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There’s a version of a farmstead summer day that lives in my head like a photograph. Golden light at 6am. Coffee on the porch. Chickens scratching in the background. A garden walk before the kids wake up. Everything unhurried and soft.
I wrote about our summer days back in 2022, and reading those posts now almost makes me laugh — and cry a little. That was a hard year. I was postpartum, then seriously ill, then limping through winter trying to find myself again. Our mornings were chaotic. Our afternoons were survival mode. And the evenings — those I actually got right.
Four years later, I’m still on these same 3.4 acres. Same land. Same Nebraska heat. Same mud kitchen spot by the garden fence where the kids still play, even now that the youngest is four and the oldest is nine. The baby who was pulling herself up on the table at breakfast is out there catching frogs with her brother and sister.
Life has changed. Our rhythm has changed. And I’ve learned a thing or two about how to actually structure a summer day so it doesn’t run me over.
Here’s what it really looks like now.
Morning: The Foundation of Everything
I used to ignore my alarm. Snooze it four or five times, finally crawling out when someone needed something from me. In 2022, that was a colicky baby and a body that had nothing left to give. I gave myself grace for that season — and I’d give it to myself again.
But I’ve learned that my morning sets the tone for everything that follows. When I get up before the kids, even by thirty minutes, the whole day breathes differently.
These days, the alarm goes off around 5:30am — and if I have any ideas about ignoring it, Tucker the Shih Tzu makes sure that’s not an option. By 6am he has made his position on the matter very clear. I get up. First thing — coffee. And not just any coffee. My morning cup has become something I actually look forward to, which is saying something for a woman who used to drag herself to the kitchen on autopilot. I make what I call my Farm Wife Metabolic Latte, and it has become something I genuinely look forward to every single morning. Here’s how I make it:
Farm Wife Metabolic Latte
- 1 whole fresh egg
- ¼ cup raw milk with cream
- 1 scoop collagen
- ½ tsp cinnamon
- 1 T Roots Apothecary Adaptive Cacao
- Dash of salt
- 10 oz brewed coffee
Add the egg, cacao, collagen, cinnamon, and salt to your cup and froth with a handheld frother. Brew your coffee and pour slowly over the top while stirring. The result is rich, creamy, and genuinely sustaining — not just a caffeine hit but something that actually carries you through a farm morning.
The Roots Apothecary Adaptive Cacao is what makes it. The adaptogenic support on a hot, physically demanding day is real — and the flavor is worth it on its own. Use code CASSANDRAROW for 15% off if you want to try it.
That first cup is drunk from the couch with my Bible in my lap, before the house wakes up and before the day makes its demands. That quiet — just me, the Word, and something warm and nourishing in my hands — resets something in me that no to-do list can touch. After that I slip into the office while the rest of the house slowly comes to life. That window — emails, client work, writing — is where I do my best thinking. Brain is fresh, house is quiet, and the to-do list actually moves. By the time the kids wander in for breakfast, I’ve already had God time and a real head start on the day — and that changes everything.
When the kids wander in — usually the nine-year-old first, padding out in her socks — they know the drill. Protein cereal, granola, toast, or eggs. They handle their own breakfast now, which is one of those parenting wins that sneaks up on you. The four-year-old has strong opinions about what goes on her plate, but she’s figuring it out. Once everyone has eaten, we all head outside together for morning chores.
Goal for morning chores is 8:30. We usually hit 9 to 9:30. Close enough.
The kids know the routine now in a way they didn’t in 2022. The nine-year-old is in 4-H, which means she has real responsibility out there — her show lambs, her steer, and her 4-H hens are hers to feed and care for every morning. The seven-year-old works alongside me getting everyone else their grain and checking waters. And the four-year-old has the very important job of egg pickup and cartoning. She needs some prompting and still wants help, but she takes it seriously and that counts for everything. Mornings feel like a team now instead of a scramble, mostly because I’m not starting from zero anymore. The rhythm is built.
While the kids are doing their jobs, I’m milking the cow and moving the chicken tractors. I check the fence if anything looked off — and I’m slowly working to train the kids to take that on too. The dogs are already making their rounds. Once milking is done and everyone is fed, we walk the lambs together. It’s one of those tasks that sounds simple and is actually good for all of us — the lambs need the handling, and there’s something satisfying about finishing the morning chores with everyone moving together before the heat of the day really settles in.
The goal is to have animal chores wrapped up by 11, with enough time to work one zone of the garden before lunch. Some days we hit it. Some days the fence needs attention or someone’s water situation needs sorting and we push to noon. But having the target keeps us moving.
The lesson 2022 taught me: mornings only feel impossible when there’s no foundation under them. When I’m running on empty, everything takes twice as long and costs twice as much emotionally. Now I protect my sleep, protect my morning quiet, and protect that first cup of coffee like it’s a non-negotiable. Because it is.
Afternoon: Designed for Flexibility
There is no siesta time on a farm in July. There should be, honestly, but there isn’t.
Lunch is when we slow down together for a few minutes. We do our devotional then — everyone is already at the table, the morning rush is behind us, and there’s something about midday that makes it easier to actually listen. Then the kids go back outside. We basically live outside from May to October on this place. I finish up whatever garden work didn’t happen in the morning — usually harvesting, weeding a row, checking on the tomatoes that always seem to need something.
