If you had told me five years ago that I’d be writing a blog post titled “Simple Living & Choosing Gratitude” from a farmhouse in muddy boots, with a chicken squawking under my kitchen table and a sourdough starter named Mildred bubbling beside me…I’d have laughed. Hard!!!! Probably with an oat milk latte in hand and a Pinterest board open for “minimalist desk setups.”
But here we are.
Let me start by saying this: simple living is not about the aesthetic. It’s not about the linen aprons, the neutral Instagram filters, or the rustic jars of dried herbs lined up like you live inside a Nancy Meyers film. (Although, I do have dried herbs in jars. No judgment. Just saying.)
No—simple living, at least for me, is more about unlearning. It’s about learning to live slower, smaller, and somehow, with more… enoughness... It’s about waking up and remembering that even when the barn roof leaks and the bread fails and the cow poops in the water trough—you still get to live this life.
And that? That’s where the gratitude part sneaks in.
I Used to Think Gratitude Was Just a Hashtag
Back in my city life, I thought “choosing gratitude” was something you said after a yoga class or wrote on a sticky note during a wellness seminar. It was a vibe. A cute caption for a sunrise photo. Something you did when life was already going well.
But then I moved to the farm.
And let me tell you: gratitude hits different when you’re scraping frozen chicken poop off a roost in 14-degree weather while wondering if your pipes will survive the night. There’s no filter for that. No hashtag to soften the smell.
At first, I hated those moments. Resented them. I wanted things to be easier—prettier, more organized, more efficient. But eventually, after enough early mornings and ruined boots and failed jam attempts, I stopped expecting ease.
And I started noticing what was working.
Like how the sheep’s wool smelled warm and earthy in the cold. Or how the sun came up in a blaze of pink even after a night of chasing runaway goats. Or how I could stand in my garden, mud up to my knees, and feel—just for a second—completely okay.
That’s gratitude. Not because everything’s great. But because, somehow, you still are.
Simple Living Is Not the Same as Easy Living
Let’s get this straight right now: “simple” does not mean “effortless.”
Simple means fewer distractions. Fewer things. Fewer obligations you agreed to just because you felt bad saying no. But it often also means more work. More intention. More decisions made from scratch.
I don’t have a dishwasher. I wash my clothes with vinegar and baking soda. I bake my own bread, ferment my own pickles, and once tried to make homemade shampoo (10/10 do not recommend). I hang my laundry on a line, mostly because I blew a fuse trying to run the washing machine and the toaster at the same time.
This lifestyle is gritty and repetitive. There are no shortcuts. But that slowness—the kind that used to make me feel behind—now makes me feel rooted.
It’s in that rhythm, that mundane daily repetition, that I find the most space for gratitude.
Because you start noticing things. Like the first daffodil that blooms in April. Or the way your body has quietly gotten stronger. Or how a meal you made from scratch—with your own hands and your own grown vegetables—just hits different.
Gratitude in the Chaos (Because Let’s Be Real)
I won’t lie and say I’m always grateful. Sometimes I’m just gritty. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed, annoyed, or staring at a flooded chicken coop thinking “I could be eating sushi in a city right now.”
But I’ve learned that gratitude isn’t a constant feeling—it’s a practice. A pause. A reset button you press when the noise in your brain gets too loud and you need to remember the why behind the what the heck am I doing.
Here are a few places I find it on the regular:
- Mornings. Even when it’s cold and dark and my coffee is half spilled, I always step outside. Just for a minute. I breathe in whatever version of fresh air the farm has to offer that day (sometimes manure-scented, sometimes misty and crisp). And I remind myself: this is my life. I chose it. I get to live it.
- Animals. They are messy, loud, chaotic little miracles. I mean, sure, my goat screamed into my window for 17 minutes yesterday because she saw me eating a banana without offering her a bite. But they love with their whole bodies. They don’t overthink. They don’t doomscroll. They just are. And that kind of presence is contagious.
- Failure. Weird one, I know. But I’m grateful for every failed batch of jam, every dying tomato plant, every time I’ve overcooked the beans and underplanned the harvest. These failures slow me down. They teach me something. And they remind me that success is not the point. Connection is.
The Gratitude List I Keep (Sort Of)
Some people write daily gratitude lists in leather journals. I… do not. Mine usually ends up scribbled on the back of seed packets, or voice-memoed into my phone while I’m mucking out the coop.
But here’s a sample of this week’s, in case you need a reminder that gratitude doesn’t have to be profound:
- The neighbor who brought me eggs even though I have 12 chickens (mine are freeloaders).
- The compost pile steaming on a cold morning.
- Basil growing in the windowsill.
- Clean socks that smell like lavender.
- My dog finally learning not to chase the ducks (progress!!!).
- A hot shower after a day of hauling mulch.
- The fact that I get to live on a piece of land, however chaotic, and call it home.
Final Thoughts (Before the Goats Eat My Phone)
Simple living isn’t perfect. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often incredibly unglamorous. But when I slow down enough to notice it—when I tune out the noise and remember that I don’t have to live this life, I get to—I find something I never really had before.
Gratitude.
Not the fluffy kind. Not the “write three things before bed” kind (though that’s cool too). But the deep, bone-level, mud-splattered kind. The kind that comes from doing hard things. From making peace with imperfect days. From looking around and realizing that even when it’s tough, it’s still enough.
So yeah, this homestead life is a mess. But it’s my mess. And I am, somehow, ridiculously grateful for it.
