mental-health – Practical Homesteading

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.

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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.

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From Nerves to Connection: Lessons from a Lifetime of Public Speaking

Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?

My heartbeat quickened as the announcer called my name, each syllable echoing through the microphone. Applause filled the conference hall as I walked toward the podium, my shoes tapping softly against the floor. The room smelled faintly of coffee and stale donuts—a familiar comfort for the last session before lunch. Three projectors displayed my name and the title of my talk across the front wall. I took one steady breath and began to speak.

Halfway through my introduction, I tripped over a phrase, my words tangling awkwardly. For a split second, silence hung in the air. I paused, smiled, and let the moment pass before starting again—steadier this time. The audience leaned in, and I felt the nervous flutter in my chest begin to calm. Each time I speak, that same nervous energy greets me. I’ve learned how to meet it—with preparation, practice, and a well-crafted presentation that keeps me grounded.

I’ve stood on stages many times—singing solos in church, acting in school plays, and competing in forensics tournaments. One of my favorites was a comedic solo about a teenager who keeps a telemarketer on the line so long that they tried to hang up on me. The laughter that day taught me something essential: the magic of connecting with people through words.

Since then, I’ve spoken before classrooms, assemblies, and professional conferences. As my career in environmental science has grown, so has my understanding of what it means to communicate with purpose. Each talk reminds me that the real power of knowledge lies not just in understanding facts, but in sharing them clearly, honestly, and with care.

When the applause finally faded and I stepped down from the podium, relief washed over me. Then I spotted a familiar face in the crowd—an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. Over lunch, we laughed and traded stories that felt like no time had passed. That unexpected reunion reminded me why I love speaking. Beyond facts or slides, it’s about connection—between speaker and listener, between old friends, between moments shared in the same space.

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Walking Through Life — From Farm Chores to Family Joy

What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?

Growing Up Active
Growing up on the farm, movement wasn’t something we planned, but a way of life. We spent our days feeding animals, keeping them clean, stacking hay bales, and pulling weeds in the garden. It was tough work. But it taught me early on that using your body is purposeful, satisfying, and good for the soul. Even now, when I feel that pleasing ache in my muscles after a workout, I’m reminded of those crisp mornings when effort came as naturally as breathing.

Finding Balance in Movement
That active foundation stuck with me. Today, I still crave that connection between effort and reward — walking, gardening, or tackling a tough workout. I love almost every exercise, especially when it challenges me. During a workout, I might grumble through the final reps, but afterward, I always feel lighter, stronger, and proud. That post-exercise glow makes every drop of sweat worthwhile.

The Simple Power of Walking
If I had to choose one favorite way to move, it would be walking. It’s simple, grounding, and fits into every season of life. Sometimes I listen to music or take a phone call. More often though, I walk while letting my mind steady to the rhythm of my steps and talking to myself. Walking clears my head. It reconnects me with gratitude — for my body, the air around me, and the life I’m privileged to live.

Living an Active Lifestyle
Our lifestyle naturally keeps us moving. We still raise pigs, chickens, and turkeys, and every season brings new chores and outdoor projects. I also make a lot of our food from scratch — stirring, kneading, chopping, and gathering ingredients from our garden. Those small, steady movements fill my days with a rhythm that feels both productive and peaceful.

Family Fun in Motion
The best movement, though, happens with my kids. Whether we’re sledding down snowy hills, digging in the sand, or playing our beloved “burrito game,” we’re laughing, racing, and making memories. My husband and I stay active both for ourselves and to show our kids how important it is to move. Activity isn’t only a chore, but a celebration of life and health.

Joy in Motion
Movement shaped my childhood, sustains my adulthood, and strengthens our family bond. It’s not only about fitness or strength; it’s about gratitude, connection, and joy. Walking — the simplest movement of all — ties it together. Each step reminds me where I came from, grounds me in the present, and carries me toward every new chapter ahead.

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Learning to Pause: How Doing Less Reacting Creates More Peace (for You and Your Kids)

What could you do less of?

Reacting.

For much of my life, I treated every perceived slight as a call to arms — as if every misunderstanding demanded an immediate defense. But I’m learning that not everything needs my reaction. Some moments only ask for my attention.

When I feel wronged, my body responds before my mind catches up. My heart races, my jaw tightens, my breath shortens. The instinct to protect myself flares fast and fierce.

Lately, I’ve been practicing the pause — noticing the sensations instead of obeying them, letting the surge of emotion roll through before deciding what to do next. That pause has become sacred space — small, but expansive enough for clarity to enter.

I ask myself: Did they mean to hurt me? Do I really need to defend myself here? Will reacting make anything better?

Most often, the answer is no. And honestly, reacting rarely makes me feel better anyway. It usually leaves me drained, guilty, or frustrated — the kind of heaviness that lingers long after the heat of the situation fades.

Still, this is very much a work in progress. I can — and do — get swept up sometimes, especially when my basic needs aren’t met. When I’m tired, hungry, or stretched too thin, that low, buzzy restlessness takes over and patience slips away faster than I’d like. In those moments, old instincts roar back to life. The difference now is that I notice sooner. I recover faster.

Recognizing my own patterns — especially when I’m depleted — has made me more compassionate with my kids when they’re overwhelmed too.

When they hit their own emotional storms — those tearful, trembling tempests that feel larger than life — I try to steady myself first. I hold them close, breathe with them, and search for what might help: a hug, a quiet corner, a change in tone.

Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes I don’t. But every time, the goal is the same — to model calm before correction, connection before control.

So I breathe. I soften. I let the first wave of reaction pass, both theirs and mine. What remains feels powerful — not because it conquers emotion, but because it transforms it.

