What It Means To Be The Wool Woman

Written from the fields of memory, the hearth of making, and the soft place where truth begins to rise.

I didn't set out to become her. The Wool Woman. But over time - between the folding of dough, the scouring of fleece, the quiet between piano students - she began to take shape.

She is the part of me that remembers things I had long forgotten: how to tend what's alive, even when it's still growing roots - how to warm a house not with firewood, but with presence - how to pull something sacred from the ordinary.

I named my farm Thistle and Stone because it is both: the tender and the tough. The Wool Woman carries both, too. She's not a brand. She's a reclamation. A remembering. A woman who grew her own warmth after years of feeling unseen.

I don't have land yet, not in the way some imagine. But I farm just the same. I farm for soul. For life. I farm for the moment someone picks up a skein of hand-dyed wool or a loaf of sourdough and feels something real again.

This is what is mean to be the Wool Woman: It means I make. I remember. I rise. I soften. I carry. It means I'm still here.

And maybe, if you're reading this, you are too.