Choosing myself

It’s interesting—this thing of living alone. Over the last few months, I’ve found only a small handful of people who fully understand or embrace the idea of me choosing a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. A life where I intentionally lean into independence, do things on my own, and trust that if I ever need support, my people are there.

What I’ve come to realize is that I’m choosing me. And while that may sound simple, it’s not always common—especially for women. It took a lot of unhealthy patterns and difficult years for me to finally understand that the most important relationship I’ll ever have is the one I have with myself. And if I don’t honor that, no one else can do it for me.

I’ve noticed a shift within: I’ve stopped waiting for approval, for permission, or to be chosen. I’m navigating by my own compass now. And there’s something deeply empowering about that. Of course, there can still be space for love, for a man, or even for men in my life. The difference is that I’m choosing, not simply waiting to be chosen.

Growing up, I was taught to stay small, to please others, and to wait my turn—to be chosen, especially by a man. That lesson was taught with enthusiasm, and I attended that class for far too long. Thankfully, that course is no longer in session, at least not in my world. We’re in a new era—one where women are reclaiming their voices, their power, their space. And I’m here for it. 

So let’s bring it back. Living intentionally, choosing myself, walking a path that may look unconventional—that’s not something I’ve seen modeled often. And I’ve noticed that those closest to me—my family, my dear friends—sometimes express worry about this path I’ve chosen. I get it. It’s unfamiliar to them. It feels different. Maybe even a little uncomfortable.

But here’s the beautiful part: these conversations have brought us closer. The honesty, the concern, the willingness to speak from the heart—it’s created deeper connection and trust. And in those moments of sharing, I’ve come to better understand their perspective, and they’ve come to better understand mine.

What strikes me most is this: I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and yet there’s still some quiet apprehension from those I love. And that’s okay. That, too, is part of the journey.

Maybe the takeaway here is that living an unconventional life isn’t for everyone. Or maybe it's that when a woman fully steps into her power, it can feel unfamiliar—maybe even a little risky—to those who’ve never seen it done that way. But times are changing. We’re learning the difference between settling for potential vs choosing secure, conscious love. We’re learning to trust ourselves.

Sure, some might say the moral is to be more careful. And yes, there’s wisdom in caution—in the right moments like work and grandkids. But for me, it’s about living fully. Unapologetically. Gratefully.

I’m just out here in Wolfe City, living my life the way I’ve chosen. And I’m thankful for it—every single day. I’m glad to be here. And I’m glad you’re here, too.

Stay salty y'all,

Cyndi

Oh, and I promise, a farm blog is in the works.....but these thoughts and feelings were on my mind, as I've had multiple conversations with loved ones about my new life in Wolfe City. Thank you for listening to my more serious side - and a farm update will be up next. Love to you all  💟

 

The consequences

 

I recently had a sweet, smart and hard-working young lady come to the farm to volunteer, who happens to a 17 year old junior in high school - who’s only a week away from being a senior. 

She is also the daughter of a wonderful mom, Julie (Jules) who I have known for some time after working together in the OR for a number of years. We have been through things together. Hard things, fun times and seen each other at our best and worst times in our lives. She’s a forever love of mine, and I now have the most amazing opportunity to spend time with her also-amazing daughter, Alexis. 

As she and I performed many farm chores together yesterday, she shared her story with me. And it was when we were processing dozens of eggs in my kitchen that she showed me how vulnerability is done. 

This girl. This young lady. This amazing Alexis is a mere 17 year old who’s wise beyond her years. As she spoke her story, her feelings, and her family history, she also mentioned she had written an essay (which will also be used as part of her college essays very soon). With her permission, I’ll be sharing it here. 

This is her story, and I hold it dearly. This is also the story of many young ladies as she is not alone - although it can certainly feel that way. Unfortunately, it’s a story too often repeated. Thank you, Alexis for being brave, bold and uniquely you ❤️ and for sharing your pain and struggle with the world - and with me. I am so proud of you. Keep being the most awesome you that you are. 

I don’t remember the exact day I became so dismissive toward my father. We used to be best friends—the classic daddy-daughter duo. Daddy-daughter dances, dinners, little dates just the two of us. And then, suddenly, those days ended.

As a little girl, I would wait eagerly for my dad to come home from work just to get a few minutes with him. I fell asleep in my parents’ bed every night, hoping I could see him before he returned too late. Eventually, he started coming home later and later, and my mom stopped letting me wait up. Over time, I stopped caring. I had to.

When we moved cities, I still remember my parents sitting my brother and me down to say they were getting a divorce. That day, something shifted. I watched my dad walk out the door, heard the final goodbyes, and came home from school to find his things gone. I never wanted to visit him after that. I saw how broken my mom became, and I felt like I had to take care of her. My sadness turned into resentment.

As I grew older, I started to understand more about why they divorced—truths I couldn’t see when I was younger. It deepened the resentment. My dad moved on quickly, finding a new, younger girlfriend. I felt replaced. Like I was no longer his first priority, just the second person he remembered to say “I love you” to.

In my teenage years, I avoided being home. I buried myself in school and work. Going from class to my job to bed became my routine, a way to protect myself from being hurt by the person I once admired most. My dad would say things that left invisible bruises—emotional comments he’d later deny or say were in my head. He criticized my mom even though she was the one who raised us when he wasn’t there.

Eventually, I noticed how close my dad and my brother had become. I was jealous. That bond was something I had once shared with him, something I wanted back. I still wonder if the reason we drifted is because I remind him too much of my mom.

And yet, even in all of that pain, I’ve grown. My father, in many ways, shaped who I am—not by example, but by contrast. He taught me who I don’t want to be. He made me independent. He made me someone who cares deeply for others, even when they don’t always return that care. He made me someone who refuses to let others feel like they’re second best.

So, thank you, Dad. Thank you for helping me become someone you’re not—and someone I’m proud to be.