The quiet goodbye I didn’t want to write
Some chapters in life don’t end with fireworks. They end in silence—in the quiet thud of a barn door closing for the last time, in the soft crunch of hay under boots that won’t make this walk again, in the weight of a phone conversation that says, “Yes. . . she’s for sale.” This is one of those chapters.
After long, sleepless nights and a heart heavy with decision, I’ve chosen something I never thought I would: to let go of my homestead—my dream, my living, breathing creation—built with my own hands, Jim’s steady help, and a few determined dogs. And it breaks me.
You don’t just do this life; you become it. It wraps itself around your soul, changes your rhythm, and gives you a heartbeat that matches the bleating of goats, the sigh of a sow settling into straw, the flap of chicken wings in the morning mist. It teaches you commitment—not the Hallmark kind, but the cold-hands, sore-back, no-days-off, mud-on-your-face kind. For years, I carried it—happily, proudly, fiercely. But somewhere, without warning, something shifted.
Not overnight—oh no. It was a slow unraveling, so slow I didn’t see it until the day I stopped, looked around, and realized my dream had drifted just out of reach. Joy had slipped into exhaustion, and freedom—something I had never allowed myself to want—was whispering my name. The truth is, small farming doesn’t give much back. Not in money, not in rest, not in time. You don’t go on vacation, you don’t take long weekends, you don’t even get to be sick. Animals need you—every day, in every weather, no matter how empty you feel. And sometimes, the person who could carry that weight just isn’t the person you are anymore.
I had plans. God, I had plans. A little commercial kitchen in the barn. Cheese-making. Spring milkings turning into jars of chevre. Fall festivals with wheels of aged goat cheese wrapped in wax and pride. Community. Creation. Purpose. But life is not obligated to honor our blueprints. Sometimes it knocks the cheese right off the cracker and leaves you staring at the mess.
Jim and I have been hearing the open road call our names. We want to travel. Visit family. See this beautiful country. Maybe just escape the northern winters. We want to wake up and decide what to do that day—not have the day already decided for us.
So, I say goodbye. Goodbye to the goats who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. To the chickens who shadowed my steps. To the pigs who rooted their way through both the pasture and my heart—and, somehow, made me like them. Goodbye to the guardian dogs who walked the fence lines in every season, whose eyes missed nothing and whose hearts missed no one; who stood between us and every shadow, keeping us safe when we slept. They’ll find new farms to guard, new flocks to love, and new hearts to call their own—but they will always be mine in spirit.
It hurts—deep, raw hurt that sits behind my ribs and climbs my throat when I speak. These animals were not just livestock. They were chapters. Companions. Witnesses. I cry over every phone call. I write ads through a blur. I whisper promises as each one leaves—swearing they’ll be loved, that I’m not abandoning them, that this is kindness, even if it feels like loss. I need them to hear it, and I need you to hear it too.
This isn’t failure. It’s transition. A pause. A breath between the chapters. Farming runs in my blood. I was made for it—I know this. And maybe someday, I’ll return. Maybe with fewer animals, less pressure, more balance. Maybe to this quiet little homestead at the forest’s edge. Or a greenhouse. Or a farmstand. Or one ridiculous goat who thinks she runs the place. But not today.
The farm may be quiet now, but the book is still open, and I am still here. When the time is right, I’ll turn the next page. Until then. . . God bless. Perhaps I’ll see you on the road.
Some dreams rest, but they do not die—they wait, like seeds beneath the snow, for the season to come again.
