We Spent 16 Years Building a Place to Get Away—Then Realized We Needed It Too
For most of my life, I believed that if I wasn't doing something, I wasn't doing enough.
Work harder.
Say yes.
Get involved.
Learn more.
Keep moving.
As a foreigner in another country, I somehow learned that if you're not hustling, you're not working hard enough to be successful.
No one really told me or showed me otherwise, so I followed suit.
I loaded my schedule with as many extracurricular activities as I could handle because I needed to do a lot to compete with everyone else and get into a university.
I probably learned English as fast as possible because that was my entry into this new American life.
I was a good student. A very good student.
I still remember struggling through Of Mice and Men as a freshman and getting a B, while some of the other American students failed.
You gotta do the work.
You gotta push.
You gotta strive.
And then things will happen for you.
So I kept going.
Then came Korea
Life took me to South Korea, and there I found even more ways to be involved.
Work extra.
Attend teaching conferences.
Travel.
Network.
Say yes to practically every opportunity.
And to be fair, saying yes was fun.
Some of the stories from those 14 years still make us laugh.
We once said yes to getting married Korean-style at a traditional festival in front of hundreds of people.
Garrett gave a speech about family values to a giant small-town audience, most of whom probably didn't understand a word of English.
I got to help promote a translation app and somehow ended up meeting former Korean President Park Geun-hye.
We explored tunnels dug by North Koreans on a DMZ tour.
Our wedding photographs hung all over town when a wedding studio decided to hire us as models.
Those are the stories that bring back the warm memories of living in South Korea.
We weren't miserable.
We weren't desperately looking for a way out.
We actually had a pretty interesting life.
But living in a city of 1.5 million people, surrounded by other hardworking people, didn't inspire us to change our lives.
An off-grid piece of land in the Montana woods did.
And then there was the land
Returning to our land every summer since 2010 meant one thing:
Work.
Not sit-in-a-classroom-in-front-of-a-computer work.
Cutting trees.
Making lumber on a sawmill.
Banging nails.
Getting splinters.
Painting.
Installing.
Building things we didn't even know how to build.
You see, we had no skills.
No construction experience.
No idea how things worked when you had no electricity and none of the comforts we were used to.
Just two very enthusiastic people—and our parents, who were going through much of the same process with a lifetime of construction and house-flipping experience behind them.
I remember thinking how hard everything was on this land.
How tired and sore I was at night.
And how I couldn't wait for the end of August so I could fly back to hot showers, a flushing toilet, a pedal-operated sink, an electric blanket, my hobbies and my friends.
Looking back, we weren't really in the position to purchase land with all the amenities.
And if you asked me to do it all over again, I would do it the same way.
Slowly.
Figuring things out.
Persevering.
Earning the reward of building something we were proud of instead of simply buying someone else's hard work.
It took many years of discomfort to slowly see and experience the comforts we enjoy today.
And maybe that's why our guests tell us there is something special about The Hohnstead.
A certain energy they feel when they're here.
Then we came home
We quit our jobs and moved home.
And the hustle continued.
We need more guests.
We need more activities.
Let's guide forest walks.
Let's join local business groups.
Let's enroll in marketing courses.
Let's open a photo studio in the winter.
Let's have a Christmas tree business.
Let's, let's, let's.
The mental clutter of productivity, striving and never-ending projects became overwhelming.
Even the things we loved became opportunities.
The garden could be a place to host events and movie nights.
That open field between the pines could become a volleyball court.
Or one of those infinity walking mazes.
How about an inground pool?
Guests would love that.
There was always another idea.
Another project.
Another thing we could build, improve, add, optimize or turn into something.
And then it all stopped.
Life had other plans
Two years ago, we lost my mom.
And with that, it wasn't just our plans that were placed on hold.
Everything we thought mattered in life suddenly mattered differently.
There was very little strength to walk.
Very little strength to eat.
Very little strength to do much of anything.
And being in the woods during that time was a gift.
The forest didn't ask anything of me.
I didn't have to accomplish anything.
I didn't have to be productive.
I could walk when I could walk.
Sit when I needed to sit.
Be quiet.
Nature became, and still is, a place of healing for me.
Even now, loud people, noisy places and unexpected sounds can feel unwelcome.
I notice quiet differently now.
I notice how my body feels when there is nothing demanding my attention.
I notice how good it feels when I don't have to be anywhere, answer anyone or accomplish anything.
And somewhere along the way, I started wondering:
What if doing less isn't giving up?
What if quiet isn't empty?
What if rest isn't something we have to earn after we've finished everything else?
Maybe this is what we were building all along
For 15 years, we thought we were building cabins.
We thought we were building a business.
We thought we were creating a place where people could come to Montana, stay in the woods and have a little adventure.
And we were.
But maybe we were also building something we needed ourselves.
A place where nothing is required of you.
A place where you don't have to perform, explain, keep up or accomplish anything.
The forest doesn't care how productive you were today.
The cabins don't need you to answer an email.
The stars don't care about your to-do list.
And the quiet doesn't ask you to become a better version of yourself.
It simply gives you room to be the version of yourself that is already there.
Maybe that's why, when we started thinking about creating a women's weekend at The Hohnstead, the idea felt so natural.
We didn't want to create another retreat where women come to learn more, do more, share more and leave with another list of things they should be doing.
There is already enough of that.
We wanted to create something much simpler.
A weekend for women who are tired.
Women who are overstimulated.
Women who spend so much of their lives being needed that they can't remember the last time no one needed anything from them.
Women who are creatively depleted.
Women who simply want some quiet.
There won't be a packed schedule.
There won't be mandatory sharing.
There won't be group bonding exercises.
There won't be pressure to participate.
You can walk.
Read.
Journal.
Nap.
Sit by the fire.
Soak in the hot tub.
Stare out the window.
Talk to someone.
Or don't.
You can spend the entire weekend doing very little.
And that is enough.
Maybe you miss yourself
I keep coming back to those three words.
I miss myself.
Maybe you've thought them, too.
Not because something is wrong with you.
Not because you need to fix yourself.
Maybe life just got loud.
Maybe you have spent so long working, caring, giving, organizing, planning, parenting, creating and showing up for everyone else that you haven't had much room left for yourself.
Maybe you don't need another productivity system.
Maybe you don't need another goal.
Maybe you don't need to become a better version of yourself.
Maybe you just need some quiet.
That's what we're hoping to offer this October.
A small women's retreat in the Montana woods.
Ten women at most.
Two slow days and two quiet nights.
A place where you can put some of the weight down.
Not forever.
Just for a weekend.
October 2–4, 2026
The Hohnstead Glamping Cabins
25 minutes from Missoula, Montana
Come as you are.
Nothing to prove.
Nothing to accomplish.
Nothing to fix.
Just a little room to hear yourself again.
