whether it’s tending relationships or tending a garden, it’s the small, consistent acts of care that make a life feel full.

    If this resonated with you, it would mean a lot if you liked this post. Share it with a friend who values meaningful connection. Subscribe to the blog so you don’t miss future reflections on family, homesteading, and intentional living.

    Related Posts

    Carrying Their Lessons: A Career Woven with Connection

    The first time I heard, “Good morning, men!” echo off the beige cubicle walls, I felt invisible, a ghost in a room full of voices. Fresh out of grad school and just one of two professional women in the office, I was convinced someone would soon discover the imposter I believed myself to be: a…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    Bread Crumbs of Connection

    They say food is a universal language, but sometimes, it also has a quiet legacy. Eleven years ago, I was on a road trip with my mom, aunt, and sister when we stopped at a small restaurant and ordered Swedish meatballs. I still remember how delicious they were: comforting, perfectly spiced, and unforgettable. That afternoon,…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    Reclaiming My Voice: The Path from Isolation to Connection

    Throughout my adulthood, I’ve transformed self-expression into a high-stakes gamble, where the cost of judgment feels like a referendum on my very right to exist.  The terror of having my innermost thoughts laid bare is akin to standing emotionally naked before a crowd, every flaw and contradiction exposed to scrutiny.  Alarm bells sound in my…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

  • The Worst Resort Ever: How My Family Turned Crisis Into Connection and Gratitude

    What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

    When my mom called her three-week hospital stay “the worst resort ever,” we laughed—a little nervously, but genuinely. That’s just who she is: tough as nails with humor for armor. The “resort” came with a 24-hour staff, questionable cuisine, and, as she joked, “the world’s least relaxing accommodations.” Her wit kept us sane when fear started to creep in.

    Those three weeks stretched into months. Days blurred—in and out of the hospital, school drop-offs, late-night worry, and the exhausting act of pretending I was fine. My son picked up on my tension, his small frustrations echoing emotions he couldn’t yet name. My daughter, just learning to walk, toddled through the chaos—a daily reminder that life moves forward whether you’re ready or not.

    In the thick of it, my husband was my anchor. He absorbed my anxiety without complaint, reminding me to breathe when my thoughts tangled into knots. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he made me laugh. Always, he was there—steady, patient, grounding me when everything else felt like quicksand.

    My dad carried his own quiet strength. Despite long days, he drove the hour to see Mom four or five times a week with a gallon of 2% milk riding shotgun. He’d take a swig now and then—old farmer habits die hard. One of my sisters often joined him, their conversations stretching across miles of highway. I joined when I could, and those drives became our therapy sessions. We talked about everything and nothing. Some days, silence said enough. His constancy humbled me—proof that love doesn’t always speak; sometimes it just keeps showing up.

    Ma, on her liquid diet—when she could eat—still managed to make everyone laugh. She rated her hospital broth like a food critic. Even from a hospital bed, she made humor feel like an act of defiance.

    Somewhere in the middle of all this, I found my way back to writing. What began as venting turned into something more—a way to turn chaos into meaning. When I started sharing my words, nervous but hopeful, people responded. Strangers became friends. Writing became a bridge back to others and a lifeline to myself.

    Then came my sisters—the surprise support team I didn’t know I needed. What started as a group chat for Ma updates turned into our daily outlet of laughter and love. We share memes, encouragement, and family gossip, keeping each other afloat. That digital thread has become our shared heartbeat, buzzing with life even on the hardest days.

    When the storm finally eased, light crept back into our days. Mom’s health steadied. My son learned patience for his big feelings. My daughter’s baby steps turned into joyful runs. My husband and I rediscovered laughter, and the house felt warm again.

    The fearful year ended in gratitude—messy, exhausting, transformative gratitude. I learned that strength isn’t silence; it’s presence. Sometimes it’s cracking a joke when you want to cry or reaching for someone’s hand when you can’t stand on your own. The “worst resort ever” ended up teaching us the best lessons on love, resilience, and the healing power of laughter.

    If this story resonated with you, don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe for more reflections on family, resilience, and finding humor in hard seasons. Your support helps others find comfort in shared stories of hope.

