Homestead Education Team
This post may contain affiliate links where I earn a commission at no additional cost to you.
Welcome to Our Little Patch of Earth Here in North Idaho
Right now, the spring air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp soil – a symphony I’ve come to cherish. You might spot a slightly chaotic dance in the garden beds, a testament to the ongoing battle between my good intentions and the relentless Idaho weeds. And yes, if you hear a snorting rumble in the distance, chances are the pigs have once again decided the electric fence is merely a suggestion. It’s not always Pinterest-perfect, this homestead life, but it’s ours.
Our journey here, this somewhat haphazard but deeply loved existence, wasn’t born from a romantic notion of self-sufficiency alone. It was forged in the crucible of fear, desperation, and an unwavering belief in the power of real food to heal. The day my husband received the diagnosis – the stark, cold pronouncement of a terminal illness – it felt like the very ground beneath our feet crumbled. The vibrant future we’d dreamt of, the one where we’d raise our kids surrounded by the bounty of our own land, suddenly felt impossibly distant.
The initial shock gave way to a fierce determination. We weren’t willing to simply accept that fate. We dove headfirst into research, fueled by a desperate hope that lay buried beneath the layers of medical jargon and grim statistics. We explored every avenue, every whisper of alternative therapies, every dietary change that promised even a sliver of hope.
It was during this intense period that the idea of a homestead took root, not as a quaint lifestyle choice, but as a lifeline. The more we learned about the connection between food and health, the more convinced we became that nourishing his body with the purest, most nutrient-dense ingredients was paramount. We envisioned a garden bursting with vibrant vegetables, raised without chemicals, teeming with life. We imagined eggs fresh from our hens, their yolks a deep, rich orange, packed with vitality. We saw a path to healing, not just through medicine, but through the very food that sustained us.
So, we took the leap. We found this little piece of Idaho, with its promise of fertile soil and space to breathe. It was daunting, terrifying even, especially with the weight of that diagnosis hanging over us. But with each seed we planted, each fence post we wrestled into the ground, each animal we welcomed, a sense of purpose began to bloom alongside the vegetables.
And then, slowly, against all odds, a miracle unfolded. The aggressive illness began to recede. The fight wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but the trajectory had shifted. Today, years later, my husband is here, working alongside me in the garden, his deep voice echoing through the trees – a living testament to the power of hope, resilience, and the nourishing embrace of this land.
This journey through the valley of the shadow of death and back has undeniably shaped our homesteading experience. It’s infused every decision, every task, with a deeper meaning, a profound gratitude for the simple act of growing food and sharing it with our family.
Now, let’s be real. Building a homestead with your spouse, even when you’re not navigating a life-threatening illness, is a… character-building exercise. As I’ve often shared in my Homemade Stories on the blog, the sheer intensity of homesteading – the constant demands on our time, energy, and resources – can really shine a spotlight on our individual quirks and, shall we say, differing opinions.
There’s the ongoing debate about the optimal way to maintain the property (my slightly more regimented approach versus his more laid-back one). There’s the inherent tension when one of us feels like they’re carrying more of the manure-shoveling burden (spoiler alert: it’s usually me, or at least that’s my perception!). And then there are the moments of pure, unadulterated creative friction when our visions for, say, the layout of the new berry patch, clash with the force of two determined individuals who are absolutely, positively sure their way is the only logical one.
Coming from families where divorce cast a long shadow, we were determined to forge a different path for our own children. We didn’t have a blueprint for a healthy marriage, so we’ve been building it ourselves, one sometimes-hurtful step at a time. We recognized early on that the pressures of homesteading could easily exacerbate any underlying relationship cracks.
That’s why we’ve made a conscious effort to implement a “pause button” when disagreements start to feel “unhealthy” or less like a collaborative brainstorming session and more like a verbal wrestling match. One of us will simply call it – “Time out. Let’s circle back to this.” It’s our signal to disengage before things escalate into hurtful territory. We’ll often retreat to separate tasks – he might head to the woodpile, I might lose myself in the garden – allowing the immediate tension to dissipate and providing space for us to approach the issue with cooler heads.
And because we want our kids to witness healthy conflict resolution (and learn from our inevitable spats), we often talk to them about it afterward. “Hey guys,” we might say, “Mom and Dad were having a bit of a disagreement about the cow fencing. We took a break to calm down and think things through. It’s important to listen to each other and find a solution together.” We’ve even apologized when our voices have gotten too loud, reminding them that even grown-ups make mistakes and are always learning how to communicate better.
This homestead, this ongoing experiment in self-sufficiency and healing, has been the most demanding and the most rewarding journey of our lives. It’s not always picturesque. There are days filled with aching muscles, unexpected setbacks, and the persistent aroma of pig. But it’s also a life overflowing with purpose, connection, and the profound satisfaction of nurturing our family with food grown by our own hands, on land that has, in its own way, nurtured us back to wholeness.
The perfectly manicured homestead might forever remain a charming fantasy. But this real, messy, gloriously imperfect life, where our children learn the rhythm of the seasons and the value of hard work, where nourishing food graces our table because we poured our love and labor into it, and where our partnership, though tested, continues to grow stronger – this is the true harvest of our homestead. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
See where Ron and Kody Hanner will be speaking this year about “Good Food and Stubborn Wives”
