When thinking small outgrows itself.
“Something has got to change.”
These were the words I found repeating in my head a couple weeks ago.
We only had six CSA orders that week—far too few for late June.
I sat slouched in my chair that morning staring at our packing a bit defeated.
Not necessarily because of the six boxes—we’ve had slow weeks before—but because I suddenly realized something.
The way I’d been thinking about the next chapter of the farm wasn’t going to get us where I knew it needed to go.
At first, I assumed the answer was tactical. I had long been putting off investing in paid social media marketing—something I vowed to finally do (and did) the very next day. There are also countless improvements we can make to our website and ordering system that would create a smoother checkout experience.
But sitting there that morning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something more fundamental was at hand.
The tiny farm has been one of the greatest teachers of my life because it taught me how to think small—a lesson you’re not likely to hear much in our culture.
After three years working at a startup where success was measured by scale and constant growth, finding my way back to the earth (and back in the earth) was exactly what I needed.
The farm gave me peace from the pressure I had long been placing on myself to constantly become something more. All that was asked of me was to care for this tiny piece of land and help restore it into something beautiful.
Life, I felt, would take care of the rest.
And somehow, it did.
As I poured myself into the farm, the farm, in turn, poured itself back into me.
Over time, I learned how best to care for her and what to listen for. A community began to form. Partnerships emerged. The shape of the business slowly started to reveal itself.
It has been one of the greatest gifts of my life.
But lately I’ve realized something.
Thinking small was never meant to be something permanent.
It was time to start thinking big.
If the first chapter of the tiny farm was about building something beautiful, the next chapter is about proving it can endure.
That doesn’t mean abandoning what we’ve learned, nor does it mean sacrificing the values that brought us here in the first place.
Quite the opposite.
It means building a business worthy of those values.
A business capable of supporting the farmers we partner with. Creating meaningful work for people I care deeply about. Making it easier for more families to access truly local food. And proving—to ourselves, if no one else—that a small, relationship-centered farm can also be a financially sustainable one.
That’s the work now in front of us.
And, if I’m honest, it’s a little scary.
For the first time, I’m no longer asking whether this farm can support me.
I’m asking whether it can support the people I hope to build it alongside.
The farm taught me how to care for a piece of land.
Now it’s asking me to learn how to steward something bigger.
In many ways, nothing is changing.
We’ll still obsess over healthy soil.
We’ll still know our farmers by name.
We’ll still fill each box with food we’d proudly feed our own families.
We’ll still believe that relationships matter more than transactions.
We’ll still be committed to building a food system that is local, human-scale, and rooted in community.
But the vision behind those beliefs is beginning to grow.
You may notice more experimentation from us in the months ahead—more partnerships, improvements to the CSA, and new ways of making local food easier to access. Some ideas will work. Others won’t.
Each experiment is our way of trying to answer a question I’ve become increasingly convinced is worth asking:
Can a small, relationship-centered farm become a financially sustainable business without sacrificing the values that made it worth building in the first place?
I believe it can.
And I’m grateful you’re willing to help us find out.
✌️