There was a time when we did what most people do—filled our shopping trolley with whatever was cheapest, quickest, and had the longest shelf life. We didn’t question the system. It was easy, convenient, and “good enough”… until it wasn’t.
Our turning point came quietly, wrapped up in a diagnosis we never expected. Michael was diagnosed with absence epilepsy. In between the worry and medical appointments, we found ourselves diving deep into anything that could help—from neurology to nutrition, from lifestyle to the gut-brain connection. The science was compelling, but more than that, it made sense. What we put into our bodies mattered more than we ever realised. So we decided to take control of the one thing we could—our food.
We started small. A humble patch in the backyard. A few herbs. Some spinach. Tomatoes that tasted like real tomatoes. We still had a swimming pool then. I remember thinking: what if we used this space for something that actually feeds us? And just like that, the pool was transformed into soil. From chlorinated blue to earthy brown—probably the best trade we’ve ever made.
The benefits came quickly. Not just for Michael, but for all of us. The kids started getting excited about helping in the garden. Our meals became more colourful, more alive. And our days, though often busier, began to slow down in the best way. There’s something about pulling up a carrot or snipping your own lettuce that connects you—not just to your plate, but to the world around you.
We didn’t know it then, but we were homesteading. Not in the off-grid, self-sufficient, dramatic way—but in our own South African, family-first, what-can-we-do-right-now way. We weren’t chasing perfection—we were building something real. A space to learn. A way to live slower. A garden that reminded us that effort and reward often grow side by side.
Today, we’re growing 80% of our vegetables and the majority of our fruit. And recently, we became the proud (and slightly obsessed) parents of five chickens. They’ve brought new rhythms to our days and fresh eggs to our breakfasts—and if we’re honest, a fair amount of laughter too.
But it’s more than food. It’s what this lifestyle is teaching our children. They’re learning where their food comes from, how to care for something besides themselves, how to wait, how to nurture, how to deal with failure and start again. These are not just gardening lessons—they’re life lessons.
And it’s rippling outwards. Our neighbours have started asking questions. Swapping seedlings. Peeking over the fence with curiosity. And some of them are now growing their own tomatoes, too. That quiet joy of growing your own seems to be… catching.
We’ve also learned things we never expected to care about: soil structure, bokashi composting, worm farms, the incredible life beneath our feet that makes everything above possible. We’re learning to grow the soil, not just the plants. And we’re constantly humbled by how much the earth gives back when we care for it properly.
People ask if it’s easier than supermarket shopping. It’s not. In fact, it’s more work—watering, weeding, learning, failing, starting again. But it’s the kind of work that heals you. Body, mind, and soul. It gives you freedom—from supply chains, from food labels you can’t pronounce, from running out of coriander when the recipe needs it most. You just go outside. It’s there, because you put it there.
We’ve built VanZylStead on this belief—that homegrown is not just healthier, it’s happier. And it’s possible for anyone. You don’t need a farm. You need intention, a bit of curiosity, and the willingness to get your hands dirty.
We’re still learning. Still growing. Still getting a kick out of that first ripe tomato of the season or the basil that somehow survived a frost. But more than anything, we’re leading by example—for our kids, our community, and anyone who’s ever felt the pull to live closer to the earth.
So if you’ve been thinking about starting a garden, do it. Even just a pot of spinach. Let it surprise you. Let it feed you. Let it remind you that nature is still willing to meet us where we are.
Happy Gardening Friends
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