The afternoons are deliberately lighter on scheduled tasks. I learned this in 2022 out of necessity — I didn’t have the physical capacity to keep pushing past noon — and it turned out to be the right way to run a homestead. Stack the hard, time-sensitive work in the morning. Let the afternoon breathe.
The deep work — emails, client projects, writing — happens in the morning office window before chores, when my brain is actually fresh. Afternoons are for the work that doesn’t require that same focus. Most days that means a couple of meetings — a networking call, a client check-in, or something I’m learning. The kids are outside, and I’m downstairs in the canning kitchen — which is also my office — with a meeting on the screen and often butter churning, cheese pressing, or something simmering on the back burner at the same time. A Zoom call with a canning project in the background is a perfectly reasonable way to run a rural marketing agency.
On the days it hits 95° or above — and Nebraska doesn’t shy away from those — I’m out at the barns in the early afternoon checking animals. Making sure nobody is overheating. Ice in the water tanks. Misting the pens if needed. The chickens find their shade. The horses duck into the run-in shed, and I’ll mist down the shaded side of the pen if the heat is really pressing. The cows have claimed the pine trees — we trimmed the lower branches years ago, dead ones mostly, and now there’s a perfect shaded walkway underneath that they figured out all on their own. The livestock guardian dog is flat out under the front step or tucked in the shadow of the pickup, and the lab has claimed the front porch. Everyone knows how to manage the heat except the humans.
Afternoons in the summer mean pool time — and this year we finally have a real pool, big enough for all of us. Some days I jump in with the kids to cool off. Other days I settle into the shade of our binzebo — that’s a grain bin converted into a gazebo, and yes, it’s as good as it sounds — with a bowl of green beans to snap, garlic to braid, or a book if I’m feeling ambitious about actually relaxing. Either way, the kids are worn out by supper and that’s a win.
One thing that has made our summers so much more flexible is keeping the afternoon wide open. After lunch, if we want to run to town, go somewhere, or just leave the property for a few hours, we can. Evening chores don’t happen until 5 or later, once the worst of the heat has passed. By then it’s feeding the steer and checking waters — straightforward and quick. I still set a phone alarm so it doesn’t slip away from me when I’m deep in something else.
The afternoons in 2022 were hard in a different way — survival mode, errands just to stay in the air conditioning, treading water through the heat of the day. Now they feel intentional. Flexible on purpose. That shift didn’t happen overnight. It happened one slow, practiced morning at a time.
Evening: The Quiet That Makes It Worth It
I’ve always gotten evenings right. Even in 2022, even in the hard seasons, evenings were my reset.
The line between afternoon and evening on the farm is blurry, but I draw it at supper. We eat together as a family at the table. That meal together is something I hold onto. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. It just has to happen.
After supper, the kitchen gets cleaned up and reset for morning. This habit — keeping the kitchen ready the night before — is one of the most practical things I’ve ever done for myself. I walk into a clean counter and a cleared sink, and the morning already feels more manageable before I’ve touched my cacao-coffee. Same goes for the main bathroom and our bedroom. Those three rooms are the first and last I see every day. When they’re tidy, my head is clearer.
The kids get their Daddy time after supper. That’s their hour. I use it to wrap up anything from the day, take a quick look at tomorrow, and mentally close the loop on work.
Bedtime for the kids is around 9 in the summer. Stories, teeth, prayers, the four-year-old’s seventeen requests for water. Once they’re down, I head outside.
This is my favorite part of the day.
The evening walk to check on the animals is something I didn’t appreciate enough in 2022. Back then it felt like one more task. Now it feels like a gift. The air has cooled. The light is that long, amber Nebraska summer light. The chickens are tucked in — and yes, the ducks are still trying to stay out past curfew, every single time. I check in on the cows and horses, make sure everyone is settled. The dogs are out on patrol by then, doing what they do.
On the way back I’ll often stop and sit on the bench near the greenhouse patio. Just sit. Watch the sun finish setting over the acreage. There is something about that particular spot at that particular time of day that makes everything feel worth it — the early alarm, the milking, the heat, the meetings, all of it. It’s a few quiet minutes that belong entirely to me.
After that, the phone goes on the charger and mostly stays there. I’ve kept that habit from 2022 — no screens for an hour before bed. It’s one of the simplest things I do for my sleep, and one of the most effective.
I read a little. I breathe. I let the day finish.
What Four Years Taught Me
In 2022, I wrote about those summer days from the middle of surviving them. I was honest about the chaos, the late mornings, the alarm snoozing, the rushing. I’m glad I wrote it down.
Looking back now, I can see clearly what was missing: a foundation. Not a perfect schedule. Not a 5am wake-up. Just a simple, repeatable rhythm that started the night before and carried me through the day without running me ragged.
The land is the same. The animals are still here — different ones, but the work is the same. The kids are bigger and, honestly, more helpful. And I’ve learned to stop trying to force a Pinterest-perfect farm day and just build one that actually works for us.
Simple systems. Real peace. That’s still the goal.
If you want to try the Roots Apothecary Adaptive Cacao that’s part of my morning routine, use code CASSANDRAROW for 15% off at rootsapothecary.com. It’s the kind of small, nourishing addition that makes a real morning feel a little more like that photograph in your head.
As I’ve grown as an entrepreneur, mom, gardener, and livestock owner, I struggled to find a planner that met my needs and kept me organized. So, I MADE MY OWN. You can look at it on the link below and buy it on Amazon.
Don’t want the whole calendar part? I got you! I pulled the gardening and animal care pages out and put them in a book all their own.
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