We used to live in a small, unassuming cabin nestled in the woods, surrounded by a cluster of more alike quaint cabins. It was a simple life, one we cherished not for its grandeur but for its ease. Our neighbors were the kind of folks you could trust to keep an eye on things, water your houseplants, and wave you off with a smile as you hit the road. For nearly a decade, that cabin was more of a pitstop than a home. Our real life unfolded in a little camper, following unknown dirt roads and new horizons. We’d leave for months at a time, free as the wind, with nothing tying us down. It was glorious.
We always knew we’d eventually want to plant roots somewhere, to take our love for the land and turn it into something deeper—a life of stewardship. But when that chapter arrived in 2021, it came faster than we expected.
We found our dreamscape: a piece of land with a clean, vibrant water source several miles down a dirt road, far from the sounds of civilization. The land was an empty canvas with a modest home, and it sang quietly to us all her potential. We dove in headfirst. We acquired animals to help us create soil (and meat). We built a garden so efficient it felt like a miracle. We planted a food forest of fruit trees and bushes, and swam in some of the cleanest water for hours just about every day from May to November. Mornings were spent sipping coffee on the porch, rocking gently as we watched sunlight spill across miles of hilltops. Those first few years were sacred, too pure to expose to strangers online, and it sometimes felt too holy to try to even capture.
The sanctuary we built with our own hands was the living representation of our dreams. But as the years passed, the honeymoon glow began to fade, and a quieter truth emerged. Homesteading isn’t just a lifestyle; it’s a commitment that never pauses.
The animals need constant tending, the grass needs grazing, the compost needs turning, the plants need pruning, the seedlings need to get into the ground, the bugs need squashing, the fences/chargers need checking, and the list goes on. Most days, these tasks felt like a privilege, a chance to connect with the land and nurture life. We’d marvel at the rhythm of it all, grateful to be part of something so alive. But then there were the days when the wind howled sideways, or the heat and humidity pressed down like a heavy hand. On those days, I’d catch myself dreaming of a life where nothing depended on me—where I could just be without the weight of endless chores. But, a homestead doesn’t let you take a day off without consequences. There’s no hitting pause without something slipping backward.
We hadn’t anticipated how our land would inevitably come to own us. The dream that felt so freeing at first became a tether. We were held captives, not of a bad life, but of the very things we’d chosen—our animals, our garden, our land.
We loved our homestead fiercely, tending to the animals and coaxing life from the garden. But beyond our little sanctuary, I felt adrift, like a stranger in a strange land. The Ozarks were stunning, with a quiet beauty that took my breath away, but I always felt like a foreigner in a foreign land.
It wasn’t about giving up. It was about realizing we’d lived the dream fully—loved it, breathed it, poured ourselves into it—and now we were ready for something else. I liken it so skiing the same run/line all season long. To ski the same line after a while, you are ready to explore new terrain, and embrace a fresh challenge. We felt as though what ought to be enjoyed, was enjoyed, but that it was time to embrace new experiences.
I’ve always known deep in my bones that I’m built to wander the woods, to slip into the forest on a whim, carefree and unparanoid of consequence. The South, with its relentless bugs and heavy air, reminded me often that I belonged elsewhere.
I came full circle back to the simple truth that “home is where the heart is”.
Family, friends, joy, trust, freedom, adventure—these are the things that matter. The best things in life aren’t things. The land, the garden, the animals—they’re wonderful, but they’re still things. They brought us immense joy, but they also demanded undivided attention, unending labor, and the most valuable thing of all, time.
For me, that question weighed heavier than I expected was ‘If I can’t leave without the whole operation crumbling, how free am I, really?’
We chased a dream, built it from the ground up, and lived it with everything we had.
But there comes a time to pass the torch, to let someone else tend the land with the same love we did. We came for an experience, and got it—fully, richly, beautifully.
Now, I’m ready to explore what’s next, to find freedom in the open road and the woods that call me home.
