Would Eighteen-Year-Old Me Want This Life?

I got asked a pretty deep question lately: Was the homestead idea something that has always been a part of my life?

It’s a good one. One that I would probably shrug at if someone asked me in person, but I’ve been sitting with this question for a while now.

I think my first answer would be no, not exactly. But I believe there were moments along the way that helped get me here.

When I was eighteen, I was eager to be my own person. That Robin had gotten a scholarship from the community college in my hometown through the teaching department. That Robin said, “Well, I guess I’m going to be a teacher.”

Eighteen-year-old Robin had a few goals. She wanted to be a bestselling author and had even started sending in her first manuscript. She was, however, very aware that she also needed another way to make money. Back then, I thought it would be incredibly easy to be a teacher and write a book. Thanks for that dream, Mr. King.

But there was a lot that eighteen-year-old didn’t know.

I think if my eighteen-year-old self could see where I am at thirty-nine, there would be a lot to be grateful for, but also probably a lot that would surprise her.

The biggest surprise would probably be the choice to live in a smaller town than the one where I started.

Don’t get me wrong, there was an almost two-decade period where I left the small mountain town and lived in the big city. I still have a great fondness for the city, and I don’t think that will ever go away. The city gave me my husband, my kids, my degree, my family, my security.

So young-adult Robin would probably question why I would give that up for a town even smaller than the one where I began.

I think the idea of having kids would shock her too, but in a really good way.

Ever since puberty, I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t hard to miss. I gained an incredible amount of weight, I wasn’t having consistent menstrual cycles, and I was tired and lethargic. I worried a lot about whether I would ever be a mom.

I think seeing that I have two little kids who call me “Mommy” would relieve a lot of that fear.

The idea of being a writer has been with me since I was around eight. That is something eighteen-year-old me and thirty-nine-year-old me definitely have in common. I don’t think she’d be thrilled with where I am in that goal, and I guess neither am I. But I also know how much work I have put into being where I am right now, and that younger version of me has no idea how much struggle there is between deciding you want something and actually getting there.

Her goal to become a teacher, though?

Looking back, I don’t think that’s something I actually wanted.

I think it was something I was good at, and a teaching college giving me a scholarship was a bonus, but I don’t think it was my ultimate calling. I enjoy working with kids, but I don’t think I was supposed to be in a classroom.

Honestly, my idea of what a “good life” looked like probably stayed pretty constant until the last five years or so.

Making it big. Being known worldwide for my books. Being a millionaire.

I feel like those things started to matter less when I began seeing my husband lose the joy he had. He fights so much for his family, and watching him get to such a low point in high-paying jobs made me realize that we were always fighting for tomorrow and not looking at today.

That’s definitely a late-thirties change.

Somewhere in those years, my definition of a “good life” became being in the moment. Being more intentional with everything around me. Giving my energy to people and things that give me joy in return.

Realizing that being picky is a good thing.

Accepting that I will never be able to fit everything I want to do into my life, and knowing that makes the things I do choose so much more special.

Maybe that’s where the homestead comes in.

It wasn’t some dream I had as a little girl. Eighteen-year-old Robin wasn’t picturing garden beds or chickens or meals grown outside her own door.

But maybe the pieces that would eventually lead me here were already there. I just didn’t know what they were building yet.

If nobody was watching and there were no gold stars being earned, I’d be loving on my family. I’d be traveling all around just to be in awe of the world we live in. I’d be letting myself get hyperfixated on my stories, and I’d be enjoying meals from my garden.

That is the goal now.

I don’t know if my eighteen-year-old self would consider that “enough,” but that’s enough for me.