Personal Growth – Practical Homesteading

My Mission: Growing Food, Raising Kids, and Building Community — A Path Back to Connection

Daily writing prompt

What is your mission?

“We’re stronger together.”
— A lesson from the land, the past, and the heart.

Some days, I find myself wondering why I share so much of my messy, joyful, back-to-the-land life. Then I remember—it’s not just a blog; it’s a declaration of purpose. I’m not just learning to grow food or raise livestock. I’m learning to build a life rooted in connection, resilience, and love—the kind of life that feels increasingly rare in our modern world.

Growing Food

My mission comes back to the words that guide everything I do: “Growing food, raising kids, building community.”

Growing food isn’t just about self-sufficiency; it’s about slowing down and remembering that life takes time. Whether it’s a full garden, a few backyard hens, or a pot of herbs on a sunny windowsill, each act connects us to the earth and to the generations who worked it before us.

You don’t need acres to begin—just a seed, a container, and a little sunlight.

Even one small step can be the beginning of a more grounded life. Each seed planted is a reminder that we can create abundance with our own hands.

Raising Kids

Just as tending the garden teaches patience, so does parenting. Homesteading is a classroom like no other—muddy, humbling, and full of wonder.

It teaches our children what no textbook can: that hard work matters, that life is cyclical, and that family is their safe harbor in a sometimes harsh world.

My hope is that my kids grow up knowing home isn’t merely a place—it’s a legacy we build with care and intention. Whether they keep chickens, plant tomatoes, or simply carry these values forward, I want them to understand where they come from and who they are.

Building Community

And then there’s community—the heartbeat of homesteading and, I believe, our survival as humans.

American society often tells us that strength comes from independence—that we should manage everything ourselves, and outsource what we can’t, because we’re too exhausted to do it all. But that version of “strength” leaves us burned out and disconnected.

True strength doesn’t grow in isolation—it blossoms in interdependence.

Sometimes that means swapping seeds or recipes; other times, it’s checking on a neighbor or being brave enough to ask for help. We were never meant to do this alone.

Lessons from the Past

When I think about how far we’ve drifted from those roots, I can’t help but look back with respect. Our great-grandparents understood community in ways we’ve forgotten.

Their lives weren’t easy—many faced relentless hardship. I once read about children in rural Wisconsin in the 1930s who walked miles to town barefoot, carrying their shoes so they wouldn’t wear them out. They’d put them on only once they reached town, because those shoes had to last—and often be passed down to the next child.

Those stories remind me that while the past wasn’t perfect, it carried wisdom worth keeping. People ate real food, raised resilient children, and looked out for their neighbors. They knew that survival wasn’t just about grit—it was about connection and care.

Planting Hope

In the end, that’s what I want my life—and this blog—to reflect. I want to inspire others to live intentionally, grow their own food, raise their families with love, and reconnect with the people around them.

Because when we nurture the soil, our children, and each other, we’re planting more than gardens—we’re planting hope. And in that hope, we rediscover a simple truth our ancestors never forgot:

We are always stronger together.

Now it’s your turn. How do you balance modern life’s demands with a desire to live more simply? Tell me about it in the comments. Let’s start a conversation!

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Finding Balance and Patience: My Biggest Everyday Challenges

What are your biggest challenges?

You’d think after all this time, I’d have learned how to juggle it all—but balance always seems to slip through my fingers. The truth is, my biggest challenges aren’t bold or dramatic. They’re quiet, persistent companions that live in the corners of everyday life.

One of my greatest challenges is balance—finding a rhythm between work, motherhood, and the slower life I want to live. I work outside the home as well as inside it, which means my days are often split between spreadsheets and snack times, meetings and meals. Some mornings, I leave a work call only to find myself wiping peanut butter off the counter or rescuing a half-folded load of laundry. In those moments, I’m reminded that both roles matter—and that balance isn’t about perfection, but about presence.

A close cousin to balance is learning to give myself grace in the in-between. As a parent and partner, I want to show up patient and calm. As a person, I still fall short plenty of days. Some nights, after the kids are asleep, I replay all the times I snapped or hurried through a moment that deserved more. But I’m learning that gentle doesn’t mean flawless—it means pausing, forgiving, and trying again the next morning.

Patience is something I’ve been working on my whole life, and it remains one of my biggest ongoing challenges. It’s also one of my main focuses for this new year—learning not just to wait, but to wait well. Whether it’s slowing down enough to listen to my kids tell the same story for the third time or giving myself permission to move at my own pace, patience feels like both a discipline and a kindness I keep coming back to.

Perhaps the hardest to shake is mental clutter—that constant background hum of to-do lists, choices, and invisible labor. On my best days, homesteading helps quiet it all. There’s something steadying about digging my hands into the soil, hanging laundry in the sun, or collecting eggs in the stillness of early morning. Those small tasks return me to the present. They whisper that the work of life isn’t about getting everything done, but about doing the next loving thing.

