It all started with a late-night conversation—exhausted, surrounded by dirty dishes, with the kids asleep on the couch. My husband looked at me over reheated coffee and said, “What if we just… left?”
We laughed. Then paused. Then wondered.
That question lit a spark. We started researching land, self-sufficiency, and what it meant to live simply—on purpose. One acre turned into twenty-seven.
It took three years to untangle from our jobs, schools, routines, and fears. The land we bought was rugged—rocky soil and a collapsed barn—but it was ours. Our first night there felt quiet, raw, and achingly real.
We built everything from scratch: rainwater systems, chicken coops, compost toilets. The kids called it “Camp Forever.” Winters tested us—frozen pipes, mice, frayed nerves—but spring brought wildflowers and hope. We taught the kids how to grow food and listened, really listened, to the land.
Some friends thought we’d lost our minds. We weren’t trying to be off-grid icons. We just wanted a life we could feel.
Then one day, a man in a suit knocked on our door. A documentary crew had stumbled on our old blog. They filmed our messy, imperfect lives, and when Back to the Dirt aired, messages from around the world poured in. One woman’s letter—about escaping abuse—inspired us to write a book. Not a how-to, but a story about starting over. That story resonated.
With the book’s success, we built a guest cabin. People came. They cried, they planted, they healed. They remembered who they were.
But life doesn’t stop testing you. When our youngest, Noah, got meningitis, five terrifying days in the hospital reminded us we still needed help. We added internet. Found a homeschool group. Rebalanced.
We weren’t chasing isolation—we were chasing presence. The guest cabin became The Reboot Cabin. People didn’t come to escape. They came to reclaim. A burned-out lawyer once stood in our kitchen, crying over chili, and said, “I finally feel useful again.”
That’s what this is about. Not silence. Not solitude. Meaning.
I don’t know where we’ll be in ten years. But I do know this: wild ideas often lead to the truest parts of life. They rarely look safe. But they speak to something deep inside you.
So if someone you love ever says, “What if we just left?” — maybe don’t laugh.
Maybe… just listen.
You might find a life that feels like breathing again. Not perfect. But yours.
