Why We Homestead: A June Reflection on Simplicity and Seasonality

June arrives with a kind of quiet intensity. The days stretch long, the garden hums with life, and everything feels just on the edge of overflowing—sunlight, growth, to-do lists, and gratitude. This is the month when the homestead seems to pulse with energy. The tomato vines are climbing higher each day, the chickens are laying steadily, and the weeds… well, the weeds are thriving too.

Early summer has a rhythm of its own. It’s not the slow awakening of spring or the deep exhale of autumn—it’s motion and momentum. June demands our attention in the most grounding way: water the seedlings, harvest the greens before they bolt, let the kids run barefoot while you turn the compost. It’s a season of both action and observation. There’s always something that needs doing, but there’s also so much worth pausing to notice.

And this, I think, is one of the reasons we keep choosing this life. Homesteading in June reminds me why we turned toward this way of living in the first place. It’s not about perfection or productivity—it’s about being rooted in a pace that reflects the earth, not the algorithm. As the world speeds up around us, this little patch of land continues to offer an invitation: slow down, pay attention, and grow what you can—inside and out.

This month, I’m reflecting on what it means to live simply in a season of so much. What it means to work with the land instead of against it. What it feels like to live by rhythms instead of routines. And most of all, why this lifestyle continues to anchor our family in a deeper kind of abundance—one that has nothing to do with hustle and everything to do with presence.

When the Work is Constant and the Beauty is Too

Homesteading in June is a study in contrasts: abundant and exhausting, beautiful and relentless. The to-do list is never quite finished. There’s always something that needs tending—something to water, weed, harvest, or preserve. Most days start early, often before the dew has dried, and end late with dirt still under our fingernails.

Watering alone could take up an entire evening. The garden, which felt so manageable in April, now stretches with life in every direction—tomato vines reaching for their cages, squash curling over into neighboring beds, and herb patches bursting into bloom. Weeds multiply overnight, daring us to keep up. And yet, even in the thick of the chore list, there’s this undeniable joy: watching the first strawberries ripen, gathering a basket of eggs still warm from the coop, spotting new blossoms where there were none the day before.

The pace is full. Sometimes chaotic. But there’s a rhythm to it—a kind of sacred repetition that steadies the heart. Feed the chickens, water the rows, pull what doesn’t belong so the good stuff can grow. There’s a satisfaction in the simplicity, even when it’s tiring. It’s not the kind of busy that drains you the way modern life tends to. It’s the kind of busy that reminds you you’re part of something real.

June doesn’t let us coast. It asks for presence. It demands care. But it also gives back in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve felt it: that quiet pride in serving a meal made entirely from what you grew, the peace that comes from watching the sun set over a garden you tended with your own hands, the deep, earned sleep after a day spent outside.

The beauty is not just in what we grow—it’s in the act of growing. In the daily showing up. In the deep, grounding reminder that this is what we were meant to do: participate in life, not just observe it. And in June, the work and the wonder seem to come in equal measure.

Simplicity Isn’t Always Easy

There’s a common misconception that choosing a simple life means choosing an easy one. But anyone who’s ever lived close to the land knows: simplicity takes work. It’s not about doing less—it’s about doing what matters, on purpose.

In June, the world around us tends to speed up. Calendars fill with events, vacations, and to-do lists that keep growing with the daylight. It’s easy to get swept up in the buzz. But homesteading has a way of pulling me back—not into stillness, necessarily, but into presence. When the garden needs watering or the chickens need tending, I can’t scroll through my phone or get lost in errands. I have to be here. With my hands, with my body, with my full attention.

Simplicity, in this season, often looks like choosing the longer path: cooking from scratch instead of ordering out. Hanging laundry on the line because it smells like sunshine when it’s done. Baking bread when it would be faster to buy it. It’s not always efficient, but it’s deeply satisfying. There’s a kind of soulfulness in the slowness—even when it doesn’t look or feel picture-perfect.

The other evening, just as the sun started to dip behind the trees, I found myself out in the garden with the kids, replanting a few rows of corn that hadn’t taken the first time. The air was still warm, but softer, and the light had that golden hue June evenings are known for. The kids were barefoot, dirt caked on their knees, helping me press seeds gently into the soil with their tiny fingers—some more gently than others.

We weren’t rushing to finish. Dinner dishes were still stacked in the sink, and bedtime would come later than usual, but none of that felt urgent. What mattered was that we were there, side by side, hands in the earth. Fireflies had just started to flicker, and I could hear the hens settling in for the night behind us. It was one of those quiet, grounding moments where time seemed to stretch—not because nothing was happening, but because everything important was.

There’s something about tending to what didn’t grow the first time—especially with your kids beside you—that reminds you of what this life is really about: showing up, trying again, planting anyway.

