You ever feel like life’s a muddy rut you just can’t climb out of? Yeah. Same. The yard’s been a swamp since the hurricane blew through, the chickens look personally offended by the rain, and every time I step outside, my boot gets swallowed whole. It’s like quicksand with mosquitoes.
The garden’s half-drowned, the coop smells like a wet dog convention, and Josh keeps saying things like, “It’ll dry out soon,” with that hopeful tone husbands use when they have no idea what’s happening. Ethan, of course, is living his best life—splashing through puddles, collecting “worm friends,” and leaving muddy footprints across my kitchen floor.
I tried to weed yesterday. The ground laughed at me. I bent down, grabbed a clump of grass, and pulled up half the yard. It’s hard to stay motivated when your carrots look like they gave up on life. I caught myself staring at the soggy rows thinking, “What’s the point?” Then I realized—this is kind of how I feel too. Tired. Waterlogged. A little wilted around the edges.
But then, this morning, I saw it—a single new sprout in the mess. One tiny bit of green pushing through all that brown mush. And man, it hit me hard. Nature doesn’t quit just because it’s ugly outside. It rests. It regroups. It comes back.
So I grabbed my coffee (half spilled from dodging puddles), and I just stood there, breathing in that wet, earthy smell that somehow feels alive. The mud squished between my toes, the rooster crowed like he owned the place again, and for a second, I remembered why we do this crazy homesteading life in the first place.
It’s not about perfect gardens or dry boots. It’s about finding little sparks of life after the storm. About the laughter when Ethan’s worm escapes in the house. About Josh pretending to fix a fence that probably doesn’t need fixing just to be outside.
We’ll dry out. The garden will perk back up. And until then, I’ll keep slogging through, mud and all—because sometimes, the best growth happens right after everything looks like a complete mess.