People from our past thought we’d lost our minds. “You moved into the woods? With kids?” We just smiled. We weren’t trying to disappear or become survivalists — we were trying to live on purpose.
Then one summer evening, a black SUV rolled up the drive. A man stepped out — dusty suit, kind eyes. He introduced himself as Mark, part of a documentary crew. He’d found a blog post I barely remembered writing. It had made its way through off-grid forums. He wanted to film us.
At first, we hesitated. But the kids were curious. So we said yes.
They filmed everything — the compost toilet, the calloused hands, the argument over a cracked water pipe. The documentary aired. Back to the Dirt. And to our surprise, it resonated. Not with people who wanted to copy our life, but with those searching for a reminder: peace is still possible.
Then came the letter — handwritten, from a woman who said our story gave her the courage to leave an abusive relationship. That changed everything. We wrote a book. Not a guide, just the truth — our messy, honest story. We self-published it. It paid for a real roof, better solar panels, and a small guest cabin.
We called it the Reboot Cabin.
Guests came. People who were burned out, grieving, searching. Some stayed a night. Some stayed longer. One widow planted our first raised bed. A lawyer cried while stirring soup. Every visitor left something behind — a note, a tear, a little piece of their healing.
The only rules: no phones (except for emergencies), no expectations — just presence.
Then our youngest, Noah, got sick. A fever that wouldn’t break. We rushed him into town. Meningitis. It shook us. He recovered slowly, but we changed. We added internet — not for scrolling, but for telehealth. We joined a homeschooling group and started making regular town trips again.
Balance became the goal.
We stopped trying to prove anything. We weren’t here to be “off-grid.” We were here to be whole — together, intentional, present.
Now, Sweet Haven isn’t just land. It’s rhythm. It’s peace. It’s barefoot children, firelight coffee, and strangers becoming family over a shared garden task.
We don’t know what ten years will bring. Maybe we’ll still be here. Maybe we’ll be somewhere new. But we know this: the wild idea that changed everything wasn’t about escape.
It was about coming home to ourselves.
So if you’re ever in your kitchen, overwhelmed, and someone you love says, “What if we just… left?” — don’t laugh it off.
Sometimes, the wildest questions are just the first step toward a life that finally feels like yours.