When people hear I live on a homestead, their minds instantly jump to this romanticized idea of simple living. They picture me twirling barefoot through the garden in a linen dress, carrying a basket of eggs, free from the tyranny of Wi-Fi, Target runs, or clutter.
And listen—some of that is technically true. I do grow most of our food. I spend more time in boots than in traffic. I haven’t impulse-bought a throw pillow in years. But the idea that I’m living some ultra-minimalist, serene life where every possession fits into a capsule wardrobe and my entire kitchen is beige? Absolutely not.
So yes, I live simply—but it’s messy, chaotic, deeply human simple. Let me explain.
I Didn’t “KonMari” My Life—I Homesteaded It
Most minimalism blogs talk about getting rid of things that don’t spark joy. I tried that once. Stared at a cracked old butter churn in my pantry and thought, Does this spark joy?
No. It sparks shoulder pain and resentment.
Did I get rid of it? Also no. Because I might need it one day.
That’s the fundamental difference between trendy minimalism and homestead minimalism: we don’t throw things away just because they’re ugly. If it works, it stays. If it’s broken, we fix it. If we can’t fix it, we repurpose it into a tomato cage or goat scratching post.
There’s a certain utility-driven aesthetic to this life that makes room for clutter…as long as the clutter does something.
The Difference Between Want and Need Gets Real, Fast
Before the farm, I used to buy stuff because I liked how it looked in someone else’s Instagram story. Now? If it doesn’t serve a direct purpose in my daily survival, it’s probably not making the cut.
That’s not me being noble. That’s me realizing that every dollar I spend at a chain store is a dollar I don’t spend on seeds, fencing, or feed. Or a new headlamp for those horrifying midnight chicken emergencies.
When you start living close to the land, your brain shifts. You stop thinking, Do I want this? and start thinking, Will this survive goat teeth? Will this work in the rain?
And that’s the kind of simplicity I’ve come to love…..one based in usefulness, not aesthetic.
I Own Six Pairs of the Same Black Leggings, and I Regret Nothing
Minimalism influencers will tell you to have one perfect pair of pants. I laugh in muddy laundry.
I’ve learned that “simple living” doesn’t mean owning fewer clothes—it means owning more of the same clothes. I have six identical pairs of black leggings because they’re warm, stretchy, and I can kneel in goat poop without crying.
Simplicity, for me, is being able to get dressed in the dark at 5:30 a.m. without making a decision. It’s having three of the same flannel shirts because I know they work. It’s not about being fashionable. It’s about being able to toss an egg-stained sweatshirt into the wash while a backup sweatshirt is already waiting on the hook.
Also, let’s be honest: my farm boots have been my “capsule shoe collection” for three years now.
Kitchen Minimalism Is a Lie (You Need That Third Fermenting Crock)
If I had a dollar for every “minimalist kitchen tour” that told me to get rid of “duplicate tools,” I’d spend it on another cheese mould.
Here’s the thing: if you’re homesteading, you don’t just need one pot. You need a pot for canning, a pot for bone broth, a pot for dyeing wool (NOT interchangeable, unless you want lavender-scented chicken stock), and probably one for whatever science experiment you’re currently ignoring in the back of the fridge.
Yes, I own three cutting boards. Yes, I have a separate drawer for weird gadgets like a cherry pitter and a butter paddle. No, I will not feel bad about it.
This is minimalist living for people who still need to preserve 50 pounds of tomatoes in one weekend. You can pry my second dehydrator from my cold, prune-wrinkled hands.
Clutter Can Be Comfort (If It’s the Right Kind)
Here’s the truth I had to learn the slow way: some clutter is necessary. Some clutter is actually comforting.
That old collection of mismatched jars? That’s my food security.
Those notebooks filled with messy crop plans and goat milking logs? That’s my brain, on paper.
The tea towels that don’t match but all came from people I love? That’s my past, my heart, my story.
Simple living doesn’t have to mean empty white walls and a single eucalyptus stem in a handmade vase. Sometimes it means walls covered in drying herbs, a corner full of canning supplies, and an entryway that smells like compost and cinnamon.
If the “clutter” helps me live slower, more intentionally, and with more connection to my land—it stays.
Emotional Minimalism Is the Real MVP
If I’ve adopted any kind of minimalism on the homestead, it’s been emotional.
I’ve learned to let go of the guilt for not being perfect. Let go of the pressure to document everything. Let go of comparing my garden to someone else’s curated grid of sunlit kale.
My emotional clutter was costing me more peace than my kitchen gadgets ever did.
Now I care less about how things look and more about how they feel. I say no to things that don’t nourish my family, my soil, or my sanity. I accept that some days will be a disaster, and that doesn’t make me a failure.
That kind of minimalism? That’s the one I cling to like a lifeline.
I’m Not a Minimalist, I’m a Homesteader
I live simply, yes. But not perfectly. I’ll never own one spoon. I’ll never stop hoarding mason jars. My house will never look like an influencer’s loft.
But my life is quieter now. More deliberate. More rooted.
I own fewer things, but more meaningful ones.
I spend less money, but grow more of my own joy.
So if you’re dreaming of minimalism but the idea of giving up your cast iron skillet collection gives you anxiety? Good news: you can still live simply. Just… farm-style simple. Goat-approved simple. Mason-jar-hoarder simple.
It’s not aesthetic. But it is real. And at the end of the day, that’s all I’m aiming for. 🐐🛠️🌾
