You know that feeling when you walk into a room full of people and suddenly realize you’re speaking a completely different language than everyone else? Not literally, of course—unless you’re trying to explain the intricacies of sourdough starter maintenance to someone who thinks bread comes exclusively from the Wonder Bread factory.
Well, I recently spent two days at the Homestead Festival in Columbia, Tennessee, and for the first time in ages, I felt like I could breathe normally around other humans without getting those sideways looks that say, “Did she just mention milking a cow like it’s a normal Tuesday activity?”
Events like these feel like coming home, and I don’t mean that in the cheesy, hallmark-card way.
I’m talking about that deep, soul-level relief that comes from being around people who don’t raise an eyebrow when you casually mention that your weekend plans involve wrestling a stubborn calf or that your biggest life crisis right now is whether your sourdough starter is sluggish because of the weather change.
For two glorious days, these folks commiserated when I talked about the eternal struggle of balancing barn chores with actual human responsibilities. They shared knowing laughs when I mentioned how my husband impulse-bought six piglets while I was gone—which, by the way, actually happened over the weekend, because apparently Christian thinks livestock acquisitions are like grocery shopping.
They understood our family’s completely unorthodox choices, and many of them are following the same muddy, challenging, absolutely rewarding path.
For a brief, shining moment, I was “normal.” And let me tell you, it felt better than finding the perfect tomato in August.
Here’s the thing: I don’t have tons of homesteading friends locally. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve got a few, and they’re worth their weight in fresh eggs. But most of our neighbors prefer to live more conventional lives, and that’s completely fine. We still have plenty of common ground and genuine relationships.
But sometimes, when I’m at these homestead events surrounded by people who actually understand why I get genuinely excited about compost temperature, I find myself daydreaming about some kind of “Prairie Homestead Compound” where we could all live in happy, comfortable sameness.
The thought is almost irresistible, like imagining a world where everyone appreciates the superior flavor of heritage breed pork and nobody judges you for having chicken feathers in your hair at the grocery store.
But as my imagination runs wild with visions of a utopian farming commune where everyone knows the difference between a Rhode Island Red and a Buff Orpington, I can’t help but wonder: Would I actually be where I am now if I’d only stayed around comfortable people?
And honestly? I don’t think so.
You see, the entire impetus for this incredible, messy, life-changing journey I’ve taken over the last 15 years has been the tension. That beautiful, uncomfortable friction that comes from watching the modern world around me and craving something completely different.
The very discomfort that made me feel like a weirdo at suburban barbecues—you know, the ones where I’d start talking about soil health while everyone else wanted to discuss the latest Netflix series—is what prompted the massive changes in our lives.
That friction gave me the motivation to forge into unknown territory and live a life that’s about as counter-cultural as they come.
Would any of that have happened if I’d only ever lived around people just like me? If I’d been surrounded by folks who thought buying a milk cow was a perfectly reasonable Tuesday decision and that making cheese from scratch was just basic adulting?
I really don’t think so.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m incredibly thankful for homestead events where I can soak in that wonderful sameness. I absolutely need those times to fill my cup, to remember that I’m not completely insane for choosing this path, and to learn from people who’ve made similar choices.
BUT.
Here’s the thing about pioneers that we tend to forget: they weren’t pioneers because they stayed safely within the herd. They didn’t earn their place in history by clustering with people exactly like them and calling it a day.
The pioneers of yesteryear capture our imagination precisely because they ventured into the unknown. Into wilderness full of danger, risk, and massive discomfort. They held true to their vision even when everyone around them thought they’d lost their minds, and they lived legendary lives because of it.
And that’s exactly how I see you and me, friend.
We’re taking these old-fashioned skills and ideas and bringing them into the wilderness of a culture that’s completely adrift. We’re growing food in a world that’s forgotten where food comes from. We’re building community in an age of digital isolation. We’re teaching our kids practical skills in a society that values virtual achievements over real-world capabilities.
While it’s absolutely wonderful if you have companionship on this journey—and I hope you do—sometimes you’ve got to be the Lone Ranger too. Sometimes you’ve got to be the person at the neighborhood barbecue who brings homemade sourdough bread and then patiently explains why it tastes different from store-bought when people ask.
Sometimes you’ve got to be willing to look a little crazy to the people around you.
And even if there’s no one else in your immediate area who “gets” what you’re doing, even if your family thinks you’ve gone off the deep end with all this talk about heritage seeds and pasture rotation, even if your friends roll their eyes when you suggest making something from scratch instead of just buying it…
You are absolutely, definitely not alone.
There are thousands and thousands of us scattered across this country and around the world, all doing the same beautiful, challenging work. We’re planting seeds and milking cows and fermenting vegetables and building chicken coops and teaching our kids skills that their classmates have never even heard of.
We’re creating sourdough starters and naming them like pets. We’re getting genuinely excited about the quality of our compost. We’re planning our gardens in January and dreaming about next year’s livestock additions while this year’s animals are still figuring out their pasture rotations.
We’re scattered across vast distances, but we’re united by this shared understanding that there’s a better way to live.
And our numbers are growing like wildfire. Every day, more people are waking up to the reality that maybe, just maybe, depending entirely on industrial systems for basic survival isn’t the genius plan we thought it was. Every day, more families are taking their first tentative steps toward growing some of their own food, learning traditional skills, and reconnecting with the rhythms of natural life.
I honestly can’t think of any other movement I’d rather be part of.
Is it challenging? Absolutely. Does it sometimes feel lonely when you’re the only person in your social circle who knows the difference between a broiler and a layer? You bet. Do people sometimes look at you like you’ve sprouted a second head when you mention that you made your own soap?
All the time.
But here’s what I want you to remember on those days when you feel like you’re swimming upstream against the current of modern convenience culture: you’re not swimming alone. There’s an entire school of fish swimming right alongside you, even if you can’t always see them.
We’re the people who remember that humans are supposed to know how to feed themselves. We’re the ones teaching our children that food comes from soil and sunshine, not from factories and supply chains. We’re the families choosing meaning over convenience, capability over comfort, and real relationships over digital connections.
We’re the ones keeping the important knowledge alive.
So the next time you’re feeling isolated in your old-fashioned choices, remember that there are people all over the world kneading bread at the same time you are. There are families collecting eggs while you’re feeding your chickens. There are gardeners planning their spring plantings while you’re studying seed catalogs.
We’re all part of the same beautiful, crazy, counter-cultural adventure.
And honestly? I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be than right here in the middle of this movement, surrounded by people who understand that the best things in life require dirt under your fingernails and patience in your heart.
Welcome to the club, fellow pioneer. You’re definitely not alone.
Pioneering ahead with all of you,
–Nichole
P.S. Speaking of not being alone, my upcoming book “Old-Fashioned on Purpose” dives deep into exactly this topic—how to find your tribe and stay committed to traditional values in a modern world. If you preorder it, I’ve got a whole pile of bonuses waiting for you that’ll help you on this journey. Because we’re stronger when we’re connected, even across the miles.
