May Day Thoughts

People love to romanticize farming. They see the photos: the sunrise over the pasture, the hands in the soil, the happy kid chasing chickens. It looks simple. It looks peaceful.

But the reality — especially when you’re farming part-time — is a lot messier than that.

I work a remote 9–5 job, full-time. And when I clock out, the second shift starts. Fencing. Watering. Hauling mulch. Fixing whatever broke while I was in Zoom meetings. There’s no commute, sure, but there’s also no real break. You’re switching gears, running on fumes, pushing through because if you don’t, nothing grows.

Energy isn’t a given. Some days, it feels like my body forgot how to bounce back. I’m chasing a three-year-old who deserves all the love and attention I can give, and trying to build a future out of soil and sweat at the same time. Some nights, after bedtime stories and dishes and sorting out tomorrow’s work, I walk outside, look at the half-finished food plots, and wonder how the hell it’s all going to come together.

And here’s the part a lot of people don’t say out loud: farming costs money. Seeds. Trees. Equipment. Repairs. Insurance. Infrastructure. Every dream has a price tag. And unless you were lucky enough to inherit land or savings, you’re starting from scratch.

That’s me. That’s a lot of us.

There’s no magic grant fairy waving a wand. No secret hack that makes setting up a farm debt-free and overnight. I’m building this the only way I know how — slowly, stubbornly, paycheck by paycheck. A few trees here. A stretch of fencing there. Patching together something strong enough to hold the dream until it can stand on its own.

Sometimes it feels like everything’s against you: the bank account, the weather, the weight of exhaustion you can't quite shake. But then you catch sight of it — a seed sprouting, a tree pushing out its first real leaf, your kid laughing in the rows you planted with your own two hands — and you remember why you’re doing it in the first place.

Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s efficient.
Because it’s real. Because it’s yours.

This life isn't for everyone. And it’s damn sure not built overnight. But I believe in it — in the slow, stubborn way things take root when you keep showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when the math doesn’t add up. Even when nobody claps for the effort except the land itself.

Part-time farming? There’s no such thing. It demands everything you’ve got — just stretched out in different directions. It’s a full-time act of faith. I really have two full time jobs...

And for me, that's enough to keep going.

One seedling.
One fence post.
One tired, stubborn, grateful step at a time.