Personal Growth – Page 2 – Practical Homesteading

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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What Rugrats, Avatar, and Futurama Taught Me About Parenting and Growing Up

What’s your favorite cartoon?

If you ask about my favorite cartoon, the answer really depends. Am I the kid clutching a bowl of cereal on Saturday morning, the teenager staying up too late, or the adult sneaking in a few episodes after work? Each stage of life came with its own favorite, and each one reflects who I was then.

The Wonder Years: Rugrats
When I was little, nothing beat Rugrats. Seeing the world through the eyes of babies who treated every space as a wild frontier was magic. The show had a goofy charm, but it also carried surprising emotional weight. Especially the episodes about Chuckie’s mom hit harder as I got older. Watching it now, I catch jokes clearly written for parents and subtle messages about friendship and family that completely flew past me as a kid. It’s rare for a show to hold up that well. If it came on today, I’d still stop and watch.

The Growing Years: Avatar: The Last Airbender
As a teenager, I graduated to Avatar: The Last Airbender. From the moment Aang soared into the sky, I was hooked. The world-building was meticulous; each bending style felt organic and real, every nation’s culture fully realized. The series tackled identity, loss, and destiny without ever condescending to its audience—it was thoughtful, funny, and deeply human. Now my son watches it with his grandma (for the fifth time, I think), and sometimes I’ll join them. It’s remarkable how the same show can feel brand-new again when seen through the eyes of another generation.

The Adult Years: Archer and Futurama
These days, my favorite cartoons lean a little darker and sharper—Archer and Futurama. Before either one “jumped the shark,” both managed something rare: they found humor in cynicism without losing heart. Archer’s biting wit and absurd espionage antics always deliver, while Futurama mixes outrageous sci-fi comedy with devastatingly human moments.

The final episode of Futurama remains a standout for me. Watching Fry and Leela spend their lives adventuring together—and then getting the chance to do it all again—was a beautiful, fitting conclusion. That full-circle ending reminded me why the show resonated so deeply. Even in its later seasons, Futurama still produced episodes packed with creative energy and emotional honesty. Few comedies could match that.

Full Circle
I don’t watch many cartoons right now unless you count the ones I end up seeing with my kids. But those old shows stay with me. Each captured a different stage of life: wonder, discovery, and reflection. Maybe my favorite cartoon isn’t just one series. Maybe it’s whichever one reminds me who I was when I first pressed “play.”

Did you grow up watching any of these shows too? I’d love to hear what stories shaped your childhood or what you enjoy revisiting with your own kids. Share your thoughts in the comments. If you enjoy reflections on family life, homesteading, and finding joy in the ordinary—please like, share, and subscribe so you don’t miss the next post.

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.

Curiosity in Motion

Share five things you’re good at.

When I pull a forgotten vegetable from the back of the fridge and turn it into lunch, I’m reminded of something deeper about myself. I love the challenge of making something worthwhile out of what might otherwise go to waste. That instinct—to look, think, and try again—connects many of the things I do well. My strengths don’t always fit neatly together, and each carries its complications. However, they shape how I learn, love, and live.

Self-Reflection
I’ve always been good at analyzing my actions. After any conversation or decision, my mind replays each detail. What did I say? How did people react? What could I have done differently? Self-reflection helps me grow and maintain harmony with others. The downside? I sometimes lie awake at night, stuck in loops of overthinking. But I’d rather wrestle with too much awareness than drift through life without it. Reflection keeps me grounded and connected—to myself and to the people I care about.

Making the Most of Resources
I take real pride in making something out of nothing. Whether it’s stretching a budget or reinventing leftovers, I see potential where others might see waste. Just recently, I rescued leftover turkey bound for the garbage. I turned it into turkey dumpling soup—comforting and thrifty all at once. There’s joy in transforming scraps into sustenance. Sure, a few experiments have gone sideways over the years, but most end up nourishing both body and spirit.

Love of Learning
Books have always been my favorite adventure. I devour all kinds—self-improvement, history, fiction, science—and never tire of discovering something new. My husband and I trade recommendations, and our six-year-old son has caught the curiosity bug too. Right now, he’s fascinated by the Titanic and Nova. Our living room is often alive with questions, research, and excitement. Occasionally, I crave a low-effort evening in front of a screen. However, learning rarely feels like work—it feels like fuel for my mind and heart.

Acting Quickly to Solve Problems
When a problem pops up, I seldom stay frozen. I research fast, decide fast, and act even faster. It’s a trait that propels me forward but sometimes frustrates my husband, who prefers more deliberation. One October, tired of waiting for him to pick a spot to plant garlic, I finally chose one myself. My decision complicated his spring tilling. Looking back, I smile at the reminder that progress sometimes grows out of impatience. Action, even imperfect, has its rewards.

Experimentation
Above all, I’m an experimenter. I believe life is meant to be touched, tested, and transformed. This year, I took on mushroom cultivation—because starting with one variety felt too cautious. I grew oyster, wine cap, and shiitake mushrooms. The oysters thrived, the wine caps refused to fruit, and the shiitakes are still waiting for spring. Whether something succeeds or fails, I find meaning in the process. Curiosity keeps my world growing in unexpected directions.

