Redefining Slow Living Beyond the Rural Aesthetic

Why We Left Our 'Perfect' Slow Life to Actually Live Slowly

We've all seen the Instagram version of slow living: sourdough bread cooling on wooden countertops, chickens pecking contentedly in gardens lush with vegetables, homemade preserves gleaming in perfect rows. It's a seductive image, one that once captivated us completely.

Our forest school dream had it all: the cottage with character, the vegetable patches that fed us, the chickens and ducks that delighted our children. We worked where we lived, together, surrounded by nature's rhythms. We were living the slow life ideal.

Except we weren't slow at all. We were exhausted.

The realisation came gradually, then suddenly: true simplicity doesn't always look like self-sufficiency. Sometimes it means letting go of romantic notions to embrace what genuinely creates space in your life.

For us, authentic slow living meant a radical shift, trading our rural idyll for a modern home in a neighbourhood with pavements. It meant double-glazed windows instead of drafty charm, gas central heating instead of wood to split, and a garden small enough to enjoy rather than be enslaved by.

True simplicity arrived in unexpected forms: bus schedules that gave our growing children independence, neighbours close enough for spontaneous connection, and local shops that eliminated long drives for forgotten ingredients. The white walls of our new-build home required no constant maintenance, freeing weekends for actual rest.

The irony wasn't lost on us, we had to shed the trappings of slow living to actually live slowly.

Without chickens needing daily care, we could travel without anxiety. Without acres demanding attention, we found time for the pursuits that nourished us. Without the constant fixing that old buildings require, we discovered margin in our days.

This evolution taught us that slow living isn't merely the aesthetic it's often presented as, it's intentional. It's about creating a life where you can actually breathe, where demands don't exceed your capacity, and where simplicity serves your wellbeing rather than your image.

Perhaps you'll find your version of slow living in tending to potted herbs on an urban balcony, in a walkable neighbourhood where front-porch conversations happen naturally, or in a community where children freely pedal to playdates. Slow living adapts to wherever you are, it's about presence, not place. It might mean hiring help rather than doing everything yourself, or choosing convenience where it matters so you can invest energy where it counts.

The question isn't whether your life looks like a slow living Pinterest board. The question is: does the way you've arranged your life allow you to be present? Does it create space for connection? Does it energise rather than deplete?

True simplicity might mean sourdough and chickens for some. For others, it's takeout on Thursday nights because cooking seven days a week doesn't feel simple at all. It might be trading homesteading for a home that serves your current season with grace. Perhaps it's choosing to enrol your children in school this year rather than continuing to home educate, recognising that this decision creates the breathing room your family needs right now.

Slow living isn't an aesthetic, it's a liberation. Find your own path to enough space, enough rest, enough joy. That's the only slow living worth pursuing.

Our previous slow life idyll, our brand new build kitchen (which we were so excited to have as our cottage one was falling apart) & our first day in our new home.