I didn’t even know “crunchy” was a term until about six months ago.
I heard an influencer mention it in passing, and at the time, I don’t think I fully understood what she meant. Now, as I’ve observed more conversations and communities forming around it, I think the general idea points toward a more natural approach to life—what you eat and drink, how you care for your home and body, even how you approach medical care.
But I also think it’s a little more ambiguous than that. A little more personal. A little more… seasonal.
And if I’m being honest, sometimes a little more judgmental than it needs to be.
So let me say this clearly: I’m not writing from a place of judgment.
I think most people are doing the best they can with what they have. time, money, energy, knowledge, it all matters. And it all shifts. We don’t always get to operate at our “ideal,” whatever that even means to you or me, today or another day.
I didn’t grow up “crunchy,” exactly.
My mom had a garden. She canned and pickled. She even made some of our clothes and thrifted when she could. But she also made mashed potatoes from a box. I remember when I first got married, my husband wanted mashed potatoes made from actual potatoes. And I didn’t know how to do it.
Now I do.
And maybe someday I’ll grow my own.
My life has moved in and out of what I now recognize as “crunchy” seasons.
There was a time I grew tomatoes and made my own sauce. I made bread. Even noodles from scratch. But that was during a season when life allowed for it, when I had the time and space to create in that way.
Then life shifted.
I became a single mom. I had to work outside the home. And a lot of those slower, more intentional practices faded quickly. I was doing what felt more like air traffic control, just trying to keep everything from crashing.
Later, I found my way back toward those habits again, but for a different reason.
Health.
After being diagnosed with an autoimmune condition, I started paying closer attention. I reduced prepackaged foods. Swapped out household and personal care products. Tried essential oils. At one point, I even stopped wearing deodorant altogether.
(I know. That one might raise some eyebrows.)
I bought a push mower. No gas, no electricity. My kids, who were responsible for mowing the lawn at the time, were not impressed. Eventually, I replaced it with a battery-powered one and gave the push mower away.
Ironically, I kind of miss it now.
It’s funny how we can romanticize things we didn’t actually have to do ourselves.
For a long time, I lived what I would call “crunchy-adjacent.”
And then life shifted again.
A bigger health scare. An early-stage breast cancer diagnosis.
At first, I felt grateful it was caught early. That there were treatment options. That there was research and a path forward.
But over time, something else surfaced.
Anger.
Not all at once. Not like a switch flipped. But slowly, steadily, it built.
The appointments. The specialists. The imaging. The biopsies. The prescriptions. The cost of it all. Not just financially, but emotionally.
It felt like being placed on a very expensive hamster wheel.
And for a while, it didn’t matter what I did, how “clean” I ate, how careful I tried to be—nothing made me feel truly safe or secure.
At one point, I even started to resent the color pink. And pink had always been a gravitational force for me.
That was a strange realization.
I share that part because I think there’s an assumption that a health crisis automatically pushes someone further into a “natural” lifestyle.
But for me, it disrupted everything.
Including my sense of control.
Now, here I am again.
Not flipping a switch. Not diving headfirst into anything extreme.
Just… returning. Gently.
I hang my 100% cotton sheets, yes, from Walmart, on a rotary clothesline from Home Depot.
I think about growing herbs and maybe a few vegetables, even if space (and my HOA) limit what’s possible.
I’m slowly gathering supplies to make my own cleaning products. Maybe even some personal care items.
Will I do all the “crunchy” things?
No.
Some don’t make sense for me right now. Some aren’t practical. Some are too expensive. Some just don’t resonate.
And that’s okay.
Because what I’m learning, what this whole journey has been teaching me, is that this isn’t about doing everything “right.”
It’s about choosing what aligns, in the season you’re in, with the resources you have.
Time. Money. Energy. Capacity.
All of it counts.
Maybe “crunchy” isn’t a label to live up to.
Maybe it’s just a series of small, intentional choices.
Some seasons we do more. Some seasons we do less.
And sometimes, just hanging your sheets in the sun is enough.