At first, I wasn’t going to share many of my emotional thoughts here on this website.

There are parts of me that I simply don’t want to share with everyone. Parts that feel like they’re mine to experience, navigate, and wade through without outside opinions. Things I want to work through in a way that feels authentic to me, rather than influenced by the feedback of others.

I also wanted to savor my summer. I didn’t want to spend any more time behind a screen than I absolutely had to. The weather has been beautiful, and since my body is now significantly affected by the cold (and by affected, I mean it HURTS), it felt almost wasteful not to be outside soaking up every bit of sunshine I could.

But despite my best efforts, I was still spending hours letting things get to me that probably shouldn’t. And I started wondering if maybe, just maybe, writing some of it down here might help settle the emotional uneasiness I’ve been struggling with.

As of today, October 16th, 2026, I am physically about 90% me again on a good day.

My Guillain-Barré syndrome (GBS) may have scared me, and it certainly scarred me, but it no longer defines me the way it once did. The deep, relentless nerve pain that consumed so much of my recovery has largely subsided.

But emotionally? My soul feels shattered. And some days, fear grips me so tightly that it consumes nearly every part of me.

I know I’ve had a phenomenal recovery. I also recognize the enormous privilege in the fact that I GET to heal.

I’ve picked up the pieces. I’ve chosen, over and over again, to believe that I’m going to be okay. I’ve researched alternative medicine extensively, poured my heart and soul into healing, and found myself guided by a kind of faith I’ve never experienced before. A faith that still feels incredibly rocky some days, but somehow continues to hold me up.

And I’m learning that two things can be true at once. I can be overwhelmingly grateful and still feel incredibly broken.

On the outside, I probably look like I’m back to normal. On the inside, I still panic around bedtime, terrified I won’t be able to sleep. I have reduced sensation in my legs, a numb spot on my back, and any kind of stressor, good or bad, can make my hands and feet ache.

Sometimes it feels like my hand has been dipped into warm water, only for that warmth to suddenly become unbearably hot when I’m confronted with overwhelm, screaming kids or any sort of nervous system stimulation even if its good, like my nephews football games.

I still worry about getting sick again. I worry about our finances. I worry about things I never used to give a second thought to. And sometimes those worries become so consuming that I struggle to recognize just how well things are actually going.

Something most people don’t know is that the part of my body most affected by GBS was my autonomic nervous system. Thermoregulation was one of my biggest hurdles, and I honestly won’t know how much of that function has returned until the cold weather settles in. The heat has completely masked how its functioning.

But I can already tell you that when it rains, I feel it in my joints, my hands, and my feet before I ever step outside. My autonomic nervous system is still trying to find its footing. And while my body has been working so hard to recover, life hasn’t exactly stopped to wait for it.

I had plans for this year. Big plans, actually.

I’d tackled construction projects to make those plans possible, had every intention of expanding the consulting side of our business so we had more margin to be able to hire someone new to take some of our load off our shoulders without raising prices, and had spent the winter making financial decisions that would allow us to invest in our farm, our community, and our future.

We knew those investments would make this year financially tight, but we had a plan. It was going to be a stretch, but a manageable one.

And maybe this next part is selfish, but after years of sacrificing vacations, working 365 days a year, and putting my own horse-girl dreams on the back burner, this was supposed to be the year I finally bought myself a sound horse to ride and compete on again.

If you know me, you know how much I love the two boys currently living in my barn. They’re wonderful horses, and they’ll retire nowhere but heaven from here.

But about four years ago, my older gelding lost a large portion of his hoof capsule, leaving him barely able to walk, let alone carry a rider. After two years of rehabilitation and regrowing that hoof, he’s finally comfortable enough for light riding with the kids. But he’s in his upper twenties now, and rehabilitation at that age just isn’t the same as it would be for a younger horse.

It’s a little like asking a 90-year-old man to take up jogging again.

I was perfectly content letting him become my kids’ horse because I still had another one to ride. Except that horse went permanently lame two years ago, too. He can walk around with a kiddo, and on a really good day, he might even jog. But most days, he’s simply too sore to comfortably carry weight on his back anymore.

And I miss riding. Not because I want to compete at the level I once did. I don’t need that anymore. I just want to ride.

I want to climb into a saddle, quiet my running brain, and spend a little time doing something that has absolutely nothing to do with the hard parts of the farm.

Something that’s just for me.

Because when you eat, breathe, work, and sleep your job, it becomes incredibly difficult to separate yourself from it. Especially when that job involves living animals that depend on you every single day. There is no extended vacations when you’re the farmer, the rancher, the accountant, the marketing department, shipping and distribution.

You can’t just close your laptop and call it a day. You can’t decide you’re having a rough morning and skip feeding the livestock. There are animals to care for, barns to clean, and responsibilities that don’t disappear because you’re tired, overwhelmed, or having a bad day.

And I love that life. I really do. But I also need something outside of it.

Something that brings me joy without asking anything of me in return.

When I got sick, I figured I could just put those plans on hold. We could coast for a while and be ok. Instead of continuing to grow and expand like we have year after year, we could maintain what we’d already built. Our existing customers would keep shopping, our business would keep moving, and I could focus on getting better.

Except I’ve learned something rather uncomfortable about running a small farm. Coasting doesn’t really exist here without consequences.

Not when your income depends on reminding people that you’re worth the inconvenience of shopping during our limited store hours or waiting for a delivery. Yes, people consistently come because they love our products. And I’m incredibly grateful for that.