    Related Posts

    The Endless Night

    The digital clock on my nightstand glows an accusatory 2:13 AM, its red numbers burning my retinas.  As I roll over for the thousandth time, the sheets tangle around my legs.  My bedroom, once a sanctuary, has become a prison cell.  The familiar outlines of furniture loom in the darkness, taking on sinister shapes in…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    The Morning I Chose Connection Over Correction

    My mom was in the hospital, I wasn’t sleeping, and the stress had nowhere to go. So I poured it onto my five-year-old son. Every morning before preschool, I’d launch into lectures from the driver’s seat—how he should control his feelings, how he should handle surprises better, how he needed to “do better today.” He…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1

    Reclaiming My Voice: The Path from Isolation to Connection

    Throughout my adulthood, I’ve transformed self-expression into a high-stakes gamble, where the cost of judgment feels like a referendum on my very right to exist.  The terror of having my innermost thoughts laid bare is akin to standing emotionally naked before a crowd, every flaw and contradiction exposed to scrutiny.  Alarm bells sound in my…

    Keep reading
    fzangl1's avatar by fzangl1
  • Roots Uprooted: Choosing Family Over Home

    Roots Uprooted: Choosing Family Over Home

    What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make? Why?

    I walked the yard one last time, tracing fences and trees like scars on a lover’s skin. It’s crazy how something that once felt so familiar can suddenly feel worlds away.

    The Drive That Broke Me
    That two-hour drive home from Christmas just dragged on. My husband kept saying, “Our son needs cousins nearby, grandparents around the corner. Your parents aren’t getting any younger. And that family diagnosis… it’s time we really thought about what matters most.”

    His words kept piling up, like snow drifting over all those years we’d spent here. I was holding tight to this quiet rural life. Meanwhile, he quietly pulled away, and the distance between us grew every year.

    Roots I Couldn’t Uproot
    I loved this land—finally had friends, a house that felt like mine after all that searching.


    He never really settled. For him, this place felt more like a cage than a home.

    The Moment Everything Changed
    That family diagnosis had been hanging over us, but what really broke me was Christmas at his parents’ house. Everything felt tight, forced—smiles stretched thin, pauses filled with unspoken tension. Our son didn’t know quite what to make of it all.

    On top of that, my parents’ health kept slipping. The spaces in our family were widening. Staying meant risking losing them all.

    The Yes That Broke Me
    We didn’t say much that night. The silence carried everything we couldn’t put into words. Finally, I just whispered, “Okay.”

    No more tears left—just that stunned quiet as I wandered the yard, trying to soak in every curve, knowing I was letting go.


    How It Changed Me
    Leaving meant giving up on solitude and peace for family and chaos—but honestly, no regrets.


    Now, I watch our son laugh and play in his grandparents’ arms. I’ve held my parents through their darker days and welcomed our daughter into this tight-knit fold.


    Sometimes love means stepping back to grow deeper roots—roots that grew stronger because I chose family over place. And yeah, I still miss the quiet sometimes. But this? This is home.

    If this story hits close to home or sparked something for you, like, share it with someone facing a tough choice, and subscribe for more real-talk reflections on life’s big turns.

    Related Posts

  • Pet Peeves Can Teach Us More Than We Think

    Name your top three pet peeves.

    Everyone has pet peeves—those small irritations that can silently gnaw at our patience. For me, they reveal more than just frustration; they mark my journey toward empathy and self-awareness. I try hard not to complain because I know I am truly fortunate. I have a life filled with comfort and people who support me. When I’m asked about my top three pet peeves, I realize they reflect who I am beneath the surface. They also show how far I’ve come. My three top pet peeves are based on how we treat each other: moral superiority, selfishness, and condescension.

    The Weight of Judgmental, Morally Superior People
    I learned a painful lesson about judgment from a friend. She rightfully withdrew after I reacted to her with criticism rather than compassion. That moment still lingers—when they vulnerably shared their struggles, and I judged their choices instead of hearing their heart. The sting of that loss taught me how easy it is to judge without walking in someone else’s shoes. Now, when I face moral superiority, from others or myself, I pause to remember. We all live complex lives shaped by experiences others can’t fully grasp. Judgment is a quick and lonely reaction; empathy takes more courage but builds connection.

    The Sting of Selfishness and Isolation
    Selfishness frustrates me deeply. I am especially frustrated by the refusal to embrace community in parenting and care giving. I once believed I could handle everything alone, armed with sheer will and rigid routines. Yet endless sleepless nights and isolation soon shattered that illusion. I still recall the raw exhaustion and quiet desperation before I accepted help and found strength in community. Watching others withdraw or show impatience with children stings because it undermines what I now know. We thrive in villages, not in solo isolation. People can also act selfishly without fully understanding how their choices ripple outward and affect those around them. This makes compassion and honest conversation even more important.

