Psst… can I tell you something?
It’s been five years since I brought my first four sheep to the farm.
Life looks a lot different now. My kids are all out of elementary school. Morning “commutes” look more like a sheep free-for-all than bumper-to-bumper traffic. And a work emergency is far more likely to involve a stuck lamb than revising sample-size estimates hours before a grant deadline.
Not that it’s all sunshine and roses. My office temperatures are wildly unpredictable, and more than occasionally involve a downpour. But even so, this life—this sheep-shaped life—has taught me a lot about what it means to live well.
Here are my top five guiding principles, learned one muddy boot at a time.
Feet on the Floor
I repeat this one to myself many times a day. It’s a reminder to show up, stay present, and keep moving forward.
Sometimes it’s literal: getting out of bed—feet on the floor.
Sometimes it’s turning on the computer to write an email that’s… oops… two years overdue—feet on the floor.
Sometimes it’s realizing it’s time to stop skirting wool and make dinner—feet on the floor.
This principle is about accepting what is and doing what needs to be done. Staying grounded. Following through. No excuses—just the next right step.
28. No More. No Less.
Sound familiar? If you’ve listened to the podcast A Fiber Life, you might remember the story. (If not, I highly recommend the May 7, 2024 episode—and then, honestly, the rest.)
The idea is simple: instead of trying to finish an entire project, just do 28 of something. Write for 28 minutes. Pull 28 weeds. Knit 28 rows.
For me, this is both permission to stop before the work is done and a reminder to keep showing up consistently. I’m notorious for not starting big projects because I don’t have time to finish them—and equally notorious for falling into days-long hyperfocus once I do.
Why 28? Who knows. I love that it mirrors a lunar cycle. But really, it’s about balance. Twenty-eight is enough to feel like progress, without losing an entire day to one task.
A farmer once told me, “One year of neglect will cost you five years of catch-up.” Painfully accurate. But you don’t get to a year of neglect when you’re practicing 28, no more and no less.
Take Care of the Mommas...
…So they can take care of their babies.
Yes, this applies to sheep. And yes, it applies to human families—especially those with small children.
It took me years to realize my exhaustion wasn’t because I was failing, but because I was pouring everything I had into others without anyone taking care of me in return.
But this idea is bigger than parenting. It’s about community care—about supporting the people on the front lines so they can keep going without burning out.
We can’t all do everything, all the time. But we can all help someone.
Everyone struggles at some point. The struggles look different, reach different circles, and show up in different ways. Looking after each other, where and how we can, is one of our highest responsibilities.
Yes! To New Adventures
Does it sometimes feel like stepping off a cliff? Absolutely.
But what is a life lived small? In the shadows? According to someone else’s plan, for someone else’s benefit?
Dream big. Do your best.
You’re smart and capable. And if something doesn’t work out, you’ll figure out what comes next.
Just keep showing up for yourself. Be yourself. And ask for what you want.
Not Yet.
Whoa there. Slow down. Take a chill pill. Slow your roll.
I want to do all the things, immediately. Preferably yesterday.
But somewhere along the way, I found my limit. Not because I have kids or inherited the energy of a well-fed housecat (though that’s real), but because I’m human. So are you.
So instead of beating myself up over what I can’t do right now, I remind myself: not yet.
It’s not “no” or “never.” It’s simply choosing to set something aside until I have the time, money, and attention to do it well.
That’s why I’m devoted to my wool mill and my butcher. They do their work faster and better—and that lets me focus on what I do best: caring for my flock, growing good wool, and raising healthy lambs.
This season, I find myself feeling deeply grateful—for the sheep, for the lessons they keep teaching me, and for the people who’ve chosen to be part of this little farm along the way.
If you’ve been here for years or are just finding your way back, I’m really glad you’re here.
More soon—but for now, thank you for being part of this story.