You know that feeling when you’re standing in your own kitchen, surrounded by all the things you thought you wanted, and yet something feels… off? Like there’s an itch you can’t quite reach, a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, a song stuck on repeat in the back of your mind that you can’t quite identify?
I’ve been living with that feeling for months now, and I’m finally starting to understand what it is.
It started subtly, the way these things usually do. A restlessness during my morning chores. A distraction while working on projects that used to completely absorb my attention. A strange sense that I was going through the motions of my life instead of actually living it.
At first, I chalked it up to the usual suspects: too much screen time, not enough sleep, the general overwhelm that comes with managing a homestead, a business, and three kids who seem determined to test every safety rule we’ve ever established.
But the feeling persisted, even on days when everything was going smoothly.
It took me embarrassingly long to realize what was happening. I was experiencing what I can only describe as growing pains of the soul—that uncomfortable sensation that happens when you’ve outgrown your current circumstances but haven’t yet figured out what comes next.
I was becoming someone new, but I was still trying to live like the person I used to be.
Here’s what I mean: For the last decade, my identity has been pretty clearly defined. I’m the homestead blogger who milks cows and grows vegetables and shares traditional skills with people on the internet. I’m the woman who chose the hard path, who values self-sufficiency over convenience, who finds deep satisfaction in doing things the old-fashioned way.
And all of that is still true. But it’s not the whole truth anymore.
Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to challenges that have nothing to do with homesteading. I’ve been thinking about community development, about economic systems, about how to create meaningful change in the world beyond my own fence line. I’ve been questioning assumptions I didn’t even know I had and exploring ideas that don’t fit neatly into my established brand.
I’ve been growing in directions that don’t have obvious labels or clear career paths.
And that growth has created an uncomfortable tension. Part of me wants to keep doing what I’ve always done, what’s comfortable and familiar and successful. But another part of me is pulling toward something different, something bigger, something that feels both exciting and terrifying.
It’s the classic tension between security and growth, between the known and the unknown.
I think a lot of us experience this kind of unsettled feeling, especially those of us who’ve chosen unconventional paths. We create lives that work beautifully for who we are at the time, but then we keep growing and changing, and suddenly those same lives feel too small or too confining.
The very success of our current situation becomes a kind of comfortable prison.
It’s particularly challenging when your growth takes you in directions that seem to contradict your established identity. How do you reconcile being the “homestead expert” with suddenly wanting to spend time on projects that have nothing to do with chickens and gardens? How do you honor the path that brought you to where you are while still following the pull toward where you’re going?
I don’t have complete answers yet, but I’m starting to understand a few things.
First, this unsettled feeling isn’t a problem to be solved—it’s information to be respected. It’s my inner compass pointing toward growth, toward new challenges, toward the next phase of my evolution as a human being.
Fighting it or ignoring it only makes it louder.
Second, growth doesn’t have to mean abandoning everything you’ve built. It can mean expanding, deepening, connecting your existing skills and knowledge to new applications and broader purposes.
The homesteading skills I’ve developed aren’t just about growing food—they’re about resilience, self-reliance, and working with natural systems. Those principles apply to way more than just agriculture.
Third, it’s okay to outgrow your own life. It’s okay to look around at the situation you’ve created and realize that it served you well for a season, but you’re ready for something different now.
Outgrowing your circumstances isn’t a betrayal of your past self—it’s a natural result of doing the work of becoming who you’re supposed to be.
This is scary stuff, especially when you’ve built a business and a reputation around being a certain type of person. There’s pressure to stay consistent, to keep delivering the same content to the same audience, to not confuse people by growing in unexpected directions.
But authenticity requires growth, and growth requires change.
I’m not sure what this means for the future of our homestead, our business, or our family. I don’t know if we’ll stay here forever or eventually move somewhere that offers different opportunities. I don’t know if I’ll always be primarily focused on traditional skills or if that will become just one part of a broader mission.
And for the first time in my adult life, I’m okay with not knowing.
What I do know is that this unsettled feeling is a sign that I’m alive, that I’m still growing, that I haven’t settled into complacency or resignation. It’s a reminder that humans are designed to keep evolving throughout their lives, not to find a comfortable groove and stay there forever.
It’s a call to adventure, even if I can’t see where the adventure leads.
So I’m learning to sit with the discomfort, to honor the restlessness without immediately trying to fix it or figure it out. I’m paying attention to what captures my interest, what problems I find myself thinking about, what conversations light me up with excitement.
I’m trusting the process, even when I can’t see the destination.
If you’ve been feeling unsettled lately, if you’ve been questioning things that used to feel certain, if you’ve been feeling called toward something you can’t quite name—you’re not alone. This might not be a sign that something’s wrong. It might be a sign that you’re ready to grow.
The caterpillar probably feels pretty unsettled right before it becomes a butterfly.
So here’s to the uncomfortable in-between spaces, the periods of questioning and uncertainty, the growing pains that mean we’re becoming who we’re supposed to be. Here’s to trusting the process even when we can’t see the outcome.
Here’s to staying open to whatever comes next.
Sitting with the questions,
-Nichole
P.S. I’m sharing this not because I have answers, but because I suspect many of you are dealing with similar feelings. Sometimes the most helpful thing is just knowing you’re not alone in the confusion. We’re all figuring it out as we go.