    The Quiet Poison of Condescension from a Loved One
    Condescension is unlike judgment in a profound way. It is steeped in strong feelings and visible actions: the raised eyebrow, the patronizing tone, the dismissive glance. These actions communicate contempt and make you feel small. I unfortunately became intimately familiar with those feelings from a trusted loved one during my childhood. Back then, I believed shrinking myself might somehow earn their approval. The sting of those subtle rejections echoed for years. Building my confidence has been a slow, ongoing process that still unfolds. Recognizing condescension as thought, behavior, and emotion has helped me protect my worth today. It has also marked a crucial part of healing.

    From Peeves to Perspective
    These pet peeves are more than annoyances; they are milestones on my path of growth. They lay bare the familiar traps of judgment, selfishness, and contempt. They remind me of how far I have come in responding with compassion toward others and myself. Complaining only raises my heart rate and drags me into a negative head space. Instead, I lean into these moments of discomfort as invitations to think and learn. After all, life is a messy, beautiful journey, and we are all works in progress navigating it together.

    If this essay resonated with you, please like, share, and subscribe to stay connected. Your support helps spread these reflections on growth and empathy to others who need them. Join the conversation and let’s learn and grow together.

    Related Posts

  • Rooted in September, November, and October

    Who are your current most favorite people?

    Have you ever noticed how some people quietly root themselves into your life’s story, shaping you in ways you only recognize years later?

    I have three such people. Each arrived in my life in a different month, under different skies. Yet all have become my most favorite—and every morning, her kisses remind me how deeply entwined we are.

    The first person came into my life when I was twelve. It was on a crisp September morning on a creaky school bus. I remember deliberately slipping into his favorite seat, hoping for a moment of attention. He was the boy with the quick grin and sly humor, so different from my preppy, studious self. At first, he barely noticed, but gradually, our laughter bridged our worlds. We briefly drifted apart in high school. By college, weekends bloomed with him driving an hour to visit me, our shared adventures stitching us closer. Eight years later, we married—two lives grown together in love and understanding.

    Two Novembers later—two years after marrying him—I awaited another arrival with nervous wonder. Six months earlier, I had learned I would become a mother. As he grew, I spoke often to him, calling him “little one.” I dreamt of the gardens we’d tend and the trips we’d take. He arrived on a blustery Saturday night, bearing a name passed down through generations. Our first year together was a storm, marked by sleepless nights, fears, and growth. But with each challenge, I found a deeper love while planting seeds both in soil and in his heart.

    Four Octobers after that, our family welcomed a second burst of joy. She came into the world on a rainy October evening, her laughter a bright pulse in our new home. We had just moved closer to family, seeking the roots we needed. Now my mornings start with her tender toddler kisses—small reminders of the light and love she brings to every day. Watching her discover the world has taught me to find wonder in the small moments, and open my arms wide to life’s beautiful unpredictability.

    These three—the boy from the school bus seat in September, the “little one” I awaited in November, and the joyful October child with kisses at dawn—are my heart’s home. My husband and two children, each planting roots, helping me grow, and teaching me what it truly means to love.

    If this story touched your heart, please like, share, and subscribe to stay connected. Your support helps me continue to share meaningful moments and stories that inspire growth and love.

    Related Posts

  • Learning to Be Seen: Redefining My First Impression

    What’s the first impression you want to give people?

    When I think about the first impression I want to give people now, it connects closely to how much I’ve learned about myself.

    In my 30-something years, I’ve spent a lot of time shrinking into the background—speaking softly, standing at the edges of rooms, and convincing myself that others didn’t really want to notice me. Somewhere along the way, I mistook invisibility for safety. That belief likely began in childhood, when being quiet felt like the right way to belong.

    But with time, I began to see what that silence cost me. By keeping myself small, I limited the depth of my connections. People knew me only in fragments because I wasn’t showing them a complete person. What I thought was self-protection often turned into isolation.

    Now, I want my first impression to reflect who I’m becoming rather than who I used to be. When someone meets me, I hope they sense warmth and calm, a presence that feels both grounded and engaged. I want my voice to carry confidence without volume—a kind of steadiness that says, “I see you, and I’m here.” Maybe it shows in the way I smile when greeting someone or in how I pause to listen before responding.

    More than anything, I hope to make people feel comfortable being themselves, just as I’m learning to be comfortable being myself. If my presence leaves others feeling seen, valued, and at ease, then that’s the impression I want to give. It’s the one I’ve always been reaching for, quietly, without realizing it.

    Have you ever realized that the way you present yourself isn’t who you truly are inside? Share your story in the comments. What first impression do you want to give people now, and how has that changed over time?

    If this reflection resonated with you, take a second to like the video. Share it with someone who might need to hear it. Subscribe for more conversations about self-growth, confidence, and showing up as your authentic self. Your engagement helps build a community where everyone feels seen and heard.

    Related Posts