“Somewhere between where I am and where I dream of being, I’m learning to build a sanctuary.”
The sun is beginning to rise now. I always watch as it rises. I get up early in the morning for some quiet time before the kids wake. My husband has already gone off to work; all is dark and quiet. I light my lantern and brew a cup of coffee, and the one thing that has changed in the last three weeks—something I’m still adjusting to—is bottle-feeding one of our baby goats.
Three weeks ago, our doe Bella gave birth to twin boys. She took to one very easily, but the other she pushed away. I went down several times a day trying to get her to accept him, and one day she tossed him into the wall of the barn and pinned him down. I knew I couldn’t leave him in the pen with her. He was only a couple of days old, and in order for him to survive, I did what I never thought I would do… I brought him into the house so I could bottle-feed him.
Today the boys are 22 days old and have adopted the names Arlo (the accepted baby) and Apollo (the bottle baby). I won’t call him the rejected baby anymore, because although his mother rejected him, I refused to give up on this little guy. He wasn’t rejected to me. If anything, he was accepted into our family in a way I never expected.
After feeding Apollo, I fill the woodstove, and the crackling sound of the fire begins to fill the silence. I retreat to my rocking chair that faces the window. These are the moments I truly enjoy. A peace settles over me that relaxes my soul. Just me and God in that moment, and I sit and wait, listening for Him to speak.
Though He doesn’t speak in audible words, He speaks in scenery. The rising sun behind the clouds brings pinks, purples, and oranges to life, all resting on a light blanket of white from last night’s snowfall. Something many people don’t get to see is how bright the snow makes the world look even before the sun comes up.
As I sit and sip my coffee, blessed by the scene the Lord has painted this morning, I think about where I am in life. For years I have struggled with the fact that I am not where I want to be physically.
Ever since I can remember, I have had a love—perhaps even an obsession—with Alaska. From the first time I saw pictures of the vast wilderness, snow‑capped mountains, the incredible hunting and fishing, and the seclusion… that was my desire. Not just to live there, but to live the life I yearned for: a life lived off the land.
Lately, I’ve begun to consider the possibility that my Alaska dream may not come true. So I started to think about what it was that I desired so deeply about Alaska. And to my surprise, much of what I want, I already live—just not in Alaska. What if I could live as if I were in Alaska, without relocating my family and uprooting what my husband so desperately does not want to leave behind?
It has taken a lot of self‑reflection to realize that perhaps it’s not necessarily Alaska itself that I’m seeking. Could I be happy living where I am now with some adjustments? Obviously, where I am currently is not even close to bush Alaska, but what would make my life feel more like the life I dream of?
So I began to write out my whole dream life—what I want, why I want it, what it looks like. What I see most clearly is that I want to live a life of self‑sufficiency, relying on the land for sustenance, living slower, with less dependence on technology and the conveniences so many of us have become reliant on.
As it turns out, I already have a good head start on the lifestyle I want, and I didn’t quite realize it. As a homesteader, we raise and grow a significant portion of our food—though I’d like to do more. (I’ll discuss this in a different post about what I’m changing this year regarding food grown on the homestead.) I’ve been studying herbalism for six years and regularly use herbs for medicine and system support. I work out regularly because I’m building my “Alaska body”—the body built for the physical demands of a bush lifestyle. Mentally, I’m learning more about myself than ever through journaling.
I was never good at journaling, but I slowly learned that journaling isn’t meant for everyone to read. It’s meant to get the thoughts out of your head that keep you up at night. Shadow work has helped me identify areas I haven’t healed from. So many people focus on the physical side of well‑being but leave out the mental part. The mental part is sometimes more important. That is what sustains you when you’re snowed in for weeks and cabin fever sets in. Sometimes being alone with your thoughts can be a dangerous place, so having a resilient mind and working on mental health has become something of grave importance to me.
The sun is now starting to peek over the trees, and I hear my son beginning to stir. In a few minutes, he’ll stroll out of his bedroom and clump down the stairs to me for his morning hug—although most mornings I am second to the warmth of the woodstove. He’ll ask, “How did you sleep?” He has done the same thing every morning since he was about four. What started as me asking because he was sick has turned into a daily ritual. And one I’ve learned to cherish, because one day he may decide he’s too old to ask his mom how she slept.
For now, I’ll leave you with this thought: a sanctuary in the in‑between. That is the life I’m learning to build.
I may not be in the location I once dreamed of, but I can live the life I long for right here, with intention and a few meaningful shifts. I may not be in bush Alaska, where supplies come once a month and the wilderness presses in on every side, but I can live a life that relies less on the grocery store and more on the work of my own hands. A life that carries the Alaska spirit — resilience, simplicity, wonder — right where I stand.
Maybe you’re in your own in‑between too. And maybe, just maybe, the life you dream of is closer than you think.