There’s something about walking into a barn just before the season begins. The way the light hits the old wood beams. The stillness in the air. The smell of hay, pine, and dust that’s settled from the months of quiet. For some people, barns are just buildings—practical, utilitarian. For me, they’re a kind of refuge. A place where I feel most like myself. And over the years, especially during hard ones, it’s become my sanctuary.

I never set out to find peace in a barn. I think it found me instead.

Where It All Began

My roots are deep in Webster, where my family has run a Christmas tree farm for generations. That’s where this story really starts. As a kid, the barn was a place to play, to help, to watch and learn. It was where we kept tools and trees, where we gathered on cold days with cups of cocoa and conversation. Back then, I didn’t think much about it. It was just part of life.

But when I got older—after I started my own businesses, raised my daughters, and went through some of the hardest personal seasons—I began to understand the barn differently. It became more than a backdrop. It became a space I could return to, physically and emotionally, when everything else felt too loud or too complicated.

A Simple Space with a Deeper Purpose

I didn’t set out to find healing in the barn. Life just led me there when I needed it most. After going through more than a few storms—some personal, some professional—I found myself craving stillness. Not silence, exactly, but a slower rhythm. A place where I could put the noise down and just breathe. That’s when I started spending more time back in the barn, preparing for the Christmas season.

There’s a kind of therapy that comes from sweeping out sawdust and stringing lights. It’s in the smell of pine, the cool air in the morning, and the way soft music sounds bouncing off old wooden beams. It’s not fancy. It’s not curated. But it’s real. And in a world that often feels too polished and rushed, real is a relief.

The Rhythm of Seasonal Life

Running a seasonal business has a flow to it that feels almost natural. There’s the quiet buildup, the burst of energy when the holidays arrive, and the slow fade back into stillness. At first, I wasn’t sure if I liked that kind of cycle—it felt unpredictable. But over time, I came to appreciate the way it matches the seasons of life. Nothing blooms forever. And that’s okay.

The calm between seasons isn’t a loss—it’s a reset. It gives me time to reflect, to plan, and to reconnect with why I do what I do. There’s beauty in that space, in the preparation, in the care. And it’s during those times that I notice the smallest things: the way the light hits the window at a certain hour, the sound of wind against the roof, or the first scent of evergreen as the trees start to arrive.

Those quiet moments are often where I find the most clarity.

More Than Just a Job

People sometimes think of seasonal work as a side gig or a simple trade. But for me, it’s tied to something much deeper. This isn’t just a shop I run. It’s a place where memories are made—mine and those of the people who visit. I’ve watched children grow up here, families return year after year, and strangers turn into regulars, even friends.

There’s something special about being a part of people’s traditions. Watching them pick out ornaments, take family photos, and start their holidays here—it reminds me that what I do matters. Not in a flashy, big-deal kind of way. But in the quiet way that builds connection and comfort.

And when things in life feel messy or uncertain, knowing that I’m holding space for those joyful moments brings me a lot of peace.

A Place to Return To

The barn became even more important to me during some of the hardest chapters of my life. After facing challenges I never saw coming—including the pain of betrayal and the loss of things I’d worked so hard to build—I found myself needing to return to something steady. The barn was that for me.

I’d walk in early in the morning with a hot coffee, breathe in the cold air, and start with something small. Clean this corner. Move that bin. Turn on the twinkle lights. That’s how I started again—quietly, without much fanfare. Just one small task at a time.

And over time, that rhythm pulled me out of the fog. The barn didn’t judge. It didn’t ask for explanations. It just held me, in a way. And let me begin again.

Finding Beauty in the Simple

What I’ve learned is that peace doesn’t always come in big, sweeping gestures. Sometimes it’s in the small, ordinary acts of care. Dusting off shelves. Tying ribbons on wreaths. Saying hello to a customer who comes in looking tired and leaves with a smile.

These aren’t grand moments, but they matter. They ground me. And they remind me that even in a world that moves too fast, there’s still space for slow joy.

There’s still space for barns.

Closing Thoughts

Not everyone has a barn to return to, but I believe we all have places where we feel more ourselves. It could be a kitchen, a garden, a quiet trail, or a room filled with memories. What matters is finding it. And giving yourself permission to go back to it, especially when life feels too heavy.

For me, the barn is more than just a workspace. It’s a reminder of who I am, where I come from, and what really matters. It’s where I prepare for the most magical time of the year, and where I’ve found healing in the simplest, most unexpected ways.

And I hope—wherever your version of the barn is—you find that same peace too.