Grounded Between Life and Death: Finding Balance in Hospice Work and Farm Life

There’s something about farming that keeps you grounded, especially after a long night working in hospice.

My nights are spent caring for people at the end of their lives. Hospice work is quiet, intimate, and sometimes heavy. You see people in the most vulnerable chapter of their story. You witness families navigating grief, love, regret, forgiveness, and everything in between. Some nights are calm and peaceful. Others leave a weight that follows you out the door when your shift ends.

It’s the kind of work that changes how you look at the world.

When the sun starts coming up and my shift ends, most people are just beginning their day. For me, that’s when I head home. But I don’t go home to silence or rest. I go home to a farm.

Farming doesn’t really care how tired you are or what kind of night you had.

The animals still need to be fed. Water troughs still need to be filled. Fences still need checking. And during kidding season, the barn might be full of bottle babies that are absolutely convinced you exist for one reason only: to bring them milk.

There’s no snooze button in the barn.

Bottle babies don’t understand that you just spent twelve hours working through the night. They don’t care that you’ve only had two hours of sleep. When they’re hungry, they’ll make sure the whole farm knows about it.

And honestly, there’s something strangely comforting about that.

The goats don’t ask about your night. They don’t ask if you’re emotionally drained or if something you saw at work is still sitting heavy in your mind. They just greet you at the gate, climb on the fence, and scream until you show up with hay.

It pulls you right back into the present moment.

Farming forces you to move. To work. To focus on the physical world in front of you. Feed buckets. Water hoses. Hay bales. Tiny hooves wobbling around on brand new legs.

During kidding season, the barn is full of life. Newborn kids learning to stand. Mothers talking softly to their babies. Sometimes a weak kid that needs help, a warming box, or a bottle. Sometimes a tiny goat curled up asleep in your lap after finally finishing its milk.

Those moments have a way of putting things back into perspective.

Working hospice and farming might seem like two completely different worlds, but in a strange way they mirror each other more than people would think.

Hospice constantly reminds you how fragile life is. Every shift you’re reminded that our time here is limited. You see people reflecting on the lives they’ve lived, the families they’ve loved, and the memories they leave behind.

Then you walk into the barn and see the other side of the cycle.

New life. Energy. Chaos. Babies bouncing around like they discovered gravity five minutes ago. A tiny goat discovering hay for the first time like it’s the greatest invention in history.

It’s life at the beginning instead of the end.

But farming isn’t always the soft, happy picture people see online.

Social media loves the pretty version of farm life. The adorable baby goats. The peaceful sunset pictures. The clean white barns and happy animals standing in golden fields.

And yes, those moments exist. They’re real, and they’re part of why we love this life.

But the reality is a lot more complicated than an Instagram photo.

Sometimes you’re doing chores after being awake for 20 hours. Sometimes you’re bottle feeding kids in your pajamas with a cup of coffee in one hand and a goat screaming in your ear. Sometimes you’re checking the barn every two hours through the night during kidding season, then turning around and going straight to work afterward.

And sometimes you lose one.

No matter how experienced you are or how much you care, loss is part of farming. Anyone who raises animals knows that heartbreak comes with the job. You can do everything right and still have things go wrong. A weak kid, a sudden illness, something you never saw coming.

Those days stick with you.

But strangely enough, hospice work prepares you for that part too.

Working with people at the end of their lives teaches you something important: loss is a natural part of the cycle. It doesn’t make it easier, but it helps you understand it differently. It reminds you to appreciate the time you do have with the lives you’re responsible for—whether they walk on two legs or four.

Both worlds—hospice and farming—constantly remind me of the same truth.

Life is fragile. Life is temporary. And because of that, life is incredibly valuable.

After a night spent sitting beside someone who is taking their final breaths, coming home to a barn full of newborn goats bouncing around the stall feels like stepping into the other side of the story.

Endings and beginnings existing side by side.

A patient finally resting comfortably after a difficult night. A bottle baby falling asleep in your lap after finishing its milk. A quiet sunrise over the pasture while the rest of the world is just waking up.

Those moments might seem small to someone else, but when you live in both of these worlds, they carry a lot of meaning.

For me, this farm isn’t just a hobby. It isn’t just a business. It’s not just a place where goats live.

It’s the place that brings me back to earth after the hardest nights.

It reminds me that even after loss, life keeps moving forward. Babies are born. The sun rises again. The barn fills with noise and chaos and hungry little mouths.

Farming keeps me grounded in a way that’s hard to explain unless you live it.

After nights spent witnessing the end of someone’s journey, coming home to a place full of new beginnings is exactly what my heart needs.

And most mornings, as tired as I might be, I wouldn’t trade that balance for anything.