That moment didn’t come from striving or planning. It came from choosing to be present with the simple, repetitive tasks that anchor this life. From choosing to stay connected to the season rather than chase after what everyone else seems to be doing. Simplicity isn’t a finish line—it’s a practice. And sometimes, it takes more effort to slow down than to keep up. But in June, when the world is bursting with life and light, choosing simplicity feels like a quiet kind of rebellion—and a deeply grounding one.

Living Seasonally in Full Bloom

June is when the table starts to look like the garden. Meals are brighter, simpler, and often decided by what needs harvesting that day. There’s something deeply satisfying about walking out the back door to clip basil for dinner or gathering eggs still warm from the coop for a late breakfast. Our plates start to fill with color—snap peas, tender greens, the first baby zucchini, and herbs tucked into just about everything.

We’ve started having more meals outside, sometimes just cold chicken and sliced cucumbers on a picnic blanket, and other times full dinners made with what the garden offers. It’s not fancy, but it tastes like effort and reward. Like sunlight and soil. Even the kids are starting to notice the connection—how the carrots they helped thin are now part of our dinner, how the strawberries we carefully netted are finally sweet and ready.

The long daylight hours stretch everything. Our routines loosen with the season. We find ourselves staying outside later, chores spilling into twilight, bedtime routines pushed back in favor of one more wheelbarrow ride, one more walk through the rows. There’s a unique kind of energy that summer brings—not frantic, but full. Our bodies feel it too. We move more, we rest differently, we follow the rhythms of light and warmth instead of clocks and calendars.

Living in sync with the seasons has shifted so much for us—not just in how we eat or work, but in how we feel. There’s a kind of calm that comes from letting nature set the pace. In June, that pace is busy but purposeful. We work hard, but the reward is immediate and tangible. You plant, and things grow. You water, and life responds. That rhythm, that trust in the cycle of giving and receiving, grounds us more than any schedule ever could.

This season reminds me that abundance isn’t always about having more. It’s about having what you need, when you need it, and recognizing that as enough. June doesn’t just feed us—it teaches us. That growth takes time, that effort has meaning, and that beauty shows up most often when you’re paying attention.

The Why Behind It All

Some days, homesteading feels like a marathon with no finish line—endless weeds, overflowing baskets of produce waiting to be washed, chickens with a coop that needs cleaned again. It’s tiring. Messy. Demanding in ways that modern life often isn’t. But every June, in the thick of that exhaustion, I find myself remembering exactly why we chose this path.

We homestead for the sake of sustainability—not just for the planet, but for the emotional and relational sustainability of our family. There’s a different kind of richness that comes from working side by side, from creating something tangible with the people you love. Kneading bread together, stringing up tomato vines, replanting what didn’t grow the first time—these aren’t just chores. They’re touchpoints. Shared moments that build memory and connection.

We homestead to live our values in a way that’s visible and felt. Values like patience, stewardship, slowness, and joy. It’s not about doing things the hard way for the sake of hardship—it’s about choosing the kind of life that asks you to be in it, not just around it. Our kids learn that things take time. That growth is quiet, but persistent. And that some of the best moments come not from consuming, but from creating—a meal, a garden bed, a rhythm.

And June, with all its long days and blooming edges, is the season that brings that truth to the surface. There’s no rushing through this part. The land moves at its own pace, and if we want to be part of it, we have to meet it where it is. It requires us to be present, to notice, to respond—not reactively, but intentionally.

That’s the why. Even when it’s tiring—and it often is—it’s fulfilling in a way that few things are. We end the day covered in dirt and crumbs and sometimes mosquito bites, but also deeply connected. To the land. To each other. To the quiet, slow-building joy of making something meaningful together.

A Summer Invitation

June has a way of rushing in with all its green and gold, asking us to do more—but also offering quiet moments if we’re willing to notice them. Whether you’re living on acres of land or in a third-floor apartment, this season extends the same invitation: slow down, pay attention, and be part of something real.

You don’t need chickens in your backyard or a garden full of vegetables to live seasonally. You only need the willingness to pause. To step outside in the early morning light. To make a simple meal with fresh herbs. To water a potted tomato plant. To turn your face toward the sun for just a moment longer than you usually allow. These are the acts that reconnect us—not just to nature, but to ourselves.

If you do nothing else this week, I hope you’ll find one small seasonal rhythm to lean into. Maybe it’s baking something from scratch with your kids. Maybe it’s sitting on the porch in the evening without a screen in sight. Maybe it’s noticing the way the light hits your kitchen floor at a certain time of day. However you do it, let it be enough.

As for me, this June I’m most grateful for the mess of it all—the muddy boots by the door, the garden rows we didn’t get to, the late dinners eaten with dirt still on our hands. I’m learning to love the imperfection of this life, the way it asks for presence more than polish. And I’m thankful for the way June reminds me that being in rhythm with the world around me doesn’t require doing everything—just doing what matters, and doing it with care.

Wherever you are, I hope this season brings you moments of stillness, sweetness, and something that feels like home.