The Architecture of a Slower Life: From briefcase to grain sack

They say that nature doesn't hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

For twenty years, I’ve been testing that theory. Before the sheep, before the 60 acres in Alamance County, and before I found a love that was worth the wait, my world was measured by the sharp tick of a work a day week. I lived in a world of sales quotas and office enviorments and the relentless "fast" of modern life.

But today, as a "mighty" winter storm rolls across the North Carolina Piedmont, I find myself in a different kind of boardroom—one governed by the wind, the soil, and the needs of a flock that doesn't care about quarterly projections.

The Original Performance Fabrics

This morning, while the sky turned that heavy shade of pewter it only wears before snow, I sat down to a simple bowl of hot cereal from my neighbors at @redtailgrains. It was served on a linen placemat that has outlived most of the technology I used in my previous life.

Hot cereal on an antique linen placemat at a sustainable sheep farm in Burlington, NC

There is a reason our ancestors wore wool and used linen. We call them "heritage materials" now, but to them,

they were simply the original performance fabrics.

They are breathable, sustainable, and meant to last a hundred years. As a sheep farmer, I see myself as more than a business owner; I am a steward of these fibers. Whether it’s the Corriedale fleece growing on my ewes or the vintage flax linen on my table, these things connect us to a timeline that makes sense.

Nature Rules (Especially in January)

In the business world, a storm was a logistical nuance—an email about "remote work." On the farm, a storm is a mandate. It is the ultimate reminder that Nature Rules.

winter on a sustainable sheep farm in Burlington, NC with the shepherd looking in on her eyes in the barn

The garden is currently tucked away, its Oriental Poppies and peonies sleeping under the frozen earth. The sheep are sheltered, their heavy coats doing the work they were designed to do. This "slow" life isn't always easy—it involves muck boots and frozen water troughs—but it is honest.

Setting the Table for the Second Act

People often ask me about starting over at 47. They ask about finding a partner later in life and building a farm from the ground up. My answer is always the same…

The best things are slow-cooked.

Whether it's a heritage recipe served on my grandmother's table or a brand-new project on the farm, I’ve learned to value the process as much as the result.

We are competing with "fast living," and the only way to win is to opt out of the race entirely.

So, as the first flakes begin to fall here in Burlington, I’m leaning into the quiet. I’m choosing the wool blanket, the local grain, and the slow rhythm of a life built by hand.

I’m so glad you’ve decided to join me at the table.