- A moment, a memory, and the courage to build something real *
I am writing this while standing beside our trailer, paint on my hands, music playing quietly in the background. Somewhere between brush strokes, something in me shifted. I felt tears forming before I fully understood why.
I realized I needed to say this out loud. To tell our story. Maybe to gather the courage to keep going. Maybe to remind myself why we started. And maybe, if it helps someone else find the courage to do a hard thing they have been putting off, then it is worth sharing.
Years ago, life felt loud, heavy, and relentless. I was carrying stress, trauma, and the constant pressure of trying to hold everything together while feeling like I was slowly coming apart. I had just returned from Afghanistan, and the transition back into everyday life was harder than I ever expected. The structure was gone. The purpose felt blurred. The weight of everything I carried did not stay behind when I came home.
I was exhausted in a way sleep did not fix.
I needed something quiet.
Something grounding.
Something that reminded me I was still capable of creating good things.
That part mattered more than I knew at the time.
While I was in Iraq and Afghanistan, I saw a lot of bad things. Moments of goodness existed, but they were rare and fragile. When they appeared, they stood out because everything else felt heavy, chaotic, and out of our control. You learned quickly not to expect good things. You learned how easily they could disappear.
I remember walking through one of the camps in Iraq and seeing a tiny patch of grass someone had grown. Someone back home had sent them seeds. They watered it using the same water bottles we were given. They trimmed it carefully with scissors to keep it tidy. In a place defined by dust, concrete, and survival, that small square of green felt impossible.
That image stayed with me.
Coming home did not erase that.
Somewhere along the way, my definition of purpose became tangled up in survival. Getting through the day. Doing what needed to be done. Carrying the weight without letting it show. Creating good things felt distant, almost unfamiliar.
So I planted a garden.
It was not ambitious. It was not impressive. It was just soil, seeds, and the quiet hope that if I showed up often enough, something would grow. I did not have a plan beyond getting my hands in the dirt and giving my mind space to slow down.
At first, it was small. A few plants. Dirt under my fingernails. Sun on my back. Moments of peace I had not felt in a long time. Gardening gave my hands something to do while my thoughts finally had room to breathe. Out there, the noise faded. The expectations loosened their grip.
The garden did not judge me.
It did not rush me.
It simply responded to care.
And in doing that, it gave me something back.
Every seed that broke through the soil felt like proof. Proof that good things could still exist. Proof that they could be created intentionally, not by chance. Proof that I was not defined by what I had seen, but by what I chose to build afterward.
That garden grew.
And slowly, so did I.
This is where things began to change.
Then I met Chelsey, and together we started building something bigger. Not quickly. Not perfectly. But intentionally. Goats came first, then chickens, then alpacas. More plants followed. Then bees. Eventually, even donkeys. Each addition was not about scaling up or chasing growth. It was about learning. Learning responsibility. Learning patience. Learning how deeply connected everything is, and how much life depends on balance.
When we first got our alpacas, the woman we got them from told us she had been working with them as therapy animals. At the time, I did not think much of it. But over time, I started to notice something. Sitting with them brings me a sense of peace that is hard to explain. Their calm presence. Their quiet curiosity. The way they exist without urgency. The animals give back in ways that go beyond food or fiber. They create space to breathe.
Somewhere along the way, we visited Apple Hill.
I do not remember every detail of that trip, but I remember how it felt. The farms were alive. Families wandered together. Animals were not hidden behind fences but integrated into the experience. It felt joyful. It felt intentional. It felt possible.
I remember Chelsey saying, “We can do this.”
And something clicked.
That feeling followed us home.
When we moved to where we are now, I had just started diving deep into research on food forest style gardening. I became fascinated by the symbiotic relationships within it, especially the mycorrhizal connections beneath the soil that allow plants to communicate, share nutrients, and support one another. Nothing exists in isolation. Everything plays a role.
That philosophy reflects what we are trying to build here on the farm. A place where everything is connected in a meaningful and positive way. Where growth is supported instead of forced. Where balance matters as much as productivity.
We wanted to build something like that here. Something local. Something real. A place where families did not have to travel hours to experience farm life. A place where kids could see animals, understand where food comes from, and feel connected to the land. A place that felt welcoming instead of commercial.
Then we had kids of our own.
This way of living is becoming the backdrop of their childhood. They are learning in real time. The first time they saw a chicken up close. The first time a goat nibbled at their clothes or curious fingers. The first time a turkey strutted and startled them.
They are learning that food does not magically appear on shelves. That animals require patience, care, and respect. That effort turns into abundance, but only if you are willing to show up every day.
After our first son was born, we started noticing sensitivities to additives and processed foods. That experience changed how we looked at what we consumed and how we lived. We wanted to eat clean. We wanted to live clean. We wanted to know what went into our bodies and where it came from. That choice did not feel extreme. It felt necessary.
Reality shifted in other ways too. Chelsey stayed home with him because we did not want daycare raising our child. We made sacrifices. We took on side work. We adjusted constantly. Eventually, we realized the farm could not remain just a passion project. It needed to work for us.
That is when the idea of going mobile started burning in our hearts.
We talked about a trailer. A mobile farm stand. A way to bring the farm to the community instead of waiting for the community to come to us. We even had a trailer in mind, a two horse trailer that would have been perfect. But we needed it for the animals, so the dream went back on the shelf.
Not forgotten.
Just waiting.
Fast forward a few years, and we find ourselves standing at a crossroads we did not plan for.
For the first time since I joined the Army at seventeen, I am jobless. That sentence still feels strange to say out loud. A series of unexpected events forced a decision we believed we still had time to ease into. The kind of decision you tell yourself you will make later, when things feel steadier, when the timing is better, when the ground beneath you feels less uncertain.
Instead, it arrived all at once.
Do we keep living the familiar cycle where I work long hours, carry constant stress, and spend too much time away from my family? A cycle that provides structure, but at a cost. A cycle that feels safe, but heavy.
Or do we step into the uncomfortable and fully commit to the life we have been building quietly, piece by piece, for years?
Chelsey keeps reminding me to get comfortable being uncomfortable.
That sounds simple.
It is not.
This season is scary. It is stressful. The weight of making sure my family is safe, supported, and thriving sits heavy on my shoulders. It is the heaviest thing I carry. There is doubt. There is fear. There are nights when sleep comes slowly, if it comes at all.
But there is also clarity.
We know what matters to us. We know what kind of life we want our kids to remember. We know what it feels like when we are aligned with our values, and we know what it feels like when we are not.
If we do this, and we do it well, it will be good.
Not easy.
But good.
So here we are, paint on our hands, standing beside a trailer that represents more than a business plan. It represents a leap of faith. A willingness to try. A decision to build something real instead of staying comfortable in something that no longer fits.
We are getting ready to introduce this next chapter to you. Our supporters. Our community. The people who have encouraged us, believed in us, and walked alongside us as this dream slowly takes shape. We would not be here without you.
Smee Acres Family Farm has become a reflection of our values.
Choosing sustainability over convenience.
Quality over quantity.
Intention over profit.
At its heart, this farm is still that same garden. The same quiet space. The same reminder that healing and growth often start small.
This farm exists because we chose to slow down, listen, and build something real.
And we are just getting started.
Thank you for being here.
Smee Acres Family Farm 
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