I used to think “minimalist living” meant those white Pinterest houses with five pieces of furniture and a single plant that somehow never dies. But out here on the farm, minimalist living has a different meaning. It’s less about clean lines and neutral tones, and more about keeping what matters—and letting the rest sit in the barn until Curtis swears he’ll “get to it this weekend.”
Living on a farm teaches you how little you actually need. You stop caring about things like matching dish sets when half your plates end up chipped from washing them in a metal sink with water that smells like the well it came from. You stop trying to keep your boots clean because it’s just not gonna happen. You start valuing quiet mornings, full sunsets, and food that tastes better when you’ve had to work for it.
I don’t have fancy storage bins labeled with vinyl letters, but I’ve got jars of homemade jam lined up on an old shelf Curtis built out of scrap wood, and somehow that feels richer. There’s a rhythm to life here that makes you appreciate the in-between moments—the slow coffee before the chores, the sound of rain on the tin roof, the cows grumbling because you’re late to feed them again.
Minimalist living out here isn’t about having less—it’s about wanting less. The less you chase, the more room you make for what fills you up. For me, that’s a horse ride at dusk, a Sunday nap after church, and the kind of laughter that starts small and ends with you crying and snorting at the same time.
Sure, sometimes I look at those online tours of spotless homes with candle collections and linen curtains that float in the air like they’re auditioning for a movie. But then I remember I’ve got dirt on my floor that tells a story—hoof prints from the barn, boot marks from Curtis, paw prints from the dog who refuses to wipe his feet. It’s not clean, but it’s alive.
And really, that’s the thing about farm life—it’s full. Full of noise, work, heart, and gratitude. You give so much of yourself to it, but it gives right back. Some days it gives in sweat and sore hands, other days in a sunset so beautiful it feels like an apology for all the hard ones before.
I guess minimalist living isn’t about less—it’s about enough. And I’ve got plenty of that right here.