Split Between Worlds

I live in two worlds, and neither one fully understands the other.

By day, I lead teams through systems built to maximize efficiency, extract output, and treat people like puzzle pieces. I speak fluently in frameworks, deadlines, KPIs. I keep the lights on.

By night—and often before the sun’s even up—I’m cutting comfrey, hauling feed, foraging wild goldenrod in dew-soaked boots. There’s blood on my jeans. There’s ginger drying by the woodstove. There’s something older in my hands than any system can quantify.

And no one sees both at once. Not really.

Most people in the tech world would be uncomfortable with the fact that I harvest my own meat with a blade I’ve cleaned too many times to count. That I can diagnose a sick animal before it shows a limp. That I talk to my plants and listen back. They think self-sufficiency is a hobby. A flex. Something cute to post in a quarterly wellness check-in.

Most people in the land-based world would assume the opposite—that I’m too digital, too clean, too reliant on a world I claim to reject. They don’t see the twelve-hour sprints, the manager calls, the burnout lines under my eyes from carrying two lives on one spine.

But here’s the truth: I don’t belong fully to either.
And I’m not asking to.

One day, I’ll be rooted full-time in this land. The farm, the herbs, the animals—that’s where I’m heading. But for now, I choose to work both trades. I fund my dream with skill and sweat. And I move through both worlds with purpose.

I built this split because no single world would hold all of me.
I do not apologize for that.

I will keep writing code if it funds fence posts.
I will keep chasing goats after debugging software.
I will keep living a life that neither world respects—
because both worlds need to be reminded what real looks like.

Somewhere along the way, “independence” became a marketing term.
But I’ve seen what it actually costs.

And I pay it—willingly. Every single day.