How the song began.

Lots of years ago, when I first moved to a rural community, I wanted to believe I could live by example—by loving the land, animals, other people, and myself well enough that others might notice and want to do it, too. The farm seemed the perfect setting.

I planted gardens. I raised chickens. I celebrated their first eggs. I opened a farm store. I posted pictures of goats in winter coats. I was ridiculous and brand new to the business of farm living, and I loved every minute of it. I still do.

It was simple and complicated all at once. The days were quiet and beautiful, but also full of heavy lifting—sweating, building, planting, planning, canning, cooking, and daily hours of shoveling manure. I am a sucker for solitude, for critters, for natural beauty. My favorite seasons are when things are growing in abundance—especially when I am growing, too.

Back then, I was a journalist, learning as I went—about animals, about farming, about the food system, and about the foods I did and didn’t want to eat. I shared it all. I became passionate. Eventually, that passion pulled me out of journalism and into a new kind of work—advocacy rooted in environmentalism, animal welfare, and care for people and communities.

I spent years in statehouses and on Capitol Hill, talking with legislators, regulators, and decision-makers. I spoke at press conferences, in committee hearings, and alongside people I deeply admired. I met small and independent farmers across this country. They inspired me. They gave me hope. They still do.

But somewhere along the way, I started to notice what landed—and what didn’t. I could talk about policy or food systems or real, urgent work, and no one noticed. A picture of a goat in a coat? Everyone showed up. I was told I shared too much. That I posted too much. To be honest, I’m still being told that.

So, I got quieter. I let doubt win. I told myself it was ego to think my voice mattered, or that anyone was watching. Maybe it was imposter syndrome. Maybe age. Maybe irrelevance. Maybe just too much noise. Whatever it was, I stepped back, a little.

Still, the dream never left.

I have long wanted to operate a place that bears fruit—figuratively and literally—and helps to build community. Years ago, I started a small nonprofit with that hope in mind, imagining it might live on my farm in Spencer. Now, here in Boggstown, thanks in large part to my partner, Matt, I have my first real chance to bring that vision fully to life.

At the same time, it’s impossible to ignore the moment we’re living in. The noise. The division. A country that often feels like it’s burning—desperate for humanity, for listening, for care.

That is why a place like Dog Song Sanctuary, I hope, matters.

Dog Song Sanctuary exists to bring people together—across difference, across geography, across lived experience—through conversation, creativity, and advocacy. It will be a place rooted in land and relationship, where farmers, artists, advocates, and policymakers can gather to listen, learn, and imagine better ways forward. Not to escape the world, but to return to it more grounded, more connected, and more willing to care.

This work isn’t flashy. It doesn’t always go viral. But it feels necessary. And for the first time in a long while, it feels possible. I hope you’ll join me here.