Being the Homesteader… Part 2

There’s this romantic version of homesteading that lives rent-free in people’s heads.

You know the one—golden hour light spilling over a perfectly weathered red barn, chickens politely laying eggs in designated areas like they read the manual, goats frolicking in slow motion like they’re auditioning for a yogurt commercial. Maybe a soft acoustic guitar playing in the background while someone in linen gathers herbs they definitely remembered to plant on purpose.

Yeah. That’s not this.

This—this is one acre of “we’ll figure it out,” duct-taped together with stubbornness, caffeine, and the kind of optimism that probably should’ve been flagged as a mental health concern.

Because here’s the thing no one really tells you: everything on a homestead fights back. Not aggressively, not dramatically… just persistently. Like it’s got a personal vendetta against your plans.

You build something—oh, you build it good. You measure twice. You even level it. You stand back, hands on hips, thinking, “Look at me. I am a person who builds things now.”

And then the wind comes.

Not a cute breeze. Not a “that’s refreshing.” No. The kind of wind that sounds like it’s got somewhere to be and you’re in the way. The kind that shows up overnight and by morning your carefully constructed whatever-it-was is now scattered across the property like modern art.

And you just stand there, staring at it, doing that slow blink.

Because it shouldn’t be this hard, right?

Except it is. Constantly.

Or the hay. Oh, the hay.

You scrape together what money you’ve got because feeding animals isn’t optional—it’s the one bill you cannot ignore. You find a load, maybe even feel like you got a decent deal. You stack it, feeling responsible. Prepared. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re getting ahead.

And then something’s wrong with it.

Not obvious at first. Of course not. It never is. And by the time you figure it out, it’s already cost you more than money. You lose animals. Good ones. The kind with personalities. The kind that follow you around and trust you.

And now you’re standing there again, except this time it’s not disbelief—it’s heartbreak mixed with a very practical panic because you’re stuck with the hay that caused it and no funds to replace it.

Nobody posts that part with a soft filter and a trending sound.

Then there are the pigs.

Let’s talk about the pigs.

You do your research. You don’t cut corners. You invest in a top-of-the-line electric fence—this thing is marketed like it could hold back a small apocalypse. Grizzly bear strong. You feel confident. You feel like you’ve finally outsmarted the chaos.

You set it up. You triple-check it. You put the pigs in.

And those pigs—those absolute, unapologetic agents of destruction—just… walk through it.

Not even a dramatic escape. No panic. No hesitation. Just a casual “this doesn’t apply to me” stroll right through your very expensive life choices.

So now you’re relocating pigs, rethinking your existence, and trying to salvage what you can.

And in the process?

They find your mature apple tree. The one that took years to get to that point. The one that actually produced. The one you were proud of.

Yeah. They destroy it.

Because of course they do.

And you’re standing there—again—with that same question echoing in your head:

Why does everything have to be so hard?

Oh—and the garden. Let’s not forget the garden. The one that was supposed to save money.

You build raised beds. You buy the good soil—the expensive kind that makes you feel like a responsible adult who has their life together. You plant things with hope. With intention. With Pinterest-level delusion.

And your chickens take one look at it and think, “Luxury spa.”

They bathe. Vigorously. Enthusiastically. They kick every last bit of that expensive soil out like they’re renovating. They pull up your garlic starts—not to eat them, of course, that would make too much sense—but just to ruin your emotional stability. And then, with impeccable timing, they eat every single ripe tomato like tiny, feathered mob bosses collecting what they’re owed.

So now your raised beds are just… decorative disappointment boxes.

And because apparently you enjoy suffering, you decide to plant pasture. Real pasture. Not the current situation of weeds and puncturevine that doubles as nature’s version of a booby trap.

You get seed. Good seed. The kind that could turn things around.

And that’s when the real team effort begins.

The chickens are on it immediately—scratching, pecking, taste-testing your financial decisions before they even have a chance to “hatch.”

And then there’s Ellie.

Ellie, who is technically registered as “Mad House AM CagetheElephant,” which feels less like a name and more like a warning label we all ignored, and I named that little turd BEFORE she turned into a furry Houdini (remind me NOT to use THAT name in the future).

Ellie, who has never met a fence she respects.
Ellie, who treats containment as a suggestion.
Ellie, who will absolutely, without hesitation, break out specifically to access the one thing you are trying to grow.

She will find the pasture seed. She will eat the pasture seed. She will look you in the eye while doing it. And then she gets the “zoomies,” and I’m like, “Awe, that’s so cute! I love that she’s all grown up and still acts out her nimbly-bimbly kid days.” Wash, rinse, repeat.” It’ll happen again tomorrow….

Ellie has always been an escape artist. Not occasionally. Not situationally. It’s a personality trait. A calling, even. (If only I could name, let’s say, lottery numbers…?)

And you’re standing there—again—watching your plans get picked apart one peck, one hoof, one bad decision at a time, wondering why in the world everything feels like it has to be this difficult.

But here’s the weird, unexplainable part.

You don’t quit.

You think about it. Oh, you absolutely think about it. Usually while covered in mud, or sweat, or something you don’t want to identify or admit to. Usually while doing math that doesn’t add up in any comforting way.

But then something small happens.

A goat leans into you like you’re its safe place.
A chicken lays an egg in the one spot you actually intended.
Something you planted decides to live out of pure spite, just like you.

And it’s not enough to erase the hard—but it’s enough to keep you in it.

Because homesteading isn’t the aesthetic. It’s not the highlight reel.

It’s rebuilding the thing that blew away. (I’m officially a PROFESSIONAL, crappy chicken coop builder!)
It’s figuring out what went wrong and trying again anyway.
It’s grieving what you lost and still showing up to feed the rest.

It’s messy. It’s frustrating. It’s wildly unfair sometimes.

But it’s also yours.

Every crooked structure, every hard lesson, every “you’ve got to be kidding me” moment—it’s all part of building something real, even if it feels like it’s falling apart half the time.

And maybe that’s the truth of it:

It shouldn’t have to be this hard.

But for some reason, we keep choosing it anyway.