The Start of Something Bigger Than Me
When we moved to our acre-and-a-half and named it Exotic Gardening Farm & Wildlife Habitat, it wasn’t just about land. It was about survival—about starting over with the kind of life I had always dreamed about but never had growing up. I didn’t come from peace. I didn’t grow up with safety or comfort or even consistent meals. What I did have was grit, determination, and this tiny spark inside that kept whispering it could be different.
There was no central heating. Just a wood stove. Jerry chopped and hauled most of the wood while I did what I could, and we cooked our food right on the cast iron. That fire wasn’t just warmth—it was empowerment. It was something I could control when so much of my childhood had been unpredictable, full of fear, full of pain. That smell of wood smoke? It still calms me today.
First Feathers, First Steps Toward Healing
Our very first homestead animals were ducks and chickens. It might seem simple to some—just birds—but to me, they represented freedom. As a child, I wasn’t even allowed to pet the family dogs or cats. I’d sneak into my room to spend time with my guppies or hamsters, desperate for something to love that wouldn’t hurt me or be taken away. When those birds arrived, I didn’t need permission to care for them. I was the one in charge, and for the first time, I got to decide what love looked like.
Selling those first eggs for $1.50 a dozen? That money meant the world to me. It wasn’t just about covering costs. It was proof. That I was doing it. That I could build something. That maybe I wasn’t broken after all.
Goat Drama and Finding My Voice
Darla came next—my first goat. She was sweet and lonely, and her cries echoed the kind of loneliness I knew all too well. It was like looking at a mirror of my past. I couldn’t leave her like that, so we brought home Mr. Buck.
He was… something. Destructive, chaotic, frustrating—but also a lesson. He reminded me of people in my life who came in strong, loud, and messy, tearing down the calm I worked so hard to build. When I rehomed him, I didn’t feel sad. I felt free. It was a step toward protecting my peace, something I’ve learned I have a right to.
Beauty’s Arrival: Healing for Us Both
And then there was Beauty.
Her name used to be Dolly, but we changed it. Sarah thought “Beauty” suited her, and she was right. Beauty came to us after being rescued from a woman who beat her while she was chained to a saddle. That woman ended up in the hospital. Beauty ended up with us.
She didn’t trust easily. She kept her head low, stayed back. I knew that look. I’d worn it too many times myself. But I also saw something in her eyes—hope. Tired, yes. Wounded, absolutely. But still hoping. We’ve been healing together ever since. Some days she leans her head on my shoulder, and I just wrap my arms around her neck, no words needed. She understands me in a way people rarely have.
Fiber, Fur, and Finding Purpose
Rabbits came next—angoras for fiber—and then a cashmere goat, then Leicester Longwool sheep. I didn’t want pets. I wanted purpose. I wanted to make something with my hands. Spinning fiber became therapy. It became a way to turn something raw and tangled into something beautiful and warm. I was literally weaving comfort into my life, thread by thread.
These animals are more than income sources. They’re healing tools. Every stitch, every batch of soap, every loaf of bread from the milk I churned—it’s all part of reclaiming my story.
Growing Food, Growing Roots
Gardening? That goes deep.
I grew up hungry—not just for food, but for love, for safety, for normal. I remember eating last, being forced to swallow things that made me sick, being told to be grateful I had anything at all. Now, my garden gives me the chance to say never again.
We grow everything—vegetables, herbs, fruit. We preserve, we save seeds, we butcher when needed, and we give. Plant-A-Row means something sacred to me. I know what it’s like to be the one hoping someone out there planted enough to share.
This Is More Than Homesteading
This isn’t just raising animals and growing plants. It’s reclaiming a childhood I never had. It’s creating a home where no one walks on eggshells. It’s choosing to care and to be cared for. It’s survival—but it’s also healing, and maybe even redemption.
If you're still reading this, thank you. I hope you see yourself in some part of this journey. I hope you know you're not alone.
This is the beginning.
And I’m so glad you're here to walk with me.