SlowlyWeGrow

The gentle rhythms that hold us together

Our days aren’t perfect.

They aren’t curated or aesthetic or particularly remarkable.

There are unfinished DIY projects, muddy floors, washing piles, animal chaos and a toddler with very strong opinions about how things should be done.

But they are ours.

Shaped by the land we live on, the animals we care for, the child we waited so long to meet, and the slower pace we grew into long before we knew where life was taking us.

This is what an ordinary day looks like for us.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing staged.

Just the quiet, grounding rhythm of the life we’re building.

Morning: The Soft Start

Our mornings begin when our daughter decides they do — usually around 7.30 or 8.

Sometimes I wake first, and those are some of my favourite moments.

The house is still.

I look across and see her sleeping beside me — that peaceful little face, the sleepy smile that appears as she starts to wake.

There is something about watching your child sleep that makes time feel strange.

This little person who didn’t exist a few years ago is right there beside me.

I never rush her awake if I can help it.

I love those first sleepy moments — the cuddles, the chatter, the gentle transition into the day.

And lately, there is so much chatter.

Her language has exploded.

She’s constantly learning new words, putting little sentences together, proudly telling us what she wants or pointing out something she’s noticed.

And once the morning settles, we move into the day properly.

Morning: Out Into the World

After breakfast, we pull on our boots and start the day properly.

Usually, that begins with the animals.

The dogs bounce around our feet.

The chickens gather hopefully.

The goats and sheep wait impatiently.

Poppy helps let them out, carries the feed bucket, and collects the eggs.

She takes these jobs very seriously.

Not every egg makes it back to the kitchen.

Our older chickens are getting slower, and some eggs are more delicate than they used to be.

Poppy doesn’t know any of that.

She just knows she has an important job — and she is very proud of it.

Some mornings we head out into the world — toddler groups, dance classes, or forest school sessions. She loves being outdoors: swinging in a hammock, “cooking” over a fire, getting muddy, exploring everything around her.

Other days, we stay home — because our own garden is an adventure too.

Outside: The Little Adventures

Most days, being outside is where we naturally end up.

Sometimes it’s playing in the never‑ending pile of woodchip.

Sometimes it’s collecting eggs or feeding the animals.

Sometimes it’s checking on the bees, visiting the veggie patch, or digging through compost.

Poppy loves a wheelbarrow ride.

She helps me fill it with woodchip or compost, waits patiently for her turn, then demands a ride to our destination where she helps unload it.

She also has her own toddler wheelbarrow.

She hasn’t quite mastered the lifting part yet — she mostly pushes it along the ground.

Not the most efficient method, but she is very proud.

And I love watching her copy the things she sees us doing.

She isn’t just playing.

She is learning that she belongs here.

That this is her world too.

Tiny Jobs, Big Adventures

When we go on walks, we often take a little basket or glass jar.

Poppy loves collecting treasures — leaves, sticks, flowers, anything interesting she finds along the way.

Anything she shouldn’t handle can go into the jar, so she can still look at it properly when we get home.

I love seeing the world through her eyes — the smell of rosemary, the colours of flowers, the tiny details in the grass.

We’re still working on the difference between looking with your eyes and picking with your hands.

Especially when it comes to flowers.

She loves smelling everything.

Everything.

Including things I would personally prefer she didn’t smell.

Toddlers really do experience the world differently.

The Messy Middle

The middle of the day is always a little chaotic.

There are naps (sometimes).

Snacks (always).

Books scattered across the floor.

Toys everywhere.

A dog asleep in the middle of everything.

We read.

We play.

We build towers and knock them down.

Sometimes we bake.

Sometimes we paint.

Sometimes we simply sit together and watch the light move across the room.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s not tidy.

But it’s full — of noise, of curiosity, of tiny moments that feel much bigger than they look.

Afternoon: Fresh Air, Again

If the weather is kind, we head back outside.

If it isn’t, we often go anyway.

We walk.

We collect things.

We watch the sheep grazing.

We see the goats causing chaos.

We notice the small changes happening around us.

There is something about being outdoors that resets all of us — the dogs, the child, the grown‑ups.

Everything slows down.

The world becomes smaller.

Just this moment.

Just this place.

Evening: The Soft Landing

Evenings are gentle.

Dinner.

Bath.

Stories.

A long feed.

A slow wind‑down.

One of my favourite moments is just before sleep, when she quietly recites everything she has collected from the day — nursery rhymes, new words, tiny observations.

A small person making sense of a huge world.

Sometimes she falls asleep on my chest.

Sometimes she wriggles, chats and fights sleep with all the determination of a toddler who has decided bedtime is optional.

Eventually, though, she settles.

We curl into our co‑sleeping space, whisper goodnight, and let the day soften around us.

The house is rarely quiet.

Between the dogs, the parrots and a toddler, we have somehow created the perfect triangle of noise.

The only real silence usually comes when everyone else is asleep and I’m working late.

And although sometimes I crave that quiet, I know I’ll miss this noise one day.

The Quiet Gratitude

When the house finally settles, I sometimes think about how far we’ve come.

The years of waiting.

The loss.

The uncertainty.

The hope that carried us through.

And now — this.

This messy, muddy, noisy, gentle life.

This child who fills our days with wonder.

This home we were building long before we knew she was coming.

A life we once weren’t sure we’d ever have.

When I watch her giggle at the goats, chatter to the chickens, or proudly eat a tomato straight from the plant she helped grow, I remember something.

The life we dreamed about didn’t arrive as one big moment.

It arrived slowly.

In the ordinary days.

In the muddy boots.

In the tiny hands reaching for ours.

Our days aren’t perfect.

But they are full.

And they are ours.