Trading Stage Lights for Hay Bales: Finding Harmony on the Farm
There was a time when my life revolved around bright stage lights, packed rooms, and the sound of laughter echoing off club walls. Comedy was my oxygen, my adrenaline rush, the thing that kept me running late nights and chasing the next big laugh. But life has a funny way of flipping the script, and somewhere between punchlines and tour stops, I found myself trading stage lights for hay bales. And as unlikely as it sounds, I discovered harmony in the swap.
The farm doesn’t come with applause or spotlights, but it does come with a rhythm—sunrises that paint the sky gold, animals that don’t care about your résumé, and chores that wait for no ego. Instead of the roar of a crowd, I hear the low bray of Henry the donkey demanding breakfast. Instead of chasing the perfect timing of a joke, I’m chasing chickens that somehow keep slipping through the fence like feathered escape artists.
At first, I thought I’d miss the chaos of comedy—the late-night sets, the green room energy, the unpredictable crowds. But the truth is, farm life has its own brand of comedy, and it’s every bit as unpredictable. Try carrying a feed bucket past a herd of goats who think you’re moving too slow, and you’ll understand what slapstick really means. Or watch Henry attempt to photobomb every single TikTok video, and tell me that isn’t pure stand-up gold.
What surprised me most is how similar the two worlds are. Comedy and farming both demand presence, patience, and the ability to laugh when things don’t go as planned. A set can flop, a chicken can lay an egg in the most inconvenient place imaginable, and either way—you learn to roll with it. You learn that perfection is overrated, and authenticity is everything.
Trading stage lights for hay bales hasn’t meant giving up one dream for another. It’s meant finding balance. Some days I’m still the comedian, crafting stories and chasing laughs. Other days, I’m knee-deep in mud, fixing a fence, and realizing the punchline is right there in front of me, clucking or braying or covered in hay. The harmony comes from knowing I don’t have to choose—I get to live in both worlds, and each makes the other richer.
So maybe the stage looks a little different these days. Maybe the lights aren’t as bright, but the sunrises are brighter. And maybe the laughter doesn’t echo through a theater, but it rings across the pasture when something ridiculous inevitably happens—because on a farm, it always does.
In the end, harmony isn’t about where you are—it’s about finding joy in both the spotlight and the quiet glow of morning chores. And for me, it turns out that hay bales can be just as fulfilling as stage lights, especially when you’ve got a donkey stealing the show.