My biggest challenges don’t come in waves—they come in moments. They live in ordinary pauses between rushing and resting, striving and savoring, criticizing and forgiving. And that’s where I’ve learned the most growth hides: not in conquering big mountains, but in walking the same quiet hills again and again until they no longer feel so steep.

What are your biggest challenges these days? Are they loud and obvious or quiet and persistent, like mine? Share your thoughts in the comments — I’d love to hear what you’re learning to balance or let go of this year.

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January 1, 2026

Looking Back and Writing Forward: My Year in Words

In November 2024, I started writing again — just for myself at first. It felt like rediscovering a familiar part of me that had been waiting quietly in the background. When I was a kid, I used to dream about being both a journalist and an author, so picking up the pen again felt a bit like coming full circle. The words started to flow, and before long, I realized how much I’d missed the process of shaping thoughts, stories, and ideas one line at a time.

By May 2025, I decided to give my writing a proper home and launched a blog. It quickly became a place for reflection, creativity, and plenty of learning moments along the way. Some posts came together easily; others made me wrestle for every word — but each one taught me something about what inspires me and what connects with readers.

A few months later, I created a Facebook page to share posts more widely and connect with people in a more conversational way. That turned out to be one of the best decisions yet. The page has grown into a lively community of over 2,100 people who comment, laugh, and share their own stories. I love that mix — serious one day, lighthearted the next — and the encouragement I’ve gotten there keeps me writing.

September brought another milestone: I started writing a monthly column for the Dodge County Pionier. Seeing my words in print for the first time was both thrilling and surreal. I’ll admit, I took a photo of that first published column just to make sure it was real! Hearing from readers who’ve enjoyed those pieces has meant more than I can say.

Since reopening that creative door a little over a year ago, I’ve drafted 123 blog posts (some better than others, haha), published weekly updates to 22 subscribers, and written four newspaper columns. Looking back, it’s amazing to see how this little writing habit turned into something that connects with so many people. In some ways, it feels like that childhood dream of being both a journalist and an author has quietly started to take shape.

As I look ahead to 2026, I want to keep building on that foundation — continuing to grow as a writer, learn from readers, and explore new ideas. Lately, I’ve been diving into local history, and I’m fascinated by the stories tucked into everyday places around here. You’ll probably see some of that curiosity showing up in my posts this year.

And since this space has become such a wonderful little community, I’d love to hear from you — what would you like to read in 2026? Are there local topics, stories, or memories you’re curious about? Drop a comment or send me a message. I’m always open to new ideas and conversations.

Here’s to another year of words, stories, and shared discoveries. Cheers to 2026 — I can’t wait to see what we’ll uncover together!

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Bridging Ideals and Reality: How Life and Family Shaped My Politics

How have your political views changed over time?

When I was twenty, I believed passion could fix anything. If you worked hard enough, cared deeply enough, and convinced enough people, the world would tilt a little closer to justice. I was young, idealistic, and certain that effort and energy alone could transform almost any problem.

I went to school for a field I loved and launched into my career like it was a calling. In those early years, purpose burned bright—I was determined to make a difference through big ideas and bigger effort. But life has a way of softening sharp edges, reminding you that true change often begins quietly and takes time.

Around that same season of life, I started dating—and later married—a man who didn’t always see the world the way I did. His political views challenged mine in ways that were frustrating, fascinating, and, eventually, formative. Our conversations were lively, sometimes stubborn, but always respectful. He listened. I listened. We debated over dinners and long drives, occasionally landing on “agree to disagree,” but never on bitterness.

Over time, those talks shaped more than our opinions—they deepened our empathy. Our love grew as our perspectives softened. We learned to look beyond slogans and to the stories that shaped each other’s beliefs. Somewhere along the way, we began to meet in the middle, not out of compromise, but understanding. We still don’t agree on everything, but the distance between us has become a bridge—worn smooth by time, laughter, and trust.

My career changed in a similar way. Early on, I rushed forward, certain that enthusiasm alone could shift systems. Experience humbled me. Real progress, I discovered, is often slow and steady, built through patience, persistence, and relationships rather than grand gestures. I’m still passionate about my work, but now with a steadier kind of faith—a softer optimism that recognizes change as a lifelong conversation, not a single triumphant moment.

Just as my outlook softened at work and in marriage, it shifted again when I became a mother. Having children refocused my energy in ways I didn’t expect. The drive I once poured into trying to fix the world now finds new meaning in shaping the smaller world within our home. Teaching kindness, empathy, and curiosity to my children feels just as powerful as any public cause. Family hasn’t narrowed my worldview—it has deepened it. I’ve learned that the most lasting change often begins right where we live.

If my younger self saw the world as a canvas waiting for bold, sweeping strokes, my present self sees it as a tapestry—woven from countless threads of experience, perspective, and love. My politics have matured the same way: less about being right, more about being real. Less about winning debates, more about listening with curiosity and grace.

What’s changed most isn’t my beliefs—it’s how I hold them. More gently now, with humility and hope—and a quiet awareness that wisdom often lives somewhere between conviction and compassion.

Have your views changed as you’ve grown older? What experiences, relationships, or family moments have shifted how you see the world? I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments below.

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The Art of Ordinary Living: Finding Creativity in Writing, Cooking, and Parenting

How are you creative?

Creativity doesn’t always look like a canvas, a stage, or a masterpiece. Sometimes, it looks like a skillet full of potatoes, a bedtime routine that finally works, or a few quiet minutes spent putting messy life into words. For me, creativity lives in the everyday—in the effort, the resourcefulness, and the love poured into small things.

Writing Creativity
I’m creative through writing. I may not write fiction, but I write with color and heart. My words capture the hum of morning chores, the smell of bread rising on the counter, and the soft sounds of my family winding down after a long day.

Writing helps me slow down and hold onto fleeting moments before they slip away. My hope is that when someone reads what I write, they see their own life reflected back at them. I hope they begin to look for beauty in the ordinary. Writing, to me, is storykeeping more than storytelling—a way to honor the simple rhythm of living.

Cooking Creativity
That same creative spirit follows me into the kitchen. Few things bring more joy than opening the refrigerator with little motivation and turning almost nothing into something truly satisfying.

My trusty skillet, a few potatoes, and some onions have saved more dinners than I can count. The sound of onions sizzling in butter and the smell that fills the house remind me that creativity often blooms from constraint. It’s about seeing what you have and imagining what it could become.

Parenting Creativity
I’m also creative in my parenting. I didn’t want to raise my children exactly as I was raised, so I’ve learned to improvise and adapt through plenty of trial and error.

Take my two-year-old daughter and the great toothbrushing standoff. For months, we tried everything—games, choices, even silly songs—but it always ended the same: us brushing her teeth while she screamed in protest.

About a month ago, we took a new approach. We simply told her this was part of bedtime—non-negotiable, like pajamas and stories. To my surprise, she accepted it. Now she even reaches for the toothbrush herself.

My son wouldn’t have responded to that method at her age, but that’s the creative dance of parenting—learning each child’s rhythm, one routine at a time.

Reflection
Over time, I’ve realized that creativity isn’t limited to what we make—it’s how we live. It’s the spark that turns routine into ritual, leftovers into a warm meal, and frustration into understanding. It’s what keeps a home vibrant, a family connected, and a heart grateful. Every time I face life’s little challenges and find a gentler way through, I’m reminded of how much beauty lives in simply trying.

We are all, in one way or another, artists of ordinary life—crafting something meaningful out of the materials we’ve been given.

Now it’s your turn. How do you bring creativity into your everyday routines?

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#homesteadinglife #everydaycreativity #familyblogger #simpleliving #parentingtruths #mindfulliving #gratitudeinmotion #creativeparenting #findingjoyeveryday

My Biggest Influences from Family, Homesteading, and Simple Living

Who are the biggest influences in your life?

Keywords
simple living inspiration, homesteading lifestyle, family-centered life, personal growth journey, rural living values, community and connection, self-sufficiency and family, gratitude and intention

Influence comes in many forms—some quiet and steady, others bold and life-changing. Lately, I’ve been reflecting on who’s helped shape my journey toward simple living, family-centered growth, and self-sufficiency.

Books That Shape My Thinking
Books have always been my greatest teachers. I can spend hours tucked into a good nonfiction guide—whether it’s about self-improvement, gardening, or preserving old homestead traditions. The works of Midwestern authors like Jerry Apps hold a special place in my heart. His book about rural school life reminded me of the values that built strong communities: honesty, grit, and compassion. Reading it inspired me to start writing again and to live more intentionally.

Another influential book is Ben Logan’s The Land Remembers. His stories of growing up in Wisconsin capture what I love most about rural living. He talks about connection to the land, rhythm of the seasons, and the quiet lessons found in hard work. These authors remind me that storytelling preserves the values and wisdom worth passing on.

Just as books have shaped how I think about simple living, the people around me continue to shape how I live it each day.

Community That Inspires Me
Social media has become a surprisingly powerful influence in my life. My Facebook followers bring so much joy, encouragement, and creativity. We swap garden tips, share family stories, and remind each other that we’re not alone in pursuing intentional living.

