When Simple Isn’t Easy (Lessons From an Off-Grid Life)

Sometimes the simplest life asks the most of you, Gran.

Dear Gran,

Everyone thinks I’m on permanent holiday.

People imagine me swinging in a hammock, sipping coconuts between writing sessions, watching sunsets every evening and breathing in endless calm. When they message to say they’d ‘kill for my life,’ I smile wryly and think, you might not survive a week of it, love.

It’s funny, the moment you step outside the world’s idea of success, people replace it with fantasy. They assume you’ve traded stress for serenity, not one set of demands for another. But the truth is, living simply isn’t effortless. It’s constant work. It just happens to be quieter work.

The Practicalities of Paradise

Take washing the dishes, for instance. In England, I had a dishwasher: rinse, press start, done. Here, I sit on our balcony in front of the kitchen with a large bowl of water and wash each plate by hand. Waste food goes to the pigs and goats, paper rubbish is burned, and what can’t be burned gets carried to the skip a kilometre away. Nothing simply disappears here, everything has to be seen through to its end.

Cooking follows the same rhythm. We have a two-ring gas hob, one large wok — a priuk — and no oven, microwave, or fridge. Meals are a rotation of rice, vegetables, and fish cooked in slightly different disguises. I chop vegetables sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, the dogs dozing nearby. It’s simple, yes — but it’s also a daily reminder that ‘simple’ doesn’t mean ‘easy.’

And yet, we’re healthy. I haven’t had a single acne spot since I left England, and that stubborn belly fat that drove me mad for years has melted away. The market fruit tastes of sunlight. Life feels raw and real and earned. But it demands everything from you.

When Simple Breaks You

A few weeks ago, I was hanging out the washing — the same load I’d scrubbed by hand — when I slipped between the rocks. The ground here is jagged, all volcanic stone. I reached out to steady myself and felt my thumb twist and dislocate. I landed hard on my knee and just… sat there.

For a moment, I cried, partly from pain, partly from sheer exhaustion. I thought, Why am I living like this? In that second, England felt far away but suddenly tempting. I imagined the ease of a microwave, the soft hum of a washing machine, the comfort of takeaway food and familiar chatter. Was I enjoying this life, or just managing it? Was I really living the dream or just addicted to having a project to build?

My partner found me sitting there between the rocks, tears streaked with dust, and we talked that night. He didn’t fully understand — how could he? — but he listened. And that helped. Because sometimes what breaks you isn’t the fall itself, it’s the question that follows: Where do I belong if not here?

The truth is, I don’t really know where I belong anymore. My daughters are grown and living their own lives; my family is scattered between England and New Zealand. My Gran — you — are gone. The house I once called home doesn’t exist for me now. I live between worlds: part of one, shaped by another, not fully at home in either.

The Faith That Grounds Me

That’s where faith has become my anchor. Out here, surrounded by so much beauty, it’s impossible not to see God’s hand in it all. Every morning, I step outside and the light drapes itself across the mountain, and I whisper thank you.

We play worship songs while we work; it keeps us steady, reminds us what really matters. Meals start with a blessing; no one eats until gratitude has been spoken. There’s something humbling in that, a ritual that keeps me present. My faith isn’t about perfection or piety; it’s about remembering that I’m cared for, even when things feel hard.

I find myself praying not for ease, but for strength, for the patience to keep going when the generator breaks, when the rain floods the path, when loneliness creeps in at night. The more I lean into that faith, the more peace I find.

The Quiet Truth of Simple Living

When friends visit, they always say, ‘I could never do what you’ve done.’ I tell them, ‘You could, but you’d have to learn to make yourself happy.’ Because that’s the hardest part of simple living: no one can fill your cup for you. You have to learn to draw from your own well, and some days it runs dry.

But other days — when the mountain is wrapped in cloud, the dogs are sleeping, and the kettle finally boils — I feel an almost holy contentment. The kind that comes from knowing you’ve worked for this peace, and that it’s fragile and fleeting, but yours.

Maybe simplicity isn’t about what you own, or even where you live. Maybe it’s about how closely you live to grace, in the washing, the slipping, the small moments that hold everything together.

From the quiet of the mountains, thankful for the simple days that still ask so much.