Disclaimer: I did receive the VIVOSUN grow tent as well as one of the AeroGarden's mentioned in this post for free in exchange for my honest review. All opinions are my own.

Content Warning: This post includes personal experiences, including loss, food insecurity, and struggles with homesteading challenges. Some descriptions may be difficult to read. Please proceed with care.

Welcome to today's behind the scenes survival diary February 5.

Some people think of homesteading as a peaceful life, full of fresh air, homegrown food, and self-sufficiency.

But behind that image, there’s a daily grind—one that doesn’t ease up just because your body protests.

For me, survival has never been about ease or comfort.

It’s about pushing forward because there’s simply no other option.

I’ve always had to push myself physically, even when my body begged me to stop.

As a child, moving from place to place, I was expected to work like a man—no excuses, no complaints.

That mindset never left me.

Even now, with chest pain and exhaustion creeping in, I keep going.

Who else will take care of things if I don’t?

Financial necessity outweighs everything else, and no matter how much I long to slow down, survival demands otherwise.

Homesteading isn’t just a choice; it’s a way of life.

Table of Contents

The Weight We Carry

Yesterday, work nearly broke me.

A 110-item order, three flights of stairs, no elevator.

My chest ached, my breath was short, and my body screamed for relief.

But what could I do?

Stop?

That’s never been an option for me.

It wasn’t when I was a child, being told to work like a man before I even understood what that meant.

It isn’t now, when every dollar I earn determines what I can bring back to the homestead.

I’ve been pushing my body past its limits for as long as I can remember.

As a kid, there was no “too tired” or “too sick” in my household.

My stepdad expected me to work, no matter what.

I was hauling, lifting, and doing tasks that many adults would struggle with—all before I was even old enough to understand why.

I learned early that survival wasn’t about how you felt; it was about what needed to be done.

That mindset never left me.

Even now, when the chest pain starts, when my arms feel like lead, when my body begs me to slow down, I keep going.

Because I have to.

There’s no backup plan, no safety net.

Who else will take care of things if I don’t?

I often wonder if this drive comes from resilience or just the simple fact that I’ve never had another choice.

When you don’t have someone to catch you, you don’t stop moving—you just keep running on fumes, hoping you make it to the next task before exhaustion swallows you whole.

Maybe that’s why I don’t know how to rest.

Maybe that’s why, no matter how much my body protests, I keep pushing forward.

Because in my world, stopping has never been an option.

Seedling Time Is Here Again As Well

Even with everything else going on, it’s seed-starting season, and I’m determined to get a head start on the garden this year.

I have seedlings growing in the basement inside a VIVOSUN grow tent, and I’ve got three AeroGardens filled with different vegetables—one with tomatoes, one with lettuce, and another with chard, kale, and basil.

Tomatoes are always one of the first seeds I start because they’re easy to grow, and I love having a variety of fresh ones straight from the garden.

This year, I also decided to invest in Johnny’s Selected Seeds' soil mix and their recommended plastic seed trays for my soil blocks.

I’ve struggled in the past to find the right type of trays—without them, the blocks tend to fall apart.

Last year, we built wooden trays, but they ended up being heavy and started deteriorating from the moisture.

I’m really hoping this new setup works.

A big garden is my goal this year, but that means starting strong.

Giving, Even When There's Nothing Left

Somewhere between the endless work hours and trying to keep up with homestead tasks, I found myself helping a friend’s mother.

She doesn’t drive anymore, and the resources in our small town are nonexistent.

Her daughter, an old friend of mine, lives too far away to help on a daily basis, working full-time to support her own family.

So I stepped in.

Not because I had extra time, not because I wasn’t exhausted—but because I know what it’s like to need help and have no one to turn to.

I’ve spent a lifetime pushing forward without a safety net, doing whatever it takes to survive.

I know how it feels to wonder if anyone even sees how much you’re struggling.

Helping others has always been second nature to me.

But at what cost?

Every time I carve out time for someone else, I wonder if I’m spreading myself too thin.

There’s this constant pull between wanting to do good and knowing I need to preserve what little energy I have left.

It’s a hard balance—one I haven’t quite figured out.

Yet, when I see the relief on her face, when I realize that even small efforts can make a difference, I remind myself that life isn’t just about survival.

It’s about connection.

And in a world that often feels isolating, maybe giving to others is my way of holding onto that last thread of human connection.

Then There Is The Goats

As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, the goats continue to demand attention.

I had planned to milk Bailey’s today, but by the time Jeff got out to the barn, the kids had already helped themselves.

Separating them for milking has always been a challenge, and I still don’t have the best system in place.

Now that I know about Premier1, I plan to invest in fencing and a creep feeder gate.

My goal is to create a partitioned stall where the babies can access grain without the older goats bullying them.

I also want a setup where I can separate them during the day for milking without leaving them feeling alone.

If they can still see their mama, they’ll feel secure, but I’ll still get some milk.

In the past, I separated kids overnight and milked in the morning, but with my new work schedule, I need to switch to evening milking.