Doing less reacting isn’t passivity. It’s a practice — a daily choice to protect peace over pride, to pause long enough to hear what really matters.

Day by day, breath by breath.

If this resonates with you, take a moment today to notice your next emotional wave — big or small — and give yourself the gift of a pause. Observe before reacting. Then share your experience in the comments or pass this piece along to someone who’s also learning to slow down, breathe, and choose peace over impulse. And subscribe for more personal reflections and self-improvement.

Breaking the Yell: Mastering My Temper

What is one thing you would change about yourself?

I used to think changing my looks—maybe my hair or my nose—would fix everything and make me happier. But life taught me otherwise. The one thing I’d truly change is how quickly stress hijacks my emotions. Overwhelm turns into impulsive anger when my perfectionism meets chaos. That’s when I feel out of control.

Growing up, I watched a loved one explode over little things like a misplaced tool, a late dinner. He would yell until the air felt thick with tension. I remember my stomach twisting in knots, so tight that I couldn’t eat. I swore I’d never damage my own kids that way, but without tools, I repeated the pattern.

One evening after a brutal workday, my husband mentioned the dishes in the sink. My pulse hammered, chest tightened, and my voice sliced through the quiet kitchen with unfair frustrations. Silence fell heavy; his hurt eyes met mine, regret burning like acid in my throat. We talked it through later, but the sting lingered, echoing that childhood fear of becoming the yeller.

Having children gave me endless chances—both challenges and opportunities—to practice controlling that fire. Their small mistakes and big emotions test my patience constantly. Each time I slip up, I try harder the next day. I use tools like deep breathing to catch my rising anger. Exercising keeps stress in check. I also maintain healthy habits to keep my resilience strong. More than anything, I am learning to stay curious about my own flaws. I keep open, listening carefully to feedback. I try not to shut down or get defensive. It’s slow work, but progress is real.

Yesterday, my 6-year-old came home crabby, slamming his backpack down; I felt my own irritation rising, matching his sharp tone. But I paused—chest rising and falling with deep breaths—while my 2-year-old daughter watched wide-eyed. Kneeling down, I asked what he needed, validating his grouchiness but setting a calm boundary: no yelling. Knowing he craves sensory squeezes, we launched the “burrito game”. I took turns rolling them tight in blanket burritos on the couch, “baked” them with goofy warmth, then “ate” them with tickles. For 15 minutes, their giggles echoed as growls turned to belly laughs, stress melting into connection. The warmth of their laughter filled the room, a vivid contrast to the tension that once dominated these moments. This is what modeling patience looks like—turning tension into play, teaching them emotions don’t have to erupt.

What I’ve realized—and it’s changing everything—is that emotional regulation isn’t about never feeling mad. It’s catching those perfectionist triggers early, breathing through the old patterns instead of exploding. Now, instead of that youthful belief in superficial fixes, I’m building control from within. That shift mends my relationships, breaks my family’s cycle of outbursts, and lets me like the steady parent—and partner—I’m becoming. It’s a gift to my children, showing them that even strong feelings can be met with calm and love, not yelling.

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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.

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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.

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Listening to My Inner Voice: A Story of Vulnerability and Resilience

Do you trust your instincts?

I didn’t expect my hardest lesson about trusting instincts to come during childbirth.

As my water broke, my body began shaking uncontrollably. Fear surged through me. Few experiences test someone’s connection to their body like giving birth. Yet at that moment, I felt detached during a process that should have felt natural. Panic and doubt quickly took over.

That wave of fear changed me. It became a wake-up call. Over the last six years, I’ve worked hard at tuning into my body through relaxation, meditation, and breath work. When I gave birth again four years later, the difference was striking: things moved quickly, peacefully, and with far fewer interventions.

Looking back, I realize it wasn’t just culture urging me to ignore discomfort. A trusted adult in my life was often swept up by stress and overwhelm. In their presence, I learned to mute my own signals and silence myself to keep the peace. My world equated strength with suppressing vulnerability. I silenced my body’s warnings—hunger, exhaustion, emotional pain—hoping to avoid conflict or disappointment.

I vividly remember one afternoon when I was a child. My body begged for rest, but fear of this person’s anger forced me to push through. Through the years, I learned to swallow discomfort and hide my feelings until they would inevitably erupt. Only later did I understand how both external pressures and witnessing this person lost in overwhelm taught me to silence my own instincts.

Motherhood transformed this learned behavior. I wanted to show my son and daughter something better: a model of recognizing emotions and meeting my needs before they escalated. I let my inner voice soften. Strength gained a new meaning—one tied to vulnerability and presence. Slowly, my approach to my children’s emotions shifted. I now sit quietly beside my frustrated son, breathing calmly while his storm slowly fades. I practice this daily: mindfulness through challenge, for their feelings and mine.

Today, I’m more attuned to myself, though this work is ongoing. Emotional waves still come, sometimes fierce. Recently, during a tense day at work, I paused before reacting. I closed my eyes and let my body feel the tension, watching the discomfort roll in and drift away. Breath and awareness anchor me. Trusting myself isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence. Each mindful moment deepens my instincts. They’re quiet, but always there, guiding me through calm and chaos.

This journey has taught me that self-trust is more complex than just “following your gut.” It calls for vulnerability, breaking old patterns, and challenging the notion that ignoring your own needs is strength. Now, I’m learning to nurture a kinder relationship with myself—body, mind, and heart.

That’s the legacy I strive to leave for my children: the confidence to listen deeply and kindly to their own voices.

Have you ever silenced your instincts to meet others’ expectations?

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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?

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Tag: mental-health

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