Look, I’m just going to come right out and say it: if there was an Olympic competition for epic homesteading failures, I would absolutely dominate that podium. We’re talking gold medal, record-breaking, hall-of-fame level disasters here.
Last week I was walking back from barn chores, mentally cataloguing our so-called “homestead operation,” and I had what psychologists probably call a moment of clarity but what I’m calling a straight-up reality check. The thought that ran through my head was pretty much:
“Holy crap, I really suck at this.”
If you follow my blog thinking I’m some kind of homesteading goddess who has everything figured out, buckle up buttercup, because I’m about to shatter that illusion into a million tiny pieces.
Here’s my current homestead report card, and it is not pretty:
Chickens: I currently have exactly TWO laying hens. Not twenty. Not twelve. Two. Between raccoons having what I can only assume was the chicken equivalent of a Vegas buffet and our overzealous puppy who apparently thinks chickens are the world’s most entertaining squeaky toys, it’s been a bloodbath. I’m literally rationing eggs like we’re living through the Great Depression.
Milk cow situation: Remember how I used to brag about fresh raw milk? Yeah, about that. Between traveling for business, home-schooling the kids, managing our online stuff, and just trying to keep everyone alive, I’ve basically given up milking altogether. I just leave her calf on her and call it a day. When I do manage to drag myself out there with a bucket, she’s holding back all the good stuff for her baby, so I get this watery, sad excuse for milk with zero cream. It’s like she’s personally offended by my inconsistency.
Garden status: Oh, this is where it gets really embarrassing. My most successful crop this year—and I use the term “successful” very loosely—was cabbage. I harvested approximately ten heads of small, half-grown, bug-eaten sadness. The outer leaves looked like they’d been through a paper shredder because I basically abandoned ship on pest control halfway through the season. When your homemade garden spray is collecting dust in the shed while bugs throw a rave in your vegetables, you know you’ve hit rock bottom.
So yes, the “homestead blogger girl” is currently chicken-less, garden-less, and raw milk-less. I’m basically running a homestead in name only at this point. Pretty inspiring content, right?
Here’s the thing that took me seven years of this lifestyle to figure out: homesteading isn’t a straight line to success. It’s more like a drunk person trying to walk home—lots of weaving, some face-plants, occasional victories, and hopefully you end up where you intended to go.
Some seasons I’ve felt like I could teach a masterclass on self-sufficiency. Other seasons? I’m just trying to keep the animals alive and get something edible on the dinner table without poisoning anyone.
And you know what? I’m completely okay with that.
This isn’t an all-or-nothing lifestyle, despite what Pinterest would have you believe. We modern homesteaders still have one foot in the regular world, which means we can’t spend every waking moment preserving food and building chicken coops. Sometimes weekends have to be about family time instead of farm projects. Sometimes business trips happen. Sometimes life gets in the way of the perfect homesteading fantasy.
So for this season, I’m choosing to celebrate the wins, even when they feel microscopic compared to my failures.
Like last week when we had eggs and sausage for dinner. Nothing fancy, just scrambled eggs and links, but both the eggs and sausage came from animals we raised ourselves. My daughter picked fresh chives from the garden—one of the few things that actually grew—and chopped them all by herself. My son cooked the eggs almost entirely without help. It was this perfect little moment of homestead success hidden inside our general chaos.
Or when I turned one of our pathetic cabbage heads into this parmesan-covered side dish that was so good even my cabbage-hating husband asked for seconds. Sometimes you take your victories where you can find them.
The twin heifers both got pregnant on their first attempt, which means we’ll hopefully have a replacement milk cow and an animal to sell next spring. Our home-school year is going better than expected, even on the days when I question everyone’s sanity. And for the first time in my homesteading career, I actually managed to keep turkeys alive from spring until butchering time. That might not sound impressive to you, but for someone whose previous turkey attempts resulted in what I can only describe as poultry genocide, it’s basically a miracle.
Here’s what I’ve learned from running a business: the only people who don’t fail are the ones who aren’t really trying. If that’s true, then I must be trying incredibly hard, because my failure rate is spectacular.
But failure isn’t the enemy here. Failure is information. It tells you what doesn’t work so you can try something different next time. Every disaster is just expensive education.
Here’s how I’m brushing myself off this year:
The milk cow gets a break. I’m going to dry off Oakley earlier than usual so she has more time to rest and recover before her next calf. Her body condition has been okay, but it could be better. Since I’m barely milking anyway, this is the perfect time to let her focus on putting on weight instead of producing milk for my inconsistent schedule.
Starting fresh with chickens. Since our current flock is basically extinct, I figure this is the universe telling me it’s time to try a different approach. I’m done with this mismatched collection of random chickens from the feed store. I want to invest in quality heritage birds—Black Laced Silver Wyandottes—and actually learn to breed them properly. If I’m going to fail at chickens, I might as well fail with beautiful chickens.
Garden redesign time. You know what’s great about a complete garden failure? It gives you permission to start over with a totally different approach. We’re finally pulling the trigger on those raised bed plans we’ve been talking about for years. I’m tired of fighting our clay soil and inconsistent water situation. It’s time to build something that actually works instead of just hoping for the best every spring.
This isn’t Little House on the Prairie over here, people. Some seasons everything clicks and you feel like you could teach a masterclass on self-sufficiency. Other seasons are complete disasters that make you question every life choice that led you to think you could successfully raise food.
But that’s just part of the journey. As someone once said, “Success is going from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.” My enthusiasm definitely isn’t dampened—if anything, I’m more fired up to figure out how to do this better.
So is this just me having a spectacular breakdown, or can you relate? Because I’m pretty sure every honest homesteader has seasons like this, but most of us are too proud to admit it.
Share your biggest homestead disaster in the comments so we can all feel better about our collective chaos. Trust me, misery loves company, and I could use some reassurance that I’m not the only one who occasionally fails spectacularly at this lifestyle I’ve chosen.
“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.” —Henry Ford
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go collect eggs from my two remaining chickens and pretend that this counts as a successful homestead operation.
