March came in like a lion

March Came in Like a Lion

There’s a saying we all know—March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. This year, it felt like it tried to do both at once.

The second weekend of March brought the kind of cold that settles deep into your bones, the kind we expect in January, not on the cusp of spring. And yet, there I was, loading up to attend the very first West Coast Homesteading Expo in Puyallup, equal parts excitement and unease tugging at me. It’s no small thing to leave a flock of heavy ewes on the brink of lambing—every shepherd knows that feeling, that quiet tension humming in the background.

The expo itself was everything I had hoped for and more. A gathering of people rooted in land, animals, and intention. Conversations flowed easily—about pasture health, milk lines, breeding plans, and the dreams we’re all building, one season at a time. There was an energy there, a sense of momentum, like something important was taking root on the West Coast for small farmers and homesteaders alike.

But back home, the real work of the season wasn’t waiting.

It was happening.

Three ewes chose that very moment—during the coldest stretch of winter, somehow tucked into March—to lamb. While I stood under warm lights talking dairy sheep and sustainable systems, my girls were out in the sharp cold, doing what sheep have done forever. No perfect timing. No waiting for convenience. Just instinct, resilience, and new life arriving on its own terms.

And I wasn’t entirely gone—not in the ways that mattered most.

At home, my oldest kiddo and a dear friend stepped in on one of those bitter, biting nights. The kind where the cold feels alive and every decision matters. They checked the ewes, dried newborn lambs, made sure bellies were full, and did the quiet, urgent work that shepherding sometimes demands without warning. It wasn’t easy. One lamb was lost to the cold—a small, sharp heartbreak that sits heavy, even when you know you’ve done what you can.

That’s part of this life too. The joy and the loss arriving side by side, often in the same breath.

When I returned, the farm felt different. Quieter in that way that follows something big. And then—movement. Small bodies tucked close to their mothers, wobbly legs finding strength, soft nickers in the chill air. Three ewes, three lambings—held through by steady hands, even in my absence.

There’s a particular mix of emotions that comes with that. Relief, first and foremost. Gratitude, deep and humbling—for the help, for the strength of the ewes, for the lambs that made it. And, if I’m honest, a flicker of guilt for not being there to witness it all. But it was quickly replaced by something steadier: trust.

By the 26th of March, the final lambs arrived. In total, we welcomed 15 births—14 live and thriving lambs now dotting the pasture, stretching their legs into the promise of spring. One loss, carried quietly among them, a reminder of the fragility woven into this work.

Trust in the flock.
Trust in the people who show up when it matters.
Trust in the systems I’ve built and the life we’re living.

March didn’t ask for permission this year. It arrived wild and biting, full of contradiction—ice in the mornings, new life in the fields, grief and gratitude woven tightly together. It reminded me that homesteading is rarely tidy. It is chaotic, inconvenient, and deeply, unexpectedly joyful.

The lion showed up.
And so did the lambs.

Besssie had 4 little finnsheep lambs. Meet two of them!