I was sick of never seeing my 6 kids. So I quit my Amazon job to become a tulip farmer.

• Andrew Miller was looking for a way to be more present with his family.
• He decided to quit his job in Big Tech, move back to his hometown, and become a tulip farmer.
• Now, he says his family can take three weeks off in the summer because of how hard they work the rest of the year.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Andrew Miller, 50, in Mount Vernon, Washington, the owner of Tulip Valley Farms. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I remember the moment I looked around my office and saw only performative culture staring back at me.

Between 70-hour workweeks that started at 4 a.m. and growing disagreements with how the company was being run, I knew something had to give.

It wasn't hard work that scared me. Before corporate life, I spent 14 years in the Air Force and National Guard.

But as my family grew, I started questioning the path I was on. I'd never been deployed, but I knew it was likely. With two autistic children at home, my family needed me present. After leaving the military, I landed a corporate role at Amazon.

It went well for a while, but I was rarely seeing my family, and it wasn't the life I'd envisioned. I realized that while some people live for their role, my most important job was being a dad — I have six kids.

So, in 2015, I quit my job at Amazon. My wife, Holly, supported my decision, knowing that I was completely drained and losing my sense of purpose.

We also decided it was time to move back to Washington, where we both grew up.

Skagit County is a place where your kids can run down the trail to a relative's house if they don't like what you're serving for dinner.

It's also home to an annual tulip festival that's been held for over 40 years.

Finding my calling back home

I took a strategy role with the county's economic development team, working on growth and equity.

Skagit sits at the intersection of outdoor recreation, tourism, and agriculture — yet while the county once had about 4,000 acres of tulips, that number had dropped to roughly 500. I knew we needed a new model, or this county wouldn't be the home of tulips anymore.

I came up with an idea and went for it. I decided to buy a tulip farm and reimagine what it could be — not just a working farm, but a place people wanted to hang out.

Lessons on buying a farm

In 2018, I bought my first farm. In the months leading up to the purchase, I quickly learned that many agricultural problems are really business problems.

The questions weren't just about growing tulips; they were about the experience: How many tulips could we grow? What kind of customer experience could we create? And how should we design the layout of the fields for tourists?

To prepare, I raised capital with friends and spent six weeks shadowing an 85-year-old Dutch farmer who had been growing tulips since 1984. He and his wife told me they had turned down 16 other buyers before choosing me. He died shortly afterward, and after his death, I moved forward with taking over the farm.

My former business partner and I bought the 30-acre property for $1.6 million, including both the land and the business.

In those first months of farm life, my approach was pure curiosity.

Bumps in the road

Then the pandemic hit, just 10 days before opening.

We pivoted to flower shipping, and eventually added you-pick experiences once restrictions eased. From what I could see, no one in Skagit County was doing that.

I've learned that I tend to learn things the hard way. My daughter even bought me a pen that reads: "Maybe I like doing it the hard way."

The fresh approach worked, but my business partnership didn't. After differences in vision, we split, and I went on to buy a second farm: Tulip Valley Farm, which I still run today. I bought it from a 70-year-old potato farmer with hazelnut trees.

He believed in my vision.

Building a new career and a legacy

Today, my 23-year-old son can operate a forklift, which he learned when he was 15. My sister runs business management and communications.

I still work from 5 a.m. until bedtime, but now I'm home. I'm serving my community.

I'll walk into Costco, and my kids will scatter when someone recognizes me from the farm. My family is happy to know we can take three weeks off in the summer because of how hard we work the rest of the year.

They've seen the strain, the kitchen-table meetings, the risk of starting from scratch. I want them to see that.

Healing in the soil — for us, and for guests

Today, the farm is flourishing. Visitor numbers have doubled year over year for the past three years. We design the fields not just for farming, but for connection — proposals, photos, moments people want to share.

In a world where we are gagging for meaningful in-person experiences, people are drawn to farms. I get it. As someone with PTSD from my former career, I can also affirm that dirt therapy is the best therapy.

Being able to shape your own environment and build your own future is essential.