Most of the time my husband Andrew and I are tied to the farm 24/7.
But every now and then we get away, or try to let the other go do something that means a lot to them.
Last Thursday night, Andrew left to go to Illinois for a few days.
He’s an avid bow hunter, and it’s a passion he shares with his brother and his son, our oldest nephew.
So that means I’m flying solo until he gets home.
While still working full-time and working on client work in-between. It means I get up at 4:30am instead of 5:15am, and it means getting done later in the evening.
I’m not going to sugar coat it; it makes for long days and short nights. But the other side of the coin is that I find it incredibly peaceful and restorative.
There’s something so soothing about cleaning pens, filling water buckets, and mixing feed by yourself.
It’s those mundane, everyday tasks you could do with your eyes closed that I really enjoy. On the days the cell service is working I’ll listen to music or an audiobook. But more often I prefer unplugging and letting the sounds of the barn take over.
The sounds of animals chewing, rustling their fresh bedding, and grunting to let me know they’re happy are some of the best noises of my day.
Today I wanted to keep it short and sweet and walk you through one of these days where I’m farming solo…
The Morning Ritual
There's a different rhythm to the farm when I'm alone.
The darkness still blankets everything when the alarm goes off.
The dogs get taken care of first, then I make my iced coffee, throw on barn clothes and boots and head out. And while I’m more than capable of handling things on my own, without Andrew's steady presence, I feel the weight of responsibility more acutely — the entire farm depends solely on me.
It’s still early spring here so the crisp morning air fills my lungs — for me this is the purest time of the day.
When I arrive, the pigs stir and blink at me with bleary eyes as I flip on the lights. Their curious snouts press through the pen gates, greeting me with expectant grunts. "Yes, breakfast is coming," I tell them, my voice echoing in the otherwise quiet barn. Some might talk more the animals when they’re alone, but me — I’m an introvert who welcomes the human silence.
Morning greetings from the nursery pen.
Finding Flow in Solitude
Since it’s the weekend, I have more time to spend on chores. And by mid-morning, I've settled into a peaceful groove.
There's a meditative quality to working alone that's hard to describe to non-farmers.
Each task flows into the next: measuring feed, checking water lines, looking over each animal carefully. Without conversation or technology to distract me, I notice more—which piglet seems quieter than usual, which sow might need extra attention.
The physicality of farm work also becomes more apparent by yourself.
I feel every muscle working as I haul feed bags and clean pens. It's exhausting but satisfying in a primal way. My body knows this work intimately, has memorized every motion required. My muscles have their own memories of these daily chores.
Sometimes in the afternoons I take a niece (or two) to help. Their chatter and enthusiasm bring a different energy to the barn.
Their presence reminds me how magical this ordinary life can seem through fresh eyes.
Can I name this one?
One of them asks, pointing to a black and white belted piglet. I smile and nod, knowing Andrew will come home to find a new set of named animals he'll need to learn.
The Evening Wind-Down
After a few hours of time away running errands, cleaning the house, catching a half hour of Dateline (I’m a true crime junkie), it’s time to head back to the barn for the evening.
As dusk approaches, I can feel the fatigue setting in. These solo days stretch longer than usual.
My back aches from the extra lifting, and I can’t remember if I ate lunch or not —there's never quite enough time when you're doing everything yourself. But for me there’s pride in the exhaustion, a deep satisfaction in knowing I've kept everything running smoothly.
The evening routine has its own special rhythm.
Another feeding, more watering, extra bedding if it’s going to be cold overnight, giving medications if needed, and overall wellness checks.
As I finish up the farm settles into night sounds—soft animal breaths, the distant call of an owl, wind rustling through the trees. Inside each pen, bodies snuggle close for warmth. The dogs follow me faithfully on this last round, patience personified as I do a once-over and secure gates.
L: Cookie, R: Ruby. Settled in for the night.
Back at the house, I peel off dirty work clothes and shower away the day.
Only then do I notice the quiet of the house itself—no sounds of Andrew grabbing a snack from the kitchen, no shared recap of our respective days. I send him a quick text letting him know everything’s good here and that I’ll catch up with him in the morning.
I take the dogs out one last time, turn off the lights and crawl into bed to read a few pages of a historical fiction or fantasy novel.
Knowing I’ll be up again in a few hours, but incredibly grateful this is my life.
The Hidden Gift
These solo stretches on the farm have become something I secretly treasure.
They're exhausting and demanding, but they're also a reminder of my own capability and resilience. There's something empowering about handling everything alone, about proving to yourself that you can manage when you need to.
In the silent moments, I find space for thoughts that often get crowded out in my daily life. Problems seem to solve themselves while my hands stay busy with routine tasks. Ideas for the farm, for my client work, even for this article form more clearly in these quiet hours.
By the time Andrew returns, I'll be ready for his company again, eager to share the updates he's missed.
But until then, I embrace these solitary days—the early mornings, the peaceful work, and the simple pleasure of being alone with creatures who ask for nothing more than care and presence.
Dusk settling with the boys in the winter soybean field.
In a world that rarely slows down, there's something to be cherished in these mundane moments—a counterbalance to our busy lives, a reminder that sometimes the most profound connection happens in silence.
Until next time,
Charlie
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