The Desert Cured My Hurry

Being on the ranch nearly a decade now, I’ve learned firsthand: life changes slow out here.Gradual progress is the law of the land.

Our very own saguaros take decades just to earn their arms—inches of growth rewarded only by patience. Joshua trees take their time too, stacking each spire deliberately, as if they know there’s no prize for arriving early.

Rain sometimes comes… sometimes it doesn’t. Grass grows slow, but dries out fast. Nothing happens on demand, and nothing can be rushed.

Living out here, especially as a mother, it’s easy—almost inevitable—to become reclusive. It’s normal to put a dang total of six miles on the four-wheelers over weeks at a time. Normal to not know how often the highway is shut down, because loading kids, planning naps, packing snacks, and driving an hour just isn’t worth it unless it truly has to be.

That becomes your normal.

My first three years on the ranch—finishing my teens and stepping into early adulthood—I missed town constantly. I drove in multiple times a week. Weekly meetings. Groceries. Trash. Thrifting. Filling the tank. Buying feed. Any excuse to make my way back to civilization.

Back then, movement felt like survival.

Now, motherhood has slowed me in ways the land always tried to. The longest I’ve stayed on just the ranch is two full months—and it passed in a blink measured by milestones instead of miles. Days marked by naps, feedings, sunsets, and the same dirt road looping back on itself.

In the early days, I longed for the comfort of the life I knew before—city mingling, easy conversations, stimulation.

Wickenburg, of course, is far friendlier than bigger cities (ahem… YOU, Phoenix), so interactions felt personal and familiar. You could talk to strangers and leave feeling known.

I missed the easy access to things I thought I needed.

Now, after long quiet stretches, I’ll catch myself talking to the dogs and hens—and realize I’ve spoken enough for the day. I’m someone who talks to hide nervousness, but after living with extended silence, words feel heavier. More intentional. Motherhood does that too—it teaches you when to speak, and when presence matters more.

Out here, silence doesn’t feel lonely. It feels full.

Still, this life has taught me something important: connection matters more when it’s rare.

Visitors feel like holidays now. A truck coming up the drive slows the whole day. Conversations linger. Coffee breaks turn to dinner. Kids listen in from hallways and climb over everyone to be part of the conversations. You feel the echo of laughter long after the dust settles.

Those moments when the visitors leave; are deafening in their silence.

Even deliveries carry weight—the feed truck, the mail, the box you forgot you ordered weeks ago. Beef deliveries are always a whirlwind; a rush to make sure everyone has what they need before heading our separate ways. Making sure you spend those extra minutes discussing whatever it is you've had on your mind for the months before actually meeting.

They’re reminders that while we live quietly, we’re not disconnected. Just selective.

Life on the ranch doesn’t rush you, it reshapes you.

It teaches patience by force, gratitude by repetition, and presence by necessity. Just like the saguaros, growth comes slowly. Just like raising a child, progress isn’t always visible—but it’s always happening.

And maybe that’s the gift of this place, and this season of motherhood: learning that a small world, lived deeply, can be every bit as rich as a loud one—if you’re willing to slow down long enough to notice.

• Savannah Barteau