I Left Manhattan for Mud, Manure, and Motherhood — and I’d Do It Again

I used to wake up to the sound of pointe shoes brushing against polished floors, my name printed on velvet programs, my body alive under the glow of stage lights. Standing ovations, endless rehearsals, and tours across the country defined my life. But when pregnancy collided with a national tour, something inside me shifted. I began craving stillness, soil, and the kind of life that didn’t fit inside a theater. If you’d told me five years ago that I’d trade silk leotards for muddy overalls, Manhattan’s skyline for a mountain valley…

I am Hannah Neeleman. Once upon a time, my mornings began with pointe shoes brushing against marley floors and mirrors catching the first light of day. The air smelled faintly of rosin and sweat, my life carefully measured in counts of eight and rehearsals that stretched late into the night.

Now? My alarm clock is a rooster that refuses to respect daylight savings, and my soundtrack is the chickens shrieking because the twins thought it would be “funny” to set them free—again.

If you’d told me five years ago that I’d swap silk leotards for mud-splattered overalls, that I’d exchange Manhattan’s skyline for a mountain valley with Wi-Fi so unpredictable it makes dial-up look glamorous, I would’ve laughed mid–pas de bourrée. And yet, here I am.

I had just wrapped my final season with the company—a career that had given me everything I’d ever dreamed of. Standing ovations. Velvet programs with my name printed in gold ink. My body bent and bruised, but alive under stage lights that felt like fire. I should have felt unstoppable.