The Ground Beneath Me: A story of soil, sisterhood, and the home I found on a Turkish mountainside

 

There are moments when intuition stops whispering and hits with a calm, full-body yes—a warm certainty that lights up my chest and gut and brings the vision in my head into sharp focus. I felt it in a café in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, scrolling through volunteer listings after months of drifting through Ecuador, Mexico, and now Bolivia, my days ruled by spontaneity and chance. The novelty was fading. I was craving structure, joining a team with shared purpose and dreamed of working with my hands and learning new skills. When I saw the listing for a mother-daughter-run organic homestead in Selçuk, Turkey, I knew instantly—I was going. Before I even heard back, before a message was exchanged, my whole body had already said yes.

I wrote to the host, and waited, not with doubt, but with certainty. Something in me knew this wasn’t just another stop, it was a turning point. 

I had been starting to doubt this whole sojourn—wondering what I was really getting out of it, if I was just passing time or worse yet, running away. But this felt different. I had three months to make my way from Bolivia to Turkey, and with that came a fresh sense of momentum. The fog of fatigue, dengue fever recovery, and aimless wandering began to lift. I felt steady, like something inside had quietly clicked into place.

When I arrived at their home in Selçuk, home to the ancient city of Ephesus, I was greeted by Ece and her mother, Asuman, with arms and hearts wide open. From the moment I stepped onto their land, it felt like I had come home. Not just in the warm, Turkish hospitality sense, something deeper. Soul-level home. The kind of welcome that wraps around your tired spirit and whispers, you can rest here.

That very first night, we were already in motion—bundling fresh herbs, rolling sarma (Turkish grape leaf), and packing the van for the next day’s farmer’s market in Izmir, Turkey’s third-largest city. Ece, my host, would be up at 4 a.m. for a 15-hour day of selling, and yet the kitchen pulsed with laughter, music, and shared purpose. Within hours, we were already a team that felt familial. My whole body was buzzing—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this kind of grounded joy.

And then, there was Ece.

Ece was a firecracker wrapped in honey—wild, brilliant, grounded, and radiantly unfiltered. She could build a homestead with her bare hands, then crack you up with a spot-on “Wicked Tuna” impression. Fierce and unapologetically herself, she’d drop hilarious, inappropriate one-liners in front of her mom, followed by a quick “sorry Mamma,” all delivered with such confidence and charm that you’d be doubled over in laughter, secretly admiring her guts.

We called each other “my tuna” after she nailed a Gloucester accent one afternoon, straight out of Wicked Tuna—a nod to my hometown and her uncanny talent for impressions.  Almost immediately, we started calling each other silly and affectionate names, asking questions like ‘What would you like for breakfast, my sugar plum dumpling honeydew?’” 

We shared a stubborn work ethic, endless curiosity, and a sense of humor that fed our friendship. In between long days in the garden and afternoon gin breaks, we talked about everything and nothing. Despite growing up in different countries—me in the U.S., her in Turkey and Canada—our childhoods kept overlapping in the weirdest, sweetest ways. A familiar jingle. A book we’d both read to pieces. Songs we hadn’t thought of in decades. It was strange and comforting, like discovering we’d been orbiting the same wavelength for years without knowing it. A journal entry after my first week simply read: “I am slightly obsessed with her.”

She quickly became a sister, a teacher, a mirror. She had grit—the kind of strength that comes from building a dream with your hands and heart while everyone around you doubts you. We worked hard—real, honest, body-deep work—and I loved every second of it. She climbed walnut trees like a wildcat while I shook branches from below, her mom laughing and yelling warnings every time Ece dangled from a questionable limb. We planted winter vegetables and Madonna lilies, brined olives, stirred tinctures, and picked tomatoes that looked like dragon’s eggs, skins marbled with deep violets, crimson streaks, and a glossy sheen that caught the sun like polished stone. Our days were full of making—herbal salves, tea blends, oxymels, fire cider, natural fertilizers, even flower necklaces set in epoxy. We dug, pruned, laid irrigation lines, and prepped garden beds for winter. My homesteading resume grew, but more importantly, so did my spirit.

Ece entrusted me with her garden—her livelihood, her baby—and something in me reawakened. I had been drifting, worn thin from chasing answers across continents, hoping the next place might fix what felt broken. But here, rooted in soil and trust, I began to come back to myself. I arrived inflamed, exhausted, scattered. But over the next few weeks, the mountain air, fresh-picked

vegetables, spring water, and the rhythm of daily movement started to work their magic. Ece shared teas, tinctures, homemade hair oils and salves infused with rosemary, sage, mint, lavender—herbal medicine grown just steps from our door. I started sleeping through the night. My skin cleared, my hair stopped falling out, and I got my period back. I was healing.

I looked forward to being the first one downstairs quietly entering the kitchen, cleaning up remnants of last night’s meal, opening the blinds and welcoming in the sun, greeting the garden from the window, saying good morning to our sweet guard dogs Frida and Pinto, and preparing coffee stronger than Asuman was used to, but eventually would admittedly enjoy.  We’d eat a hearty Turkish breakfast with olives, cheese, eggs, toast, tomatoes with sea salt and homemade olive oil. Sometimes we had peanut butter and banana toast – So American!  We’d talk about the plan for the day then I’d slip into my colorful overalls and sun hat and we’d get to work, almost always completing our lofty goals for the day.

The garden became my sanctuary.  I loved the steady process of planting, the simple joy of watching things grow. It was quiet, no neighbors or busy streets, but the land buzzed with life—bugs, birds, even the persistent flies felt like part of the flow. There was always something to do: watering the rows, harvesting, pulling weeds, filling the house’s water tank from the well, planting seeds, checking for pesky bugs. Simple tasks, but they gave my mind a break from overthinking. There was something deeply satisfying about the rhythm of it all—just doing the work, side by side with Ece, laughing hysterically as we unearthed absurdly large sweet potatoes, or slipping into an easy, companionable silence.

The clouds on the mountain were memorable – big, soft layers of fluff shifting with the moods of the weather. Some days they drifted slow and steady, like they had nowhere to be. Other days they rolled across the sky, full of drama and momentum. Golden hour was my favorite time of day. The air would cool and the sky would come alive while the clouds would put on a dazzling show, featuring hues of gold, pink, orange and purple. I’ve been mesmerized with clouds since I was a kid. One of my earliest, most vivid dreams was jumping out of an airplane with my Cabbage Patch dolls and landing on soft clouds, bouncing and laughing with the classic tune “playmate” singing from the heavens. That version of me, a playful child, had been tucked away deep inside for years. And out on that mountain top, watching the clouds dance in the late daylight, she felt really close.

At night, the three of us sat under the moon, savoring homemade Shiraz from Mustafa, a close family friend and man of many talents, enjoying its earthy flavor laced with notes of cherry and a subtle spice that lingered. It was such a treat and so clean that even after indulging in an extra glass, there was no trace the next morning. The mountain air was crisp and clean, lifting our spirits and keeping us up well past bedtime. They shared stories of building the homestead—of being told they couldn’t do it, and doing it anyway. Not to prove anyone wrong, but because their dream outgrew their fear. Being around them was like an energy transfer straight to my soul. Their bond, layered with history, humor, love, and fire was felt in every moment. Watching them work, laugh, argue passionately, compromise, sing, and always make time to embrace throughout the day, I absorbed their unshakable strength and presence. It was like their fierce energy seeped into me, preparing me for whatever was ahead as I neared the reality of returning home.

One afternoon, the neighbors invited us over. Turkish hospitality is one of those beautiful expressions of love—intentional, slow, and generous. The husband disappeared, returning from the orchard with fresh-picked figs and walnuts, handed to me with a quiet smile. I took a bite, and time seemed to stop. The texture! The sweetness! The delicate burst of seeds, soft and juicy, with a flavor so vibrant, it felt like eating the color purple. That moment, surrounded by fruit-bearing trees, kind strangers, and steaming glasses of tea, anchored me in the beauty of simplicity. In that quiet exchange, I realized I had received more than just a fresh fig. I had been reminded of the power of nature to nourish not just the body, but the soul, and how deeply I felt the privilege of this experience. 

Our meal times were sacred. Fresh herbs and vegetables pulled straight from the garden, every dish made with local treasures: honey from the neighbor, olive oil and walnuts from the backyard, pomegranates from down the street. One evening, we shared a stew made from wild boar that Mustafa had hunted. He had spent hours waiting after dark for  the right moment and after, preparing it entirely by hand, with deep respect and gratitude for the animal who had sacrificed its life. The boar’s diet of figs, olives, walnuts, and peaches had given the meat a richness and flavor unlike anything I had tasted before. Before eating, we gave thanks to the animal and to Mustafa. In that moment, I was once again overcome with gratitude, reminded of the circle of life and the reverence we owe to nature for sustaining us.

In my final days, I dreamt of Little D—my inner child. In the dream, she had broken bones and I held her gently, wrapping her wounds singing to her until she fell asleep. She looked up at me, innocent and soft, and smiled. I could feel it deep in my chest: She forgives me. She’s proud of me. She knows I’m taking care of her now.

When the time came to move on to my next destination, I canceled it. Nothing could follow this. I needed to go home, not out of defeat but out of fullness. I had received what I needed. I was ready to integrate. My year-long sojourn had carried me through grief, loss, loneliness, and uncertainty. It tested me with the quiet trials of surrender, in places I never imagined I’d go – through wild jungles and solitary nights on remote beaches, and countless moments of doubt and reflection. And yet, it was here, on this mountaintop, that healing found me not in a prolific ceremony, but in friendship, dirt, and laughter.

I left the mountain with a full heart and a clear vision. The fear I’d carried so long had loosened its grip. I understood now what it felt like to live in alignment. I’d tasted it. I’d touched it. And now the real work would begin. 

Ece and Asuman sent me off with tears, figs, and one final message:

Don’t let the noise of others distract you. People will talk. Let the wind take their words. Be patient. Dreams take time. But if you believe in yourself, they’ll come true.

As I write this, seven months after returning from the homestead, their spirit moves through the days with me. It has carried me through the quiet fear of starting over, through the heaviness of an East Coast winter spent back under my childhood roof, navigating old dynamics after twenty years away. It’s held me steady as I rebuild a life from the ground up—one rooted in authenticity, values, and integrity, even within a culture that often pushes the opposite. Though an ocean stretches between us, our ten-minute voice notes still spark the same joy we found in garden beds and golden hours. And now, as I step into this next chapter, I do so with a deeper trust in myself that grew from the ground I stood on there.

If you’re are interested in Ece & Asuman’s Homesteading projects and products, you can follow them on instagram HERE!