Bringing It All Together
Reflection, resourcefulness, learning, decisiveness, and experimentation—each one fuels the others in its own looping rhythm. Reflection deepens learning; learning sparks curiosity; curiosity invites action; and every action offers new insight to reflect upon. Being good at many things isn’t about mastering them all. It’s about staying open to possibility, allowing skill and spirit to evolve side by side.

I’d like to pass on a willingness to think, try, and turn even life’s leftovers into something worth savoring. Perhaps my greatest experiment of all is unfolding every day. I’m raising two children who see the world as one big opportunity to learn, question, and grow.

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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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Named and Nourished: Living Honestly with Meat

What are your feelings about eating meat?

I sometimes grapple with eating animals I’ve raised and named. Pigs like Spotty loved to root in the muddy corners. The turkey Gobbles strutted proudly in the sunshine. The chickens clucked softly in the evening. I never take it lightly. There is an ache in my chest that tightens when I carry out the hard work of ending their lives. But I would rather face that ache honestly than be complicit in a system that strips animals of dignity, treating them as mere commodities instead of beings. For me, this tension is the price of eating meat with eyes wide open.

Growing up on my family’s dairy farm, caring for animals was part of my daily rhythm. I remember scratching the ear of a steer. He leaned into my touch with surprising gentleness while I broke ice on water troughs in the biting cold. However, even as a kid, we didn’t always eat meat from our own animals. We bought beef from the store, packaged and removed from the lives—or deaths—that put it on the table. That detachment was normal in my world, a quiet dissonance between nurturing life and consuming it anonymously.

It wasn’t until I learned about the horrors of industrial agriculture that my perspective began to shift. Chickens are crammed into tiny cages, cattle are confined in waste-filled feedlots, and pigs are subjected to painful tail docking. The animals I knew from childhood sparked a deep yearning to reclaim a meat-eating ethic rooted in respect and care. Where animals could express their natural behaviors under open skies.

Now, I raise pigs, turkeys, and chickens that roam freely, living full lives before their humane end. Spotty’s joyful mud rooting, Gobbles’s proud displays, and the quiet clucks of layers settling at dusk—all these moments remind me of the life behind the meat. After every harvest, I pause to thank them, honoring their sacrifice and the circle of life in a way that industrial meat production never allows. This act of gratitude is both a balm and a reminder of the weight carried in each bite.

Eating meat remains a negotiation between love and loss, tenderness and necessity. Naming my animals and seeing their personalities has made me confront discomfort rather than avoid it. It’s deepened my gratitude and underscored my responsibility. Though I sometimes wish I could spare each life, I have chosen this path over indifference. In this way, I believe that conscious stewardship is the only ethical way to continue eating meat.

In this balance, I find a measure of peace. I carry my sorrow alongside my meals, never forgetting the lives that nourish me. The choice is not easy, but it is honest. And in that honesty, I find a deeper respect—for the animals, for the earth, and for the tradition of living with awareness rather than denial.

If this essay resonates with your own thoughts on ethical eating, food sourcing, or the farm-to-table life, like it to show support. Share it with fellow homesteaders or omnivores questioning the system. Subscribe for more raw reflections on living intentionally with animals and land.

The Farmstead Paradox: How Technology Frees Us and Challenges Us

What technology would you be better off without, why?

What if I unplugged everything—just one day—and watched my farmstead world grind back to its raw roots?

Sun crests the barn at 5:45 am. No alarm jolts me; instinct pulls me up. We feed the animals, hauling water, grinding feed. We dress kids by fading lantern glow. Husband carries our daughter down the grassy footworn path to Grandma’s. I hitch the old wagon, walking our son two miles to school through dust and dawn chatter—no 10-minute car hum.

Home, I’d scrub laundry in the tub, no machine whirl. Meals bubble over wood fire, not Crock-Pot ease. Bread dough yields to muscle on the oak table, sans Kitchen Aid. No working outside the home for me. Husband swings scythe and shovel where tractors rule now; breakdowns mean hammer, anvil, firelight fixes. We could do it all—generations did. But tasks balloon from minutes to hours, bones aching, daylight devoured.

Reality snaps back: technology saves my soul. Remote work keeps me here for first words, bus arrivals, story hours no commute steals. Farm machines turn brutality into rhythm, sustaining us without wrecking backs. Humans thrived millennia hauling water, grinding grain by hand. Yet why suffer when tools free us for laughter, learning, presence?

Smartphones, though—these pocket tyrants I’d temper first. Last week, a ping ripped me from our son’s magnatile tower mid-build. “Just one email,” I thought. Half an hour vanished, his glee stolen.

Notifications shred focus; feeds erode dinner talk; blue light robs sleep. We’d survive without them, grit conquering all. But boundaries—silent family hours, apps locked post-8—restore what tech should amplify.

No full unplugging for us. We’ve glimpsed the raw possible, but embracing tools with fierce reins honors ingenuity and roots. Here on the farmstead, kids’ laughter rises under starlit skies: progress, bounded, yields the richest harvest.

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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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Tag: Personal Growth

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