
If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be living on a farm with thirty other people—sharing everything from income to lasagna recipes—I would’ve laughed. It sounded like something out of a movie, or maybe a cult. But now, sitting on the porch of our farmhouse, I know it’s neither of those things.
Sure, people outside sometimes ask if we’re a cult. They imagine we’re some sort of brainwashed collective, repeating the same slogans and never letting anyone leave. That’s not how it works here.
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