Destination

My family lives about a mile south of the farm. When my kids were little we frequently hiked the 'field road' - a dusty path between the two places. It was never a quick endeavor - getting from home to the farm - there was just too much to see along the way. I treasure those walks, even though without fail there would be complaining at some point. It's a long walk for little legs. 

Several years ago, we purchased a golf cart. In an instant, the farm became much more accessible for the kids and they made the trip often. Ellie loved to go for drives, bumping slowly along that dusty road, gaining a little more independence each day. 

I can't remember the last time I walked that path with my kids. I'd give just about anything to be able to do it one more time. I'd soak in every second of their discoveries, chattering, and hand-holding.

Now we have a side-by-side that makes the trip across even more expedient. What used to be a 20 minute walk is now a quick 5 minute dash. My favorite part of that trip is getting to the top of the hill and looking down at the farm. 

The view from the top is when I'm first able to see my little herd. Three of the cows grazing with one cow playing nanny for the calves. The steers are on the other side of the fence, but they gather close. Together, but apart.

I'll pause at the top of the hill to watch the little splotches for a bit; such a simple thing. Continuing down the hill and into the farm yard, everything comes into clearer focus and the splotches become recognizable. I love how they get excited to see me too - the bringer of food.

A lot has changed since we first toted Gavin over that hill, in a backpack 22 years ago. Crossing that dusty path was something we did together, but as the kids have grown and became more independent it happens less and less... I guess that's the point, preparing kids to be out in the world on their own. Apart, but together. 

I hope they remember that time with some fondness. I'm pretty certain they appreciate the view from the top of the hill, if only because it means they're close to their destination. With the important stuff, the things that matter, coming into clearer focus as they get closer to their destination.

Calving Season

There’s one thing I’ve learned about calving season.

It’s impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t waited for it.

We had four calves this spring. Three heifers and one little bull calf born on May 4th, which meant he was almost immediately named Chewie.

And honestly, four feels just right for this year.

Small enough that every birth still feels personal. Small enough that I can already see the personalities beginning to emerge in the calves if I stand quietly long enough to watch.

Chewie is a current favorite picture so far this spring.

He’s dozing in the sun, his mama nearby, with the tip of his little tongue sticking out. Brand new life, entirely content and unaware of itself. The kind of moment that would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

But I am looking for it now.

I know what we’re doing is small.

But maybe significance and scale aren’t always the same thing.

Because when I look at these calves, I can’t help but feel like they represent something bigger than themselves. Not financially. Not operationally. Something quieter than that.

The cows pass along their genetics.
My family keeps stewarding the land.
And somehow those things become connected.

I think that’s what I love most about this place. It reminds me that meaningful things often grow slowly and repeat themselves year after year in ways that look ordinary from the outside.

Four calves probably doesn’t look like much to most people.

But standing in the pasture this spring, it feels like enough.

Coming Back to the Edges

For a long time, this space held the small, everyday pieces of my life.

Lunches packed. Shoes by the door. The kind of tired that only comes from raising little kids and trying to hold everything together at once. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget how it felt—the fullness of it, even when it was hard.

And then, like most things do, that season changed.

The kids got older. Life got fuller in different ways. And somewhere along the line, I stopped writing.

Not because there was nothing to say—but maybe because I wasn’t quite sure how to say it anymore.

Lately, I’ve felt that pull again. Not back to what this space was, but forward into what it might become.

Because something else has been quietly growing in the background.

In 2023, we brought cattle back to the farm.

It wasn’t a grand plan or a big statement. It was small, just two heifers. Intentional, but also a little uncertain. If I’m being honest, my role in it is still small—and in some ways, self-serving. I love it. The rhythm of it. The responsibility. The way it pulls me outside and into something real at the end of a long day.

My dad still runs the farm. He owns it, carries it, knows it in a way I probably never will. What I’m doing doesn’t compare to that—and I don’t want to pretend that it does.

But I am finding my place here.

Not at the center of it. Maybe not even close.

More like… along the edges.

And the edges, I’m learning, are still part of the story.

This land has held our family for generations. There’s something grounding about that—something that makes everything else feel a little less urgent and a little more connected. It's also intimidating—the legacy is another character in the story.

I don’t know exactly what this next chapter looks like. But I'm peaking out, finding my way.

I’m not stepping into ownership or trying to claim something that isn’t mine. I’m just showing up, in the ways that I can. Learning. Paying attention. Letting it matter.

And maybe that’s enough.

So this space might start to look a little different.

Still family. Always family.
But maybe more dirt under it.
More seasons.
More stories about what it means to belong to a place—and to try, in small ways, to carry it forward.

Not perfectly. Not fully.

Just honestly.

I think that’s where I want to begin again.