This was never meant to break me…
Flower farming and becoming a stay-at-home mother were never meant to diminish me. They were meant to enrich my life—and my family’s life.
When the things we build with care and intention begin to drain us rather than sustain us, it is rarely a personal failure. More often, it is a signal. Seasons shift. Bodies respond. And life, at times, requires recalibration.
This may seem like an unusual place to begin. There is no garden tour here, no flowers in bloom, no polished plan. But it feels like the most honest starting point: naming where I actually am before describing where I am going.
Over the past year, my body has not been asking for my attention—it has been begging for it. Pain, fatigue, weight gain, and a persistent undercurrent of stress accumulated gradually, normalized by the demands of raising children, managing a household, and sustaining a working farm. When so many people depend on you, discomfort becomes easy to dismiss.
The realization I keep returning to is this:
You can grow the food, homeschool the children, build the business, fill the freezer—and still slowly neglect yourself, even when the intention was the exact opposite.
Part of this neglect is structural. Accessing care in this season of life is not simple.
Imagine this: a mother of three finally schedules a doctor’s appointment—not for an acute illness, but to speak comprehensively about how she feels. The appointment is scheduled, then canceled. Twice. Childcare falls through. Eventually, the children come along, because waiting for ideal circumstances means not going at all.
There is a long wait in the lobby, followed by another in the exam room. Small hands explore drawers and instruments. A marker appears at precisely the wrong moment. One child suddenly needs to nurse. The physician asks for a detailed history, a blood pressure reading, and time for a basic exam. The questions that were carefully rehearsed disappear under the weight of divided attention.
The appointment ends with a referral—another future visit, another layer of logistics.
And often, that is where the process stops.
It becomes easier to delay follow-up, to postpone refilling medication, to tell oneself that things are manageable. Months pass quietly. Life continues. Until the body insists on being heard.
Around this time, a close friend—someone walking through similar struggles—mentioned Function Health. What drew me in was not a promise of quick fixes or viral health advice, but access. I wasn’t looking to blindly follow symptoms I saw scrolling on TikTok. I wanted a way to routinely check in on my actual physical health—something grounded, measurable, and repeatable.
I wanted to know that even if I was overwhelmed, I was still doing something good for my body. Regular blood work. Clear data. The ability to track trends over time. Information I could return to, rather than trying to remember what I’d said in a rushed appointment months earlier.
Function Health offered far more than I expected (I’ve linked it here for anyone curious: 👉 [Function Health link, I may earn a small commission here so thanks for simply using my link]). Beyond showing where my bloodwork landed across more than 100 biomarkers, it provided context—guidelines around diet and lifestyle, suggestions for what to support and what to reconsider moving forward. As a mother, this clarity matters. It reduces decision fatigue in a season already full of decisions.
In contrast, every time I had asked to see a nutritionist, it became another appointment to schedule, another block of time to find childcare for. Every time I asked to have hormone levels checked, I was told it might not be warranted. To explore allergies, I needed a long list of symptoms—and even then, what was tested were allergies, not sensitivities.
When I chose Function Health’s elective testing, I went straight to food sensitivities. We already knew our family does not have food allergies. What we didn’t know was how certain foods might be contributing to inflammation beneath the surface.
That is how I discovered my sensitivity to coffee.
Hardly shocking—and yet deeply clarifying. Especially given the irony of my life. I grow medicinal herbs. I know how to harvest, dry, and blend teas that would actively support my system. I have more than enough. And still, overwhelmed and fatigued, I relied on coffee—familiar, convenient, and inflammatory.
Shortly after, I ordered four packets of corn seed, only to learn the following day that someone in my family has a significant inflammatory response to corn. The plans had already been made. The space allocated. Seeds already on the way. Another quiet reminder of how easily intention and information can diverge when one is operating on autopilot.
This gap—between knowledge and practice, between care and capacity—is what I am now working to close.
As a grower, this information is reshaping how I think about food production. I am narrowing my focus to fruits and vegetables that directly support my family’s specific needs and protocols. Food, in this framework, is not merely sustenance or output—it is a form of targeted care.
There is a saying that sometimes we have to try harder to fail. I find that increasingly true. The resources are often already present. The nourishment is already growing. What is missing is not effort, but alignment.
This is me choosing to adjust rather than endure. To produce a little less. To listen more closely. To simplify where possible. To take responsibility for my health without waiting for a more convenient season.
If any of this resonates—if you are caring for others while quietly placing yourself last—I hope this serves as an invitation to pause. To notice early signals. To ask better questions. To seek information that supports informed, sustainable choices.
A full life should also be a nourishing one.
And I am learning, slowly, how to let it be so.
