Terra Valley Farms Brand Refresh: Growing a Place for Gathering

Since we bought the farm two years ago, a proper introduction has lingered on my to-do list. What we’re building at Terra Valley Farms isn’t just about what we grow or who we host—it’s also me, my story, and how the two intertwine. I’ve shared glimpses here and there, but I’ve been waiting for the chance to pause long enough to tell how this farm found its way into my life and where I hope to take it. Now, as we wrap up the brand refresh we began back in January, it feels like the right moment to finally put that story into words—and cross this long-standing task off the list.

So, hello again—or hello for the first time.

If we haven’t met yet, my name is Chelcie. I’m a fifth-generation farmer in Western Washington and the owner of Terra Valley Farms. I spend my time juggling a mix of roles: growing berries, flowers, and seasonal produce; hosting weddings in our ceremony garden and reception pavilion; and welcoming the community to u-pick days, open houses, and events on the farm.

At its heart, this place is about more than farming. It’s about experiences—whether that’s a couple exchanging vows in the gazebo, kids running out of the field with berry-stained chins, or neighbors gathering for a workshop or farmstand stop. Every season looks a little different, but the common thread is creating a space where people can connect with the land, with each other, and with a story bigger than themselves.

Astrologically speaking, I’m a Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon, Pisces rising—equal parts dreamer, wanderer, and sentimentalist. I grew up in Kansas, where my family raised cattle and grew cereal grains for generations. I was president of my 4-H club, the kind of kid who hauled hay after school and spent every spare minute in the barn. Most weekends were spent showing all-around classes at AQHA shows around the country with my horses Mr. T and Cookie—hunt coats in one class, rhinestones in the next, ribbons following us home. There were plenty of good things