By Wilfried Voss—devoted husband, and proud honorary bystander at the horse farm, where he bravely dodges hay bales, pretends to understand saddle talk, and offers moral support from a safe distance (usually near the coffee pot).
I often explore the world of dreams and ideas, but today’s post takes a turn into something more personal and real. It is not about sleeping dreams, but the kind that sneak up on you during a boring workday. A classic daydream.
For years, while navigating the maze of Corporate America, I held onto one very specific vision: someday, I’d retire to a quiet farm in Vermont. I had absolutely no farming experience—couldn’t tell you if I was supposed to grow cupcakes or harvest goats—but the picture was clear. It had to be a farm, and it had to be in Vermont.
Meanwhile, long before we ever met, my wife had her own dream simmering quietly since childhood: she wanted a horse. Her parents always told her it was impossible—zoning laws, neighborhood restrictions, practical concerns. They figured the dream would fade with age.
It didn’t.
Years later, we crossed paths, got married, and my wife began working at a local boarding school—the kind where kids arrived with trust funds and horses in tow. The school’s equestrian program was massive, and my wife took full advantage. She rode regularly and spent lots of time with the horses—until pregnancy shifted her focus elsewhere.
At the time, we were living in an old farmhouse in Greenfield, Massachusetts. Not quite the farm I had imagined, but close enough to give us a taste. We both kept our jobs, so farm life was more of a part-time gig. Still, we learned a lot during those years.
Then came the turning point.
Our teenage son—who clearly inherited his mom’s passion for horses—had an idea: “Why don’t we just buy a horse farm?” He started browsing listings online, and the first one he found was a gorgeous 100-acre property just seven miles from our home. Asking price? A cool million. It was worth every penny, but the mortgage payments were more than a stretch—they were a fantasy.
Still, the search had officially begun.
As luck would have it, around the same time my mother-in-law sold her condo and moved in with us. She caught the farm fever quickly and offered to contribute the proceeds from the sale toward the purchase of a future property. That financial boost changed everything. Suddenly, our options expanded significantly.
At the same time, my wife and son were riding at a local horse facility, and my wife earned her certification as a riding instructor. Then another twist: the farm where they were riding announced it was closing, and they were looking at rehoming their horses. We ended up buying four of them—we call them “the Fab Four.” While we continued searching for our own place, they were temporarily boarded at another farm nearby.
Eventually, we found it. The real thing. A farm in Vermont. The dream—my daydream—had come to life.
Now, this could be the happily-ever-after ending, but there’s more. A cautionary tale about the obstacles dreamers face—especially when surrounded by people who’ve given up on dreaming altogether.
Before landing in Vermont, we considered staying in Greenfield and converting our existing 3.5-acre property into a horse-friendly setup. But Greenfield isn’t zoned as a right-to-farm community, so we needed approval from the town’s zoning board and our neighbors.
Let’s just say… it didn’t go well.
The zoning board meeting was discouraging, to say the least. The members didn’t seem to understand farming or horses at all. Worse, many neighbors showed up—not with curiosity or support, but hostility. These were people we’d barely seen in over two decades of living there. The types who never wave, never put up Christmas lights, and seem to carry an invisible cloud of resentment wherever they go. They showed up full of complaints—many of them baseless—and made it abundantly clear: they didn’t want animals, noise, or change.
It was a sobering moment. You can’t reason with people determined to be angry. We left the meeting disheartened, but not defeated. That farm life? It wasn’t going to happen in Greenfield.
But it would happen. Somewhere else.
And so here we are, years later, living that once-vague dream. We now share our Vermont farm with four horses, ten chickens, three dogs, a cat, and a very opinionated parakeet. Life is not flawless, but it is full. And meaningful. And ours.
As for those neighbors back in Greenfield? I imagine not much has changed.
There’s a simple truth here: dreamers and non-dreamers see the world differently. Not every dream can come true—but if you stop dreaming altogether, nothing ever will.
And even if the dream doesn’t turn out exactly as planned, the journey it sets you on is often the beginning of a far better life.
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