People always ask me why I did it.
Why I left the city. Why I sold almost everything I had. Why I moved out here to a patch of land that didn’t even have working plumbing when I arrived—with a baby strapped to my back and no real idea what I was doing.
The truth? I didn’t do it because I was brave.
I did it because I was tired. Tired of waiting for someone to save us. Tired of apologizing for needing help. Tired of feeling like the life I wanted was always just out of reach.
So I packed up our tiny apartment in the city and bought a piece of land. It wasn’t much—just a few acres of overgrown weeds and rocks—but it was mine. And that was all that mattered. The first few months were a blur of hard work and sleepless nights. I built a small cabin, one that creaked in the wind but kept us warm. I learned how to grow vegetables, tend to animals, and fix things with my own hands. And, of course, there was the baby—Lily, my bright-eyed girl who somehow managed to bring joy to even the most exhausting days.
