Is a self-sufficient way of living worth it？ 5 years into homesteading

Five years ago, we started growing our own food here in the Estonian forest. Not because it made financial sense on paper, not because it was efficient or easy, but because we wanted something different for our family. If you count the hours I've spent building beds, turning compost, learning from failures, and calculate what I could have earned working those hours instead. Well, buying organic groceries would probably have been cheaper. But that was never really the point. This year something shifted, year five. The year the systems finally clicked into place. I've spent about 30 minutes a day in the garden now during the growing season. Some days more, some days nothing at all. And this year I've harvested more food than ever before. The permaculture principles I implemented years ago are finally showing their worth. The soil has transformed, it holds moisture now, I barely water. The weeds have calmed down because the beds are established, topped with cardboard and mulched. Many of the support plants like the comfrey can be harvested abundantly, making it more of a closed-loop system without much need of external inputs. In the beginning I would spend hours every day setting up these garden beds and figuring out how to do things effectively. And now it really starts to give back. Our long Estonian winters demand respect, so we grow what matters most. Potatoes, pumpkins, carrots and onions. The foundation crops that will carry us through the cold months. Right now our friend's root cellar holds our harvest of root vegetables and ferments. Our pantry is lined with jars of tomato sauces and beans. I often have fresh produce fermenting in the kitchen. Not just for nutrition, though the health benefits are real, but because they taste alive, they taste like summer, preserved. Our milk goats give us fresh cheese. The laying hens provide eggs, and we also grow some of our own meat. With the vegetable garden that's my passion, that's where my heart lives. This year wasn't perfect. The outside tomatoes failed, some crops didn't produce the way I'd hoped. But for the first time I'm pretty confident we have enough vegetables stored to feed our family year-round. And here's the thing about rural Estonia. Organic produce is nearly impossible to find in the shops here. You can't just decide one day that you want to eat clean food and drive to the store. If you want it, you grow it yourself. So yes, we save some money now, and after 5 years of investment, the mud is finally starting to work in our favor. But that's just the bonus. We grow food because it brings our family together. Because working with your hands in the soil keeps you grounded and strong. Because in attrition from food you've grown yourself and healthy soil with care. You can taste the difference. You can feel the difference. Our meals are simple. Roasted vegetables, fresh bread, goat cheese, fermented sides, nothing fancy. But the quality of the ingredients makes everything taste nice. Right now I'm working on something that captures what this life means to me. A woodblock print for my art business. It's part of a series I call Childhood in the Garden. If you don't know what this is, I'm doing a technique called Japanese woodblock printing. In this way, I carve images out of a block of wood, which I then print by hand. These prints are in a limited edition, as the woodblock wears out over time. Many people ask me how long it takes me to make one of these woodblocks, and a block in this size takes me somewhere between 10 and 15 hours of carving. Two children, wrapped in a blanket between the garden beds at night, looking up at moths dancing in the moonlight, watching the baths swoop overhead. The vegetables glowing silver under the moon, and a mother's silhouette in the farmhouse doorway. The sky endless and full of stars. This is what I want for my children, the sense of wonder, this discovery. Five years taught me that homesteading isn't a shortcut, it's not a hack to save money quickly. It's an investment in a different kind of wealth, the kind that can be measured only in euros or hours. The kind that shows up in stronger bodies, in children who know where food comes from, and in the quiet satisfaction of opening a root cellar in January, and seeing summer's abundance still feeding you. The systems took some years to build, and there is still a lot of room for improvement. The soil took years to get fertile and alive, and also my skills took some years to develop. But now finally it's all starting to flow nicely. If you are just starting out, or you are in year two or three, and wondering if it's worth it, I want you to know that it gets easier. The land remembers your work, the soil builds on itself, the systems compound. Year five feels very different from year one, and I can't wait to see what year ten brings. My website is currently being updated with new pieces of the Childhood in the Garden series, so you can find them there. Thanks so much for watching, and I see you next time.