Our Move to the Farm

In September 2023, we did something that most people thought was a little crazy — we sold our house in South Florida, let go of most of our belongings, and moved into an off-grid RV on our new property in Missouri. We were wide-eyed and ready for a new chapter. And we didn't go alone — all six of our dogs came with us, piling into that RV like they owned the place.

The plan was never to spend the winter in the RV. But as the temperatures dropped and the leaves turned, our house plans fell through. And then our neighbor refused to grant us an easement for electricity. Just like that, what was supposed to be a temporary stepping stone became our reality — an uninsulated camper, no running water, a generator humming in the cold, and six dogs keeping us warmer than any heating system could.

We had an outhouse. In winter. In the middle of the night, when nature called, we'd bundle up and make our way out into the dark — cold air biting at our faces, frozen ground underfoot, and usually at least one dog trotting alongside for moral support. It was hard. There's no sugarcoating that. But the stars... the stars were something else. Brilliant and vast and completely unhurried by our circumstances. They lit our path and reminded us, night after night, that beauty doesn't wait for comfortable conditions.

We slept with jumper packs and heating pads — and a pile of dogs that made the cold a little more bearable. Inside the RV, they claimed every inch of the couch, burrowed under blankets, and reminded us daily that home is wherever your pack is.

We made our morning coffee on a camp stove around the fire pit. We had no dishwasher, no thermostat, no scrolling through Netflix at the end of a long day. What we had was time — time outside, time together, time to slow down and actually look at the world around us.

And that's when we started to notice the plants.

Our woods were full of them. Juniper berries clustered in the trees, mullein standing tall, wild herbs tucked into the hillside. Things we had walked past our whole lives without a second glance were suddenly speaking to us. We were in survival mode, yes — but we were also waking up.

That winter was the beginning of WestLand Farms. Not the polished version you see now, but the raw, muddy, freezing, star-lit version that started it all — two people, six dogs, and a deep sense that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Every bar of soap, every bottle of oil, every salve we make carries a little bit of that first winter in it — the grit, the wonder, and the deep belief that simpler is better.

We're glad you're here. There's more of the story to tell.