From Dreams to Ashes (and the Choice to Reclaim Joy)
Have you ever had an object or a place that once held all your dreams and joy, only for it to become the symbol of everything tragic in your life?
For me, that place is our farm in Charles City.
I will never forget the day David walked into our office—we were running our custom outdoor living company, Mid Atlantic Enterprise, at the time—and said, "You have got to come with me right now and see this property!" We left immediately to walk the land, carrying a hatchet and a stick to knock down branches and spiderwebs as we trekked through the dense woods. I can still point to the exact spot down by the creek where David paused, looked around, and said, "I can see us raising kids here."
We put in an all-cash offer on the spot, and the landowner accepted. The very day we went under contract, a higher offer came in. I still remember the anxious energy of that month waiting to close, praying nothing would happen on our end to forfeit the contract. The day the deal finally closed was pure joy. We had our long-dreamed-of property, and after nearly a decade together, we were both finally ready to start our family.
I quickly conceived Alrik, and we spent our days out on the land planning what we would build. I made so many memories camping out there at seven, eight, and nine months pregnant. David would stay there for days at a time, slowly walking the land and learning its rhythm. We never wanted to just bulldoze our way in; we wanted to work with the land.
Those hours of exploration were pure therapy for David. The property was completely, densely wooded when we bought it. David, almost entirely on his own, cleared our planned build sites and built the road. Through his own talent and sweat equity, he did what would have cost most people hundreds of thousands of dollars to have done. Watching the peace this beautiful space brought him, and the therapy that working on the land provided, is what inspired me to want to build a veteran retreat there—to bring that same sense of comfort to other families navigating a similar path.
For the first few years, life on the land was beautiful. Then, during COVID, we were given the opportunity to buy the house and one-acre lot right down the road. It felt like another answer to our prayers. It was an affordable way to get a roof over our heads, running water, and electricity, allowing us to remain intentional with every single move we made in planning our farm.
The farm was an incredible blessing during the pandemic. While the rest of the world locked themselves inside and wore masks anytime they left their four walls, we were thriving outside. It was liberating and beautiful. Learning we were expecting our second child during that time felt like the ultimate cherry on top of my dreams for our family.
But oh, how cruel this universe can be.
My joy was abruptly shattered the morning after August was born, when we learned he had suffered a stroke in utero. While August's life was a blessing in so many unbelievable ways, it was equally devastating. Suddenly, my days were filled with the constant fear of the unknown. My time was viciously stolen away from building our dream and redirected entirely toward pure survival.
In the midst of adjusting to our new reality with a completely dependent, special-needs child, David’s body began a rapid and painful decline. After months of agony trying to understand what was happening to him, we finally received a diagnosis the autumn before Auggie died. There I was: with a fully disabled child, a disabled spouse, a very active and healthy young son, and a farm that was becoming entirely my responsibility.
When I share these thoughts and feelings, please know I am not complaining. I understand deeply that even with these hardships, I am unbelievably blessed. I share my words for my own healing and processing, and in the hope that my honesty might help even one person who reads this.
Our farm was our dreams manifest. Now, I dread going there. Where I once saw beauty and unlimited potential, I now see only pain, sadness, and a deep, heavy resentment.
Every time I pull into the driveway, I only see the things that are not done... the things that I am not capable of doing alone. It is a painful reminder that my teammate in life cannot be physically by my side, working with me on our dream. It is the place my child died. At this point in time, this property steals my joy and makes all of the pain flood back to the surface. And it makes me angry! Most days, I would happily give it all away just to avoid these feelings.
Then I remind myself: this piece of land is too special to give up on.
Despite my internal emotional struggles, our farm still brings joy to others. Alrik loves any opportunity he gets to spend out there. The amazing mamas and kids who come out to farm school—even though it is still not close to what I originally intended for it to be—cannot wait to come out each week. Our farm is a truly unique and magical place.
It is where Auggie was always the happiest. It is where he chose to peacefully pass on from this world, and it is where I knew we had to honor his life by throwing arguably the best and most symbolic Celebration of Life. It is the place where, when I sit and push the negative thoughts away, I can still feel my precious baby boy all around me.
So while I am still very much in the thick of my grief, and while I might hate every single minute I am at the farm right now, I am refusing to let the darkness have the final say. I am making the choice to take action and reclaim the joy this land once gave us. It was a place of pure magic before, and I believe it can be again.
But reclaiming a dream from the ashes of heartbreak requires a plan. In my next post, I’ll show you exactly what steps I’m taking to rebuild, remodel, and rediscover my joy, both on the farm and in the rest of my life —and how I’m turning my resentment back into purpose.
Comments