It started as one of those tired, late-night conversations.
We were drained—laundry stacked high, dishes left where they were, and three kids sprawled asleep on the couch. He glanced at me over his second mug of lukewarm coffee and said, “What if we just… left it all?”
I laughed. “Left what exactly? The town? The bills? The chaos?”
But that laughter faded into something quieter. Not awkwardness—just wonder.
What if we actually did?
So we started researching during nap times and after the bedtime stories. We looked at land. We learned how to repair things, grow food, live with less, and make more of it matter.
One acre turned into five. Then twenty-seven.
And somewhere along the way, our old life stopped feeling like it belonged to us.
It took three whole years to make it real. Not because we were slow, but because unraveling everything you’ve built around security and routine takes time. Jobs. School. Expectations. Fear.
Honestly, the hardest part wasn’t learning to use tools or set up a composting toilet—it was unlearning the idea that we had to stay on the treadmill just because everyone else was.
The land wasn’t perfect. That hit us fast. It was rocky, uneven, with a barn that leaned more than it stood and a fence that barely kept anything out.
But it was ours.
That first night—just us and the kids in sleeping bags—we listened to frogs croak, wind rustle, and… nothing else. No sirens. No neighbors. No distant hum of cars or appliances.
We cried quietly in the dark.
Tears of joy. Of fear. Maybe even mourning—for the life we let go of.
We started from the ground up. Literally. We figured out how to filter rainwater, protect the chickens, and dig trenches so our little rolling home wouldn’t float away in the spring rains.
The kids called it “Camp Forever.”
In the beginning, it was magical—like an endless adventure. But then winter came. And with it, frozen pipes, uninvited mice, and a bone-deep kind of cold.
We argued that winter—about the generator, the rations, whether this was one big, beautiful mistake.
But then spring arrived.
And with it came wildflowers, confidence, and a greenhouse made from salvaged windows and scraps of belief.
We taught the kids to garden—not just scatter seeds, but nurture them. To pay attention to the earth.
They named the tomatoes.
We discovered a new rhythm. One where coffee is brewed over fire, and the sun tells you what time it is.
People from back home thought we’d lost it.
“You moved into the woods? With three kids? Are you okay?”
We’d just smile.
Because yeah—we really, truly were.
