About Us Notes from the Field

Invincible, Until I Wasn’t

MariKate was the first to notice the lump on my neck. I had seen it too but didn’t think much of it. I was young, healthy, and figured nothing could keep me down. So, I brushed it off. Still, MariKate pushed me to see a doctor, so I went—reluctantly. The doctor agreed with me, said it was probably nothing and even joked, “Happy wife, happy life.” That was all I needed to hear. I came home, told MariKate not to worry, and went back to work.

But a month later, she insisted again. I went for a second opinion. The very next day the hospital called and told us to come in immediately. I’ll never forget that call. I was sitting in a Panera, and I remember the exact table, the exact chair. The world shifted in that moment.

We rushed to the hospital, left the kids with MariKate’s parents, and suddenly I was lying on a biopsy table.

Half sedated, waiting for the needle, it hit me: 95% of my life was consumed by work. And none of it really mattered.

What mattered was faith—and family.

Family: I felt grateful, even in the middle of fear, to have MariKate and our kids.

Faith: That was harder. It’s always been something I’ve wrestled with. On that table, I wished I had a stronger faith. Wished I had something deeper to lean on when the possibility of death was staring back at me.

The evening I was officially diagnosed with cancer was one of the heaviest nights of my life. I remember coming home, collapsing onto the couch, and just sobbing—with my mom and mother-in-law there. Crying doesn’t come naturally to me, but this was different. The weight was too much to hold in.

At the time, our oldest daughter Emma was only three. My mom tucked her into bed that night, and out of nowhere Emma shared a Bible verse she remembered: “With God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). My mom was stunned, especially because that verse wasn’t even part of her Sunday school curriculum yet. On her way out of the room, she told MariKate, “Ask Emma about her memory verse.” Sure enough, Emma recited it again.

It might sound small, but to us it was huge. That verse became the first of many we’ve come to call our family’s “With God” moments—these little reminders that we weren’t walking this alone. That night, as I lay in bed, I felt prayers surrounding me in a way I had never experienced before, even as my mind raced with fear about what was coming next.

What came next, was the red devil. I don’t know how to fully put words to it. It wasn’t necessarily overwhelming, though it should have been. The nurses and staff became like family. The first step was having a port placed in my chest so the chemo could go straight into my heart. Every other week I’d show up, the nurses would gown up from head to toe, and they’d bring out the chemo in a massive syringe of what they called the “red devil.” It would drip slowly through my port, I sat with my laptop, trying to get a little work done—until the Benadryl knocked me out.

After the first couple of treatments, my hair started falling out, so instead of watching it come out in clumps, the kids helped me shave it all off. That was its own moment—strange and oddly lighthearted in the middle of something so heavy.

The hardest part was always the week after treatment. It rocked my body completely, and mentally it was tough to stay positive when I felt that sick. But usually by the following week, I’d bounce back enough to feel somewhat normal again, and with that came a better mental outlook. I remember one Sunday, in one of those “good weeks,” sitting in church while the pastor preached about valleys and tough times. My mind went straight to the chaos at home—four kids in diapers, Amazon boxes of diapers stacked so high on our porch they blocked the door. That felt like my valley. Then I caught myself. No, the valley was cancer.

But that perspective mattered. I realized how fortunate I was to even get those weeks of reprieve, because a lot of people going through chemo never did.

Months later came my first PET scan. MariKate and I used the chance as a rare date, sneaking away for lunch after the scan. We were sitting in a nearly empty restaurant when the phone rang.

The nurse was crying. She told us there was no cancer.

Stage 4 non-Hodgkin lymphoma—the kind that’s “incurable”—was gone.

We cried right there at the table. Tears, relief, disbelief. The nurse cried with us on the phone. A miracle? A misdiagnosis? I don’t know. But my life was changed.

That season redefined success for me. It wasn’t just about building software, or freedom, or even survival. It was about living with purpose.

Kakadoodle didn’t exist yet. But the seeds were planted here—when I realized life is fragile, family is everything, and food, faith, and health are more than just afterthoughts.

This is why Kakadoodle exists today. It’s not just a business. It’s a fight for something real.

Not in Control. Maybe That’s the Point.

This week MariKate came across this post on Instagram that hit us right in the gut. It was about that familiar saying: “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” The guy in the video pointed out that the verse people are referring to isn’t actually about hardship at all... it’s about temptation. When it comes to the trials of life, it’s clear that we often face more than we can carry on our own. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to handle it all. Maybe we’re supposed to learn to rely on something bigger than ourselves.

That thought has been sitting with us all week. We talk a lot about “enjoying the journey,” but it’s not always easy when the road feels steep. If we’d known the sacrifices it would take to get here before starting Kakadoodle, I’m not sure we would’ve had the guts to do it. Some days it feels like we’re strapped into a roller coaster that we have no control over—just holding on as it twists, drops, and climbs again. But somehow, just when it feels like we can’t take another turn, something steady shows up. It’s like God gives us a gentle tap on the head saying, “You’re not driving this.” And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the ups and downs aren’t signs we’re off track, but reminders that the ride itself is part of the plan.

I think God had us become farmers for a reason. Every farmer I meet talks about faith as a prerequisite for this life. You can do everything right and still face things you could never plan for... bird flu, fires, funding freezes and employee crises that test your resolve and heart. It humbles you in ways you can’t prepare for and forces you to let go of this illusion of control.

Before I was a farmer—back when I was first diagnosed with cancer, lying on the biopsy table—so much of my world revolved around work. But in that moment, all that really mattered was faith and family. Family, we felt solid about. Faith, has always been a challenge. Farming has brought that lesson to life. It’s a daily reminder that faith, patience, and gratitude aren’t things you feel when everything’s easy—they’re choices you make when everything’s not.

Kakadoodle has been that kind of journey for us. It’s stretched us further than we ever expected—more responsibility, more risk, more growth. But it’s also given us a sense of purpose that goes beyond just our family. Yes, it’s about raising our kids close to the land, seeing where their food comes from, and living a life that feels real and grounded. But it’s also about something bigger—getting clean, chemical-free food into as many hands as possible. Helping people reconnect with what food is supposed to be. Reminding them that where it comes from matters.

It hasn’t been easy. Far from it. But through every twist and turn, it’s given us glimpses of something deeply good—families eating better, farmers finding hope, and communities starting to care again about what’s on their tables. That’s the bigger picture that keeps us going. The one that makes all the hard days worth it.

Lately, I’ve been trying to understand what it actually means to let go of control and lean into faith. It doesn’t come naturally for me. I’m used to solving problems, fixing things, pushing through. But this journey keeps reminding me that I’m not the one in charge. And oddly enough, that realization—though uncomfortable—feels very real.