A friend of mine came over the other day to discuss a few chapters of a book we’ve been reading together. I’m not sure exactly how or why our conversation happened but it came to my attention that I needed to clear up a few things. My sweet friend was under the impression that I was doing all of these amazing things in my life like taking awesome field trips with my kids and making soap and who knows what else. She was under the impression that my life was a fairy tale and I had it all together or something hilarious like that.


She saw my post about taking my kids to see that old house and somehow that looked like a field trip of a historical tour of the town when in reality it was one of the first times I’d been out of my house since Tupelo was born and my mom was in town and helped me with everything. The old house was literally 2 blocks from the market so we walked over and looked around for 15 minutes. No biggie.


As far as being a soap maker. That’s hilarious. I’ve made 3 batches of soap. One was yesterday and it’s orange because of the unrefined (sustainably sourced) palm oil that I used to attempt to discover a recipe that makes a basic bar that I can be proud to put my stamp on. Frankly, the first two batches work but aren’t exactly trunk show worthy and I sort of prefer ivory soap over them at this point. After mistaking rendered chicken fat for beef tallow I was a little shy to try any more for a while. But, I ordered another mold and got to work yesterday on a new trial recipe and I’m already certain that it’s not the one. The point is that I’m not a soap maker even if I posted a few photos of some soap that I made a few months ago.


I made some kombucha yesterday. The last batch had zero fizz. Zero. Before that batch I hadn’t made any in over a year. However, I was inspired by some refreshment I enjoyed at another friend’s house during a walk I took a few weeks ago (the only walk I’ve been on in weeks) and my friend (the same one who came over for ‘mom club’) gave me a scoby hotel so I needed to make some kombucha. I haven’t posted any photos lest anyone think that I’m super woman who takes her kids on field trips twice a day while letting her homemade soap cure on fancy shelves as she sips organic kombucha and listens to her kids recite the Declaration of Independence.

My Filtered Life

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what my social media accounts might look like to an outsider and if they are a true reflection of my real life. Do they portray the truth?


I don’t mean all of the nitty gritty going on every single day or even the deepest depths of my heart that are really reserved for my amazing husband and God. I mean just the day in and day out dirt. The stuff that isn’t puppies and flowers. The stuff that doesn’t inspire, but is necessary for accomplishing the inspiring stuff.


For example, the fact that we grow the majority of our food is amazing. But, that rosemary and garlic roasted chicken that we ate for dinner the other night had to be raised from a biddy to a big bird and then butchered. Have you ever slaughtered an animal for the table? It’s tough stuff.


A couple of years ago I wrote a blog about the hard part of farming. I haven’t read the post lately, but it was sort of a rant about the poop that comes with the good. Since we are farmers/homesteaders/live off the land/grow your own food kind of people, the social media circles that I’m in and the blogs and books that I read are often related to exactly those sorts of things. This isn’t a new idea. There’s nothing new under the sun according to the book Ecclesiastes, which I believe is true.


Still, my life can look pretty darn amazing when I crop out the dirt. Actually, my life is pretty darn amazing and I’m thankful for every single day. I really am. But, there is a lot that isn’t shared on social media and sometimes there is a little too much. I’m working on the balance, because I get distracted and discouraged and discontent when I fail to remember that the big picture, most important, true life stuff can’t be defined with a hashtag.