But the reminders? The emails about what’s in stock, the videos showing what we’re doing, the posts encouraging people to come see us? Those are what give us the breathing room to know we’re going to be okay and weather things like sudden repairs, vet bills and building our savings again to weather future storms.

They aren’t optional. And I don’t have the luxury of simply taking a few weeks off to heal without worrying about what that might mean financially for my family.

When I don’t post online, I worry. When I don’t send an email, I worry. When our store is slow, which it has been unusually slow this October, I worry.

I have employees who depend on us for their income. Children who need a roof over their heads. Livestock that need to eat, and unfortunately, feed isn’t free. I’ve considered stepping away from social media entirely for a while, but the potential ramifications for the partnerships, relationships, and momentum I’ve spent years building are difficult to ignore.

I’ve thought about hiring a company to manage our social media so I could take a break.

But, I want the person telling the story of our farm to actually be the farmer. I want you to hear from me. Not a marketing company pretending to be me. So maybe I hire someone to moderate the comments? Maybe I step away for a while and hope for the best? Maybe there’s a middle ground I haven’t figured out yet?

I genuinely don’t know.

What I do know is that riding has always brought me joy. It quiets my mind, centers my thoughts, and gives me an immense sense of inner peace. And right now, I’m struggling to find ways to reduce the stress I’m carrying, stress that quite literally manifests as physical pain in my hands, feet, and body, without having that outlet.

I know I’m okay. I’m alive.

My heart is beating, and I believe it has a purpose. My children are healthy and happy. My husband is here with me. My family is safe. My home holds everything I love most in this world. I have so much to be grateful for.

But here’s the kicker. The part that really sucks the wind out of my sails. Without me showing up on social media or writing emails, our business slows down markedly. And do you know what causes me more stress, anxiety, and physical pain than almost anything else I do? Social media.

See my problem?

I share a video of myself hugging one of my cows, and suddenly someone is telling me, “I hope you don’t murder your children like you do your cows” or “I hope you stop breathing”. All because I love the animals that nourish my family and yours.

I share something about homeschooling or church, and suddenly strangers are writing Reddit posts speculating about my political affiliations (incorrectly, I might add) and customers are asking about it.

I find myself second-guessing whether I should share improvements we have to make around the farm, worried someone might question whether that’s an appropriate use of money after our community so generously supported us through a GoFundMe this spring.

A new customer leaves a one-star review on google, disappointed with the size of the chicken they received, even though it was exactly the size they ordered.

I send an email, pouring my thoughts into something I genuinely hope will resonate with people, only to see that 12 people have unsubscribed, two more have marked it as spam & one responded with a pointed demand that I take them off our list. And, I know that’s just part of email marketing. I know I shouldn’t take it personally. But it’s hard not to when I’m not some faceless corporation sending automated messages. I’m a real person, sitting behind a computer, sharing pieces of my life, my thoughts, and the farm we’ve poured everything we have into.

And sometimes, even the smallest rejections feel a whole lot bigger than they probably should, because I’m sitting somewhere in that uncomfortable space between burnout and a full-blown crash out. I’m trying so hard to hold everything together that even the smallest things can feel like one more thread unraveling.

I know, logically, that I shouldn’t let these things get to me when I have real work to do. But they do. In fact, I stopped looking at my email analytics. I started blocking and deleting things on social media.

Because behind every post, every email, every video, and every product we sell is a real person who cares deeply about what she’s doing. And lately, that person is pretty dang exhausted.

Then the bills start arriving. Property taxes. The end-of-year payment on our mother herd of cattle. The remaining poultry feed bill for the end of the year. Lease payments for the land our cows and calves graze. The house needs plumbing work before the rain starts flooding our basement again. The dairy cows need to be bred so they actually pay their way but I can’t seem to keep up with their heat cycles. The beef herd has pregnancy checks, which means another substantial veterinary bill this month.

And every one of those expenses comes with a deadline, whether I’m ready for it or not.

There are so many moving parts, so many people and animals depending on us, and so many things that have to fall into place financially that I find myself panicking over how we’ll manage it all. And the solution, at least on paper, is pretty simple.

Market the farm. Sell the product in the freezers.

Tell people what we do, how we do it, and where they can find us. Show up online. Make the videos. Write the emails. Remind people we’re here. Because social media is free advertising, right?

Except I’m beginning to realize just how expensive free advertising can be.

It might not cost us much in dollars, but the emotional cost has become something I can no longer ignore. I’m human. I’m flawed. I make mistakes. I care too much about things I probably shouldn’t, and I take things personally even when I know better.

But I’m also a real person behind this business, trying to navigate the weight of other people’s expectations while recovering from an illness whose lingering symptoms are exacerbated by stress.

And somehow, the marketing skills that help keep our farm financially afloat have become tangled up with the very stress I’m desperately trying to reduce.

This isn’t a complaint. This is simply me putting words onto a screen so I can finally let go of some of the ones that have been taking up so much space in my mind.

This is me sharing a vulnerable part of myself that, lately, I’ve felt almost cornered into confronting. This is me acknowledging that life isn’t all rainbows and cow hugs over here, even if that’s what it sometimes looks like through a screen.

This is me pretending you’re sitting across from me at my kitchen table, sharing a cup of coffee and a moment of honest conversation. Because the truth is, I’ve felt incredibly lonely trying to navigate the expectations of everyone around me while still feeling so broken, scared, and uncertain myself.

And maybe I just need a place where I don’t have to make everyone else happy. Where I don’t have to market anything, explain anything, defend anything, or convince anyone that I’m doing enough.

Where I can just be human for a minute.