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

There are moments when my intuition hits with a calm, full-body yes, like a certainty that lights up my chest pouring warmth into my gut, bringing a vision in my head with 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, that was where I needed to be. Before I even heard back, before a message was exchanged, my whole body had already said yes.

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. After leaving Bolivia, I had spent time in Spain, France, Georgia (the country) and a few weeks in Istanbul, each location bringing me closer to the homestead in Selćuk.  Still recovering from what seemed like long term symptoms after a nasty bout of dengue fever in Mexico, I was getting used to my body demanding rest, unable to operate at the capacity it once did. I was experiencing exhaustion, hair loss, extreme inflammation, skin issues and hormonal imbalance, fainting and dizzy spells  among others. I felt like I was aimlessly wondering though new parts of the world not able to fully enjoy the gift to experience traveling wherever I wanted, without any lingering responsibilities back home. Unfortunately, I was not yet able to give myself permission to rest, so without responsibilities I felt purposeless and anxious. 

I wrote to the host, and waited. Something in me knew this wasn’t just another stop in a new country without a plan, searching for answers to questions that I wasn’t ready to face. I felt like I was being called to connect with these woman, and that this was a place of healing, connection, safety and love. 

When I arrived 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, I was already bundling fresh herbs straight from the garden, 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 buzzed with laughter, music and a collaborative spirit. Within hours, we were already a team. Energy exploded through my body, smiling bigger than I had in months.  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. She was 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, a random connection we quickly discovered through a viral youtube from my hometown of Gloucester, Massachusetts. 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 the Gloucester accent one afternoon – I quickly learned she possessed an uncanny talent for impressions.  We started calling each other silly and affectionate names, asking questions like ‘What would you like for breakfast, my sugar plum dumpling honeydew?” it felt totally normal – like we hadn’t just met, become roommates, and co-workers from different countries all in the same breath.

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, 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 mentor. She had grit, the kind of strength that comes from building a dream with her hands and heart while her own family openly judged her, assuming failure as the only outcome.

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, 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 home 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 safety, I began to trust and with that trust I began to come back into my body. 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 my cycle regulated. I was healing.

I looked forward to being the first one downstairs in the morning 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 their sweet German Shepards, our guard dogs Frida and Pablo, 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, a classic American staple I didn’t realize I’d missed. We’d talk about the plan for the day then we’d slip into our colorful overalls and sun hats and we’d get to work, almost always completing our lofty goals.

The garden became my sanctuary.  I loved the 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 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.

Golden hour was my favorite time of day. The air would cool and the sky would come alive while the clouds put on a dazzling show their thick, soft layers of fluff reflecting a light show with the sun featuring shimmering golds, pinks and purples. 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 while the tune “playmate” sang to me from the heavens. That version of me, a playful child, had been tucked away deep inside for years. But 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 of it 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 they believed in themselves and 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-  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 I felt anchored in the simplicity and the beauty of this moment. 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, Mustafa and Asuman prepared 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, always with 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. 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 and 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. There was no follow up to this experience. It was time to go home. I had received what I needed from this sojourn and I was ready to begin the integration process. My year-long sojourn had carried me through grief, loss, loneliness, and uncertainty. It tested me with the trials of surrender in places I never imagined I’d go, traveling through wild jungles spending solitary nights on remote beaches filled with countless moments of doubt and fear. And it was on this mountaintop where I had been called to without understanding the universal pull that healing found me in friendship, dirt, and laughter.

I left the mountain with a full heart and clarity.  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 intense 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!