Welcome to today's Survival Diary October 9.

Lately, I’ve been quieter than usual, and most of you can probably guess why.

There are seasons in life that demand everything from you, and I’ve been living in one of those seasons for as long as I can remember.

People see homesteading as a peaceful, fulfilling way of life, and in many ways, it is.

But it’s also relentless.

When the animals need care, when the garden fails, when the bills stack up, when exhaustion creeps in—you don’t get to stop.

You adjust, you push forward, you survive.

And that's exactly what I’ve been doing.

Table of Contents

The Weight of a Failed Harvest

There’s a painful irony in growing food but still feeling the sting of hunger.

Last year, I set a goal: donate 1,600 pounds of food to St. Martin’s.

I didn’t make it.

The garden failed, the weather worked against me, and we went into winter with bare shelves and empty plans.

I know what it’s like to go hungry.

I know what it’s like to watch others eat first, to take whatever scraps are left, to force down food that turned my stomach because I didn’t have a choice.

I remember meals where the only thing on my plate was what someone else didn’t finish.

I remember eating hamster food because at least it was something.

I remember vomiting because I was forced to eat food that made me sick—only to be made to eat my own vomit off the carpet.

That’s why Plant-A-Row for the Hungry is so important to me.

Because no one should go through that.

No child should sit at a table, stomach aching, while others eat their fill.

So this year, I’m trying again.

The manure is in the soil.

The seeds are in my hands.

The goal remains the same: 1,600 pounds of food donated.

I don’t know if I’ll reach it, but I won’t give up.

Self-Sufficiency and Survival

A failed garden doesn’t just mean less to give—it means less to survive on.

We grow not just for others, but for ourselves.

Last winter, we ran out of food.

The potatoes weren’t planted on time—the weather refused to cooperate.

The garden wasn’t strong enough.

Our pantry was too empty.

We were stretched thin.

Survival meant making do, stretching every last bit of food, getting creative.

And now?

Now, we’re pushing forward, planting 100 pounds of potatoes (if the weather finally gives us a break).

Because I know better than most what happens when the food isn’t there.

Loss and Starting Over—Again and Again

I’ve lost a lot in my life.

More than I ever thought I could bear.

Loss isn’t just about the physical things—though those hurt too.

It’s about the sense of security that shatters when something is taken from you.

It’s about the helplessness of watching something you love be ripped away and knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Last year, I lost my ducks—almost all of them—to a neighbor’s dog.

It wasn’t just about losing the birds.

It was about standing there, seeing the aftermath, and feeling that familiar sting of helplessness.

I had worked hard to raise them, to create a safe space for them.

I had poured my time, my energy, and my resources into something that was supposed to last.

And yet, in an instant, it was gone.

I felt rage—at the situation, at the unfairness, at the neighbor who hadn’t done enough to control their animal.

I felt grief—because each duck was more than just livestock to me.

They were part of my homestead, my survival, my daily life.

I felt exhaustion—because starting over?

It takes energy.

It takes time.

And some days, I feel like I’m running out of both.

But giving up has never been an option.

So, I do what I always do.

I rebuild.

This year, new ducklings are coming.

I will start fresh. I will make sure they have a safe space.

I will fight for them the way I fight for everything on this homestead—relentlessly.

And I’m not stopping there.

At the end of the month, I’m adding turkeys—something I’ve wanted for years.

They will be another step toward greater self-sufficiency—another way to ensure that what I build here is sustainable, strong, and mine.

And then, there’s my dream of Sebastopol geese.

I’ve been searching for them, hoping to find the right ones, knowing that when I do, it will be another piece of my vision coming to life.

Because despite the losses, the fight isn’t over.

It never will be.

I will keep rebuilding, keep pushing forward, keep proving—to myself, to the world, to the ghosts of my past—that I will not be broken.

No matter how many times I have to start over.

Goats, Milking, and a Taste of Security

And then there’s Darla—my milking goat, my provider, my small but powerful symbol of security.

She is one of the biggest blessings on this homestead, not just because of what she gives, but because of what she represents.

When I was a child, food was a weapon.

It was used as punishment, as control. I was denied it, forced to eat what made me sick, always last in line.

I learned to go without, to push hunger down, to accept that my needs came second, third, or sometimes… not at all.

But now, I control my own food.

Darla gives me milk, butter, ice cream, fudge—but more than that, she gives me choice.

She gives me security.

For the first time in my life, I decide what’s on my table.

And there’s something healing about that.

There’s something powerful about knowing that I will never again be that child, waiting to see if there’s anything left.

The Healing Power of Creation

Survival isn’t just about food.

It’s about building.
It’s about crafting.
It’s about making.

That’s why I spin yarn.

That’s why I bake my own bread.

That’s why I weave rugs.

Every stitch, every loaf, every spun thread is proof that I can create something out of nothing.

I can take the raw, the broken, the forgotten—and turn it into something real, something valuable.

My friend Minnie’s antique turn of the century spinning wheel now sits in my home, a connection to generations before me, to women who fought the same battles in different ways.

My friend Susi’s grandmother’s loom now rests in my hands, and I’ve already started working on a wool roving rug.

These things—they matter.

Because when your past has been torn apart, sometimes the only way to heal is to create something new.

Why I Keep Going

I don’t always get it right.

Some days, I feel trapped.

Trapped by money, by exhaustion, by the overwhelming list of things that need to be done.

There are moments when it feels like nothing I do is ever enough.

But I keep fighting.

Because I have hope.
Because I have faith.
Because God put me here for a reason, and my story isn’t done yet.

And in between the hard moments, there is joy.

In the scent of honeysuckle drifting through the air on a warm summer evening.

In the feeling of soft dirt beneath my fingertips as I plant another seed, another possibility.

In the gentle way my pigs, Hammie and Ivan, take strawberries from my hands, savoring each bite as if it’s the sweetest thing they’ve ever tasted.

In the quiet moments, when I sit in my garden, surrounded by life, and just breathe.

The Truth About Survival

Survival isn’t about a picture-perfect homestead.

It’s about loss and rebuilding.

It’s about failed crops and planting again.

It’s about hungry nights and learning how to grow enough.

It’s about facing grief, exhaustion, and doubt—and refusing to give in.

This is what Survival Diary is about.

Not just homesteading, but the messy, relentless, unfiltered reality of what it takes to keep going.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re barely holding it together, if you’ve ever wondered how you’ll get through, if you’ve ever fought against a world that tried to break you—then you’re not alone.

We survive one day, one season, one breath at a time.

Survival Diary October 9: A Season of Hard Work and Hope

The Weight of a Failed Harvest

Self-Sufficiency and Survival

Loss and Starting Over—Again and Again

Goats, Milking, and a Taste of Security

The Healing Power of Creation

Why I Keep Going

The Truth About Survival

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