The Future of our Homestead

You might be wondering: What does my homestead's future have to do with writing?

I’m glad you asked…

Before I can jump into the future, I should give you some background on the past.

We’re coming up on four years in this old house—a large, 6-bedroom farmhouse built in 1890 on seven acres of land. When we first moved in, it was the kind of home where you had to warn visitors: “duck here” and “watch that hole” and “don’t touch that door!” and “the light turns on—you just have to clap twice and jump up and down and mutter a spell first.” Ok, just kidding about that last one, but mostly because there wasn’t any electricity. No heat or plumbing either. The wall paper curled at the edges. The walls—let’s be real, the entire foundation—was crumbling. Water damage, poor ventilation, overgrown fields, you name it. We’d bought, in short, a fixer-upper.

But boy, did it have charm.

I am being facetious when I say that. We didn’t buy it just for the charm, though it played a part. I need to be surrounded by beauty. I’ve tried living in modern apartments, plain rental homes, and worse, and I’ve come to learn that my brain, my being, my soul, needs charm.

But it wasn’t just the old molding or wide creaky floorboards or brick hearth that gave me butterflies when I first walked through. It was the immense sense of possibility. This could be a forever home—an idea I’ve chased since childhood, moving again and again, and even more so since becoming a mother. When I found out I was pregnant ten years ago, setting down roots became a top priority. I wanted to give my child stability, long-lasting friendships, a peaceful home.

It took many failed attempts, but when I walked through our home, I felt it. The scope was everything I’d been searching for. Yes, it would take hard work and time to restore, but weren’t those the very gifts of the forever home? I didn’t care if it took twenty years, because I could see us here in twenty years. And so, very much against the lawyer’s advice, we signed the contract and moved in.

Now, this is the part where I fast forward.

It’s been four years—long enough to plant our roots (literally: a garden, hundreds of trees, even a small orchard). We’ve restored the house—through no shortage of blood, sweat, tears, and far too much money—to a livable state. Some sections are even fully finished with new walls and fresh paint. We built a coop and got chickens. We heat the house with a wood stove now, though winters are still brutal—and heating an old farmhouse with wood is not for the faint of heart.

I’ve learned to how to bake sourdough and how to live in isolation. I gave birth in this home (though my husband had to chase a family of raccoons from that room and fix the whole in the ceiling first). There is no denying or downplaying the fact that this home has shaped me even more than I’ve shaped it.

I’m a piece of its story, yes, a hushed breath in its centuries-old tale, but this house, I sincerely hope, will outlive me. It feels like a character in my story. It toughened me, held me, taught me patience and gave me beauty, inspiration, and freedom, in return. Truly, I know no greater freedom than being able to step outside my door barefoot in a nightgown and feel the dew beneath my feet, the first rays of sun against my neck, hear the sound of birdsong and roosters crowing. That’s it for me, baby. That’s freedom.

And so, with that background, this is the part where I tell you about the future of our homestead. Because yes, that is how I see freedom. But the thing is, its a wavering, fickle definition. Its mist and smoke and something I can’t squeeze too hard. Because yes, in that moment of first light and fresh dew, it feels like freedom. But when my husband finishes work and shifts straight into home repairs, when I’m staring down a mountain of chores and just want to lie down with a book, when my children crave friends but everything is miles away…

It doesn’t feel like freedom. Sometimes it feels heavy. Burdensome. Wet linens on the clothes line before they dry to lightness and breath.

We’re at a crossroads. We have chickens, but we’ve always talked about adding goats and sheep. And now, we’re finally at a place where we feasibly could. But I feel a tug. One tiny thread pulling me away from that path. Because somehow, right now, it doesn’t feel like freedom.

What does my homestead have to do with writing?

Everything.

When life is full—rich, wild, endlessly demanding—priorities become ruthless things. These days, I’m lucky to scrape together two hours a day to write. And if we added more animals, more fences, more firewood, more jars to can—what would happen to those hours?

There comes a point when “I don’t have time” is actually not an excuse but an overwhelming truth.

So the short answer: the future of our homestead is undetermined. Not on pause, exactly, because whether I make a choice or not, we’re in it. But we’re not adding on. Not laying more bricks onto this foundation… yet. Maybe when the kids are a little older. Maybe when we can catch our breath.

But honestly? I’m no longer clinging to the idea. I tried to hold it too tightly, and it gave me blisters.

So I’ll end here, because I’m known to squash every metaphor to death. Thank you for reading.

If you’d like to check out the fiction I’ve eeked out over those precious two hours a day over the past few years, my novel Dove in an Iron Cauldron is out now in paperback, hardback, and free on Kindle Unlimited. I’ll save my current writing projects for a future post—but I am, truly, over the moon about them.

Let me know what you’d like to read about next. Wishing you a very magical new moon. Set some lovely intentions ;-)