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Self-Sufficiency Is a Farce: A Homesteader’s Journey to Community

As a homesteader, I used to believe self-sufficiency was the ultimate goal. The homesteading world often pushes this narrative: don’t trust the government, arm yourself, protect your land, and prepare for collapse—there are only “40 harvests left.” Some of these claims hold more water than others, and I’ll admit, I bought into many of them. My YouTube channel, An of All Trades, reflects my 12-year quest to master every skill I thought I’d need to live independently. I learned woodworking, vehicle repair, beekeeping, cheese-making, butter-churning, sauerkraut fermentation, welding, tool maintenance, gardening, seed-saving, soil improvement without commercial fertilizers, and even sewing my own clothes. I got illegal backyard chickens for eggs and baked sourdough from wheat I grew, harvested, and ground myself. All of this was in pursuit of total self-sufficiency.

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But somewhere along the way, my motivations shifted. Fear, the initial spark for my journey, only gets you so far. Long-term motivation demands something deeper—a sense of purpose. Fear can’t sustain you through the grind of homesteading; purpose can.

A Historical Perspective

My fascination with historical trades—hand-tool woodworking, treadle sewing, and fiber harvesting—led me to study the Industrial Revolution. About 200 years ago, before modern conveniences, 80-90% of people lived in agrarian societies. Nearly everyone was a farmer or contributed to producing and preserving life’s essentials. Communities were tight-knit, with most necessities created within a 40-60 mile radius. This wasn’t self-sufficiency in isolation; it was interdependence. People relied on each other to survive.

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The Reality of Homesteading

Take my dairy cows, for example. We put immense effort into their care—selecting the right grass, chaff, and grain, even planting specific seasonal grasses. Yet, they still need supplemental vitamins and minerals, offered free-choice in a buffet setup. Just like my cows, humans can’t thrive alone. We need community to fill in the gaps.

Six years ago, I was in Seattle, working three jobs, relying on food banks, and utterly exhausted. One night, after a grueling workweek, I heard a noise in the barn. My goat, Dolly Parton, was giving birth to sextuplets. The delivery went poorly; one kid died, and I had to intervene to save the last. That night, alone in the barn while my husband slept 50 feet away, was the loneliest of my life. We were both stretched thin, working multiple jobs to escape debt. Our suburban farm, surrounded by city life, felt like a zoo. Neighbors stopped by, not to join us, but to gawk, treating our lifestyle as a spectacle. I craved a community that understood homesteading, but it was nowhere to be found in Seattle.

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Finding Community

That lonely night changed everything. I buried the dead kid, walked inside, and told my husband, “I can’t do this alone anymore.” Weeks later, I sat on the floor of my friend Tyler’s tiny house in Tennessee. She and her husband had spent a decade growing food for their community. She shared her own story of pulling a calf alone in a calving barn, mirroring my goat ordeal. Her words—“I need someone to do this with”—hit hard. That was it. We moved to Tennessee, got cows, and started a dairy barn with Tyler, producing raw dairy for our community and giving back to the food bank.

Last year, we faced a gut-wrenching decision to put down half our dairy herd and start over. It was devastating, but I wasn’t alone. Tyler and I talked it through, shared the burden, and kept going. Now, waiting for calf births isn’t a solitary endeavor. Our quarterly square dances, where I bartend and celebrate with neighbors, remind me why we moved here. Community makes the hard moments bearable.

The Myth of Self-Sufficiency

It’s easy to romanticize life 200 years ago—before screens, corporate jobs, and fast food. But farmers back then didn’t survive by isolating themselves on 30 acres. They shared in times of abundance, knowing lean times would come. Their neighbors had their backs, just as they had theirs. Self-sufficiency, when it’s about cutting everyone out, misses the point.

I started farming out of scarcity, desperate for food security. Today, I farm for meaning, purpose, and connection. Knowing I won’t face another night alone in the barn keeps me going through the toughest days. I’ve spent 12 years making my life harder on purpose, not to serve myself, but to build a legacy of family, community, and purpose.

The next time you hear a farmer glorify self-sufficiency as isolation, ignore them. Find your place, find your people. That’s where the good stuff is.

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