Keeping track of all these changes is overwhelming, but thankfully, my Printable Homestead Livestock Planner helps me stay organized.

With everything from feeding schedules to health checks, it’s one less thing to keep in my already overloaded brain.

The Weight Of Isolation

Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to have friends outside of school.

Even then, friendships were surface-level.

The kind where you talk in class but never get invited over.

That kind of childhood stays with you.

It makes social situations uncomfortable, leaves you second-guessing every interaction, and builds walls where bridges should have been.

When I was allowed to have a friend over, they were often taken home the next day or after a party, and I was told they weren't good enough to be my friend.

There was always an issue.

My mother even went to school and had me removed from certain classes because she didn’t want me around this person or that person.

I was teased and bullied at school, and it didn’t help that kids knew my mother would hide behind trees at recess or would go through my locker.

It made things uncomfortable, even dangerous.

The constant feeling of being watched, controlled, and judged left me constantly questioning my place in the world.

Even now, I feel like an outsider in most groups.

I try to put myself out there—on social media, in homesteading circles—but the response always feels distant.

People think I’m odd.

Maybe I am.

Maybe years of isolation made me different in ways I don’t even fully understand.

I’d love to have a real community—people who genuinely connect with me, who see me for who I am and not just what I produce.

But the truth is, I don’t know how to build that kind of connection.

I’ve been rejected too many times, felt like I didn’t quite belong for too many years.

It’s easier to focus on what I can control—the homestead.

The animals don’t judge.

The plants don’t whisper behind my back.

The work is hard, but at least it’s honest.

And when the loneliness creeps in, I remind myself that solitude is still better than pretending to fit in where I never have.

Processing Tomatoes

Today, I’ve been working on processing tomatoes that I froze this past summer.

The plan was to can them sooner, but with everything going on, they ended up sitting in the freezer longer than I intended.

Now, it’s time to get them off the list and into jars on the pantry shelf.

To start, I used my trusty Weston tomato press to remove the skins and seeds.

There’s something satisfying about watching the tomatoes turn into smooth, rich pulp, knowing all that work in the garden is finally paying off.

Once the tomatoes were pressed, I transferred them to my mother’s electric roasting pan to cook down.

The house smells incredible as the tomatoes slowly reduces into a thick sauce.

This step always feels like a small victory—it’s one of those tasks that connects me to the land and to the time I spent growing and harvesting these tomatoes.

Even though it's a little late this year, the process is still rewarding.

Once the sauce reaches the right consistency, I’ll be ready to can it and cross another item off the never-ending list.

Processing tomatoes is one of those things that feels simple yet essential to homesteading.

My grandpa was the one who canned, and though he never directly taught me, he was always there to answer questions when I started canning on my own.

I also had a dear friend, Shirley, who was happy to help guide me along the way.

Having that guidance, even indirectly, made all the difference.

It’s a reminder that no matter how busy life gets, there’s still time to make something meaningful, something that nourishes both body and soul.

Tapping Into Something Deeper

Back in 2005, I tapped my first maple tree. I wanted to make my own syrup, just like my Grandpa Jake did.

I wanted something pure, something that didn’t come from a factory.

And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to create something that people actually wanted from me.

Maple tapping is more than a seasonal task—it’s a tradition, a connection to the past, a reminder that sustainability isn’t just a buzzword.

It’s proof that hard work eventually pays off.

Every year, people contact me in advance, eager for syrup.

But with so few trees, I can’t produce enough for everyone.

Supply is limited, and demand stays high.

Over the years, trial and error have shaped my approach to tapping.

I’d prefer success the first time, but that’s not how homesteading—or life—works.

More often than not, it’s failure after failure before I get that sweet moment of victory.

And when that success finally comes, it’s worth every struggle and setback.

This year, as I gathered my sap, I tried a new method: cooking it down in the crockpot.

Normally, I’ve done it on the stove or outside on the barbecue grill, but with long days at work, this felt like a better option.

It’s still an experiment, but I’m hopeful it’ll make the process easier.

Connecting with local maple syrup makers at Winger’s Sugarbush & Supplies has been a blessing.

It’s comforting to know that there are people nearby who understand the art of syrup making.

I wish I could’ve learned more from Grandpa, but I feel like I’m continuing his legacy, tapping into something deeper with every tree.

Survival, One Day at a Time

The days are long, the work is endless, and the weight of it all is heavy.

But homesteading isn’t just a job—it’s who I am.

It’s where I find purpose, even when exhaustion creeps in.

I don’t have the magic formula for financial freedom.

I don’t have an easy way out of this grind.

But I do have the land, the trees, the animals, and the knowledge that I’m building something real.

Something that can’t be taken away.

And that, for now, is enough.

Survival Diary February 5

The Weight We Carry

Seedling Time Is Here Again As Well

Giving, Even When There's Nothing Left

Then There Is The Goats

The Weight Of Isolation

Processing Tomatoes

Tapping Into Something Deeper

Survival, One Day at a Time

Behind The Scenes Survival Diary

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