I used to think I was tough. I could handle stressful commutes, 14-tab Excel spreadsheets, city apartment plumbing that sounded like a haunted submarine. I thought: “If I can survive corporate life, I can definitely grow some tomatoes and raise a few chickens.”
Reader, I was wrong.
This homestead life? It will humble you. It will test you. It will drag you through the mud (sometimes literally—looking at you, Percy the goat) and make you question every life decision you’ve made since 2009. And yet? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
But let’s be real. This homestead life isn’t easy.
The Morning “Routine” That’s Never Routine
Every influencer blog will tell you how magical mornings are on the homestead: birds chirping, sunlight spilling across dewy fields, a warm mug of herbal tea clutched in calloused hands.
Here’s what my mornings actually look like:
- Wake up at 5:12 a.m. because a rooster is screaming into the void.
- Step in goat poop.
- Realize the ducks have somehow opened the feed bin and are now hosting an unsanctioned buffet.
- Trip over a hose.
- Coffee? Who has time for coffee? I’m busy trying to coax a grumpy hen named Ruth Bader Ginsbird out of the laundry room.
And that’s before 6:30.
Every single day on the homestead begins with chaos dressed as “natural beauty.” It’s like living in a National Geographic documentary directed by Quentin Tarantino.
You’ll Cry Over Really Dumb Things
I once cried for a full 11 minutes because my sourdough starter died. Like, grieved it. I held that sad, lifeless blob in my hands like it was Mufasa.
I’ve also cried because:
- The hose froze.
- The cows broke the fence (again).
- The dog ate my garden plan.
- I realized I haven’t had a proper manicure in three years.
People say homesteading is therapeutic, and they’re not wrong. But it’s more “crying into your shovel while emotionally processing capitalism” than it is relaxing lavender-scented candle energy.
Animals Have Zero Chill
The animals run this place. I’m just the woman holding a bucket, pretending I’m in charge.
Chickens? Freeloading anarchists.
Goats? Chaotic geniuses with a thirst for destruction.
Cows? Majestic, beautiful, absolute menaces.
I once built a sturdy, Pinterest-worthy chicken tractor that took me an entire weekend and cost more than my college textbooks. It was flattened in 6 hours by a duck named Kevin. Kevin is 14 pounds of pure evil wrapped in feathers, and I fear him.
Animals are not grateful. They are not cooperative. They do not care that you stayed up late knitting them a cozy new bedding system. They will step on your feet and poop in your purse without blinking.
And yet, somehow, they own your heart.
You Will Feel Like You’re Failing. A Lot.
Sometimes I look at other homesteaders on Instagram—perfect rows of canned vegetables, idyllic kitchens with gingham curtains, children quietly churning butter in matching linen rompers—and I think: HOW?
Meanwhile, I’m over here:
- Forgetting where I planted the carrots.
- Crying over zucchini that mysteriously died overnight.
- Eating cheese puffs for lunch because I burnt the potatoes. Again.
Homesteading has a way of magnifying your flaws. Your impatience. Your disorganization. Your deep inability to keep track of seed trays.
But here’s the thing: that’s part of the process. You learn by messing up. You build grit by failing and trying again—and again—and again, until finally, one day, your tomatoes don’t die and your goats don’t escape and you realize… you’re doing it.
Badly, maybe. But you’re doing it.
“Simple Living” Is a Lie
I hate to break it to you, but simple living is a marketing term. There is nothing simple about washing cloth diapers by hand while simultaneously fermenting kimchi and yelling at a pig to get off your porch.
Every jar of homemade jelly took five hours and three nervous breakdowns. Every loaf of homemade bread cost you your last nerve and most of your kitchen counter.
You think you’re escaping capitalism? Cute. Now you just barter eggs for hay and spend your evenings repairing your own plumbing using a headlamp and a wrench that used to be part of your car jack.
And yet… even through all the mess, it feels real. It feels earned. Every blister, every stubborn goat hoof, every meal made from scratch—it grounds you in a way city life never did.
It’s Physically and Emotionally Exhausting
I thought I was just signing up for a lifestyle change. Turns out, I was signing up for:
- Weightlifting (in the form of feed bags)
- CrossFit (in the form of chasing pigs)
- Therapy (in the form of crying into the kale bed)
- Time travel (because half the time I feel like a Victorian peasant with WiFi)
Homesteading will test every inch of your patience and every ounce of your energy. Your back will hurt. Your feet will ache. Your brain will glitch out trying to remember if you fed the ducks before or after you fixed the leaky coop door.
But you’ll sleep deeply. You’ll eat real food. You’ll feel a kind of fatigue that is strangely… satisfying. A kind of joy that’s quiet and rooted and very much earned.
But It’s Also… Kinda Magical?
Okay, now that I’ve dragged the lifestyle to the edge of the compost pile, let me say this:
Homesteading is the hardest, messiest, most unglamorous thing I’ve ever done—and I love it.
I love the way the sun hits the frost-covered pasture at dawn. I love the chaotic chorus of animals when I open the barn. I love the smell of fresh bread and manure (a weird combo, but you get used to it). I love being connected to the seasons, to the earth, to something real.
This life? It’s not curated. It’s not clean. But it’s mine.
So no, it’s not easy. And no, it’s not always fun. But it’s wildly worth it.
And tomorrow, when I wake up to another day of poop, broken fences, and probably a missing chicken named Phyllis—I’ll still choose this life.
Even if I have to do it while covered in hay and holding a piglet in one hand and a broken shovel in the other.🐐