What’s even more special is how online connections can grow into real friendships. Just last week, a friend from high school reached out after reading one of my posts. We met for coffee and had a wonderful conversation. It’s one that bridged years and reminded me how connection can start anywhere, even with a simple post.
Platforms like YouTube have also become part of my daily rhythm.

Watching fellow homesteaders and lifestyle creators encourages me to keep learning new skills and to approach life’s routines with curiosity and gratitude.

Family That Grounds Me
At the heart of my life is family. My parents and in-laws are always ready to help. Sometimes, it’s lending a hand with a project. Other times, it’s offering wisdom when I need it most. My husband is my constant partner—steadfast, kind, and right beside me whether we’re tending the garden or tackling challenges together.

My children have become my best teachers. They remind me to slow down, play, and find joy in the small things. Through them, I’ve learned patience, creativity, and how to truly appreciate everyday blessings.

And my sisters hold a special place in my heart. We share humor, sorrow, and plenty of homesteading projects. Their support and laughter keep me rooted, even when life feels hectic.

Living and Learning Together
Every influence—books, community, and family—forms part of the foundation that supports my growth. They motivate me to write, to homestead with purpose, and to live each day with gratitude. Growth doesn’t happen in isolation; it blossoms through shared stories, nurturing relationships, and open hearts.

Now it’s your turn. Who or what have you found to be influential in your life?

If this journey speaks to you, I’d love to have you join this community. We discuss simple living, homesteading, and personal growth through family life. Subscribe to my blog for weekly reflections, practical tips, and heartfelt stories about building a life rooted in intention and simplicity. Let’s keep growing and creating something meaningful together.

When Trust Feeds the Soul: Homesteading, Community, and the Power of Showing Up

Are you a good judge of character?

Some people guard their trust like a locked gate—but I’ve never been one of them. In homesteading and in life, I tend to meet others with open hands and an open heart. Out here, community isn’t just a pleasant idea. It’s something we build with every borrowed tool, shared chore, and kind word. I choose to believe the best of people, trusting they’re drawn by the same sense of purpose and generosity that keeps this way of life thriving.

When we brought our daughter home after she was born, that spirit of community wrapped around us in the most tangible way. We walked into a freshly mopped home, the dishes washed, the floor gleaming, and our table covered in homemade comfort—lasagna, sloppy Joe’s, meatloaf, and warm bread just out of the oven. It wasn’t just food; it was love, poured into every bite. Those acts of kindness reminded me that trust and connection don’t just make a community—they are the community.

Sure, now and then, I misjudge someone, and disappointment arrives like an unexpected frost. But time and again, choosing trust has brought more blessings than setbacks. It has built friendships rooted in understanding, neighbors who show up without being asked, and a shared sense that we’re stronger together than apart.

The land teaches that same truth daily. A garden can’t thrive without care, and neither can a community. When we nurture each other—with warmth, patience, and gratitude—we all flourish. That meal train, that clean house, those helping hands—they were proof that the seeds of kindness I try to plant don’t just grow; they multiply. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

What’s one way your community has shown up for you when you needed it most?

If this story touched your heart, spread the warmth! 💛

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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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Mastering Response Over Reaction: A Personal Growth Lesson for Parents and Homesteaders

What skills or lessons have you learned recently?

Lying awake at 2:13 a.m. for the fourth time that week, staring at the ceiling, I finally saw it. Overthinking was robbing my rest and energy for the day ahead. In some interactions—those everyday exchanges that catch me off guard—I still get reactive, even when I bite my tongue. My body betrays me: a tight jaw, a deepening frown, shoulders hiked up as if carrying an invisible load.

Over time, I saw the pattern. My silent reactions were fueling a draining cycle, amplifying stress that lingered into sleepless nights and frayed patience. I thrive on straightforward connections, where people say what they mean. But not every dynamic in life offers that, especially in unavoidable family or community ties. Rather than pouring energy into changing others, I’m reframing this as my personal growth challenge: mastering response over reaction.

Now, when a trigger hits—a loaded comment in a group chat or a subtle dig at a gathering—I pause and practice: slow my breath, soften my face, feel my feet on the floor. Not every provocation needs a response; many are just passing moments. I remind myself: “I’m safe, not under attack, and I choose my energy.” Simple, but quietly transformative.

This skill ripples everywhere in my world. In parenting, it means modeling calm for my kids during tantrums or sibling squabbles. I show them how to breathe through frustration instead of explode. On the homestead, it’s like tending a garden amid unpredictable weather. I can’t control the rain or pests, but I can cultivate steady hands to prune, plant, and protect what matters. In relationships, it helps me save my full authenticity for the people who can hold it with care.

What about you? What body cues signal your triggers, and how do you reclaim your calm? Share below—let’s grow together.

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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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Tag: Personal Growth

Growing Food

Raising Kids

Building Community

Lessons from the Past

Planting Hope

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