When I first started homesteading, I imagined something between a Pinterest board and a Little House on the Prairie episode. Think sun-drenched garden beds, smiling chickens, and me in an apron, gracefully removing a bubbling pie from the oven while freshly canned tomatoes glistened behind me in matching mason jars.
What I got instead: a goat stuck in my laundry room, fermented pickles that hissed at me, and a garden that looked more like a haunted weed patch than anything remotely edible.
But hey, I survived. I learned. And now I get to share those hard-earned homestead lessons with you—so you can hopefully avoid making the same hilarious, humbling mistakes.
Here are my top five homesteading lessons that no one told me, but absolutely should’ve:
1. Nature Has No Chill, and That’s Okay
I used to think homesteading would bring me into this tranquil, slow-living, earthy rhythm. And in some ways, it has. But I was deeply unprepared for how chaotic nature actually is.
Chickens will fight. Goats will escape. Weather apps will lie. Seeds that thrived one year will ghost you the next.
The first spring I planted kale, I babied those little sprouts like they were my children. One morning, I came out to find every single leaf gone. Just stalks. Apparently, my chickens had developed a taste for organic kale and were planning a revolution.
Lesson learned: homesteading is beautiful—but also savage. Let go of the fantasy that everything will go according to plan. Make peace with the mess. Laugh when the ducks ruin your freshly mulched pathway. They will.
2. Write It Down. All of It. Immediately.
You think you’ll remember which tomatoes you planted in the second raised bed? You won’t.
You think you’ll recall how many jars of jam you canned last July? Nope.
You think you’ll never forget that one goat’s due date? You absolutely will.
I have learned—after losing entire batches of seeds, repeating the same canning mistake two years in a row, and confusing zucchini for cucumbers (don’t ask)—that writing stuff down is not optional.
Now I have binders, notebooks, and an increasingly chaotic Google Drive full of labelled folders like “Winter Garden Ideas” and “Weird Smells in the Coop (Investigate Later).”
If it feels excessive, that’s because it is. But future you will be so grateful when you’re standing in the pantry wondering if the green beans you’re holding are from this year or 2021.
3. Your Animals Will Embarrass You
There’s no prepping for the moment your goat climbs onto the roof while a friend is visiting. Or when your rooster decides to mount a duck in front of the UPS guy.
You will scream at a pig in public. You will be outsmarted by a chicken. And yes, at some point, you will find yourself Googling “do ducks get jealous?” at 1 a.m.
I used to think I’d be a graceful, knowledgeable livestock whisperer. Instead, I’m more like the unhinged zookeeper of a feral farm-themed sitcom.
The trick is to lean in. Laugh about it. And if your goat ends up in your kitchen eating your shopping list (again), maybe film it—content is content.
4. Perfection Is the Enemy of Actual Progress
Instagram will make you feel like every homesteader has perfect rows of rainbow carrots, a spotless barn, and a sourdough starter named Luna thriving in a vintage crock.
Let me assure you: they don’t.
Behind every aesthetically pleasing farm account is someone who’s probably crying in their greenhouse because aphids took over again. Or someone who forgot to turn on the dehydrator and lost ten pounds of apple slices to mold.
I used to get paralyzed by the need to make everything “right.” I didn’t want to plant unless I had the perfect layout. Didn’t want to build unless I had the exact materials. Didn’t want to share unless it looked pretty.
But homesteading isn’t about being perfect—it’s about doing the dang thing. One crooked fence, lopsided garden bed, or lumpy loaf of bread at a time.
Progress over Pinterest, always.
5. You’re going to Be Exhausted—But Weirdly Happy
Here’s the part no one warns you about: homesteading is absolutely exhausting.
You’re up early, covered in dirt by 10 a.m., fighting off bugs by noon, and sterilizing jars by night. Your back will hurt. Your hands will be permanently stained. You will forget what clean jeans feel like.
But you will also feel weirdly alive.
There’s something incredibly satisfying about feeding your family with things you grew, baked, raised, or preserved. There’s power in knowing you could survive without a grocery store for a while. There’s joy in naming your chickens ridiculous things and watching bees buzz around your sunflowers like you’re in a Disney movie.
It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It’s deeply rewarding.
Bonus Mini-Lesson: Laugh at Everything
Seriously. If you can’t laugh at the fact that you accidentally fed your goat’s mouldy hay or spent $200 trying to raise $5 worth of carrots, homesteading will eat you alive.
Things will go wrong. Animals will betray you. Weather will disrespect your entire plan.
But if you laugh—even while scooping frozen chicken poop in January—you’ll get through it.
And one day, years from now, you’ll be sitting in your slightly uneven rocking chair, sipping tea from a chipped mug, surrounded by too many cats and a suspiciously large zucchini, thinking: This is it. This is the life I chose. And somehow, it’s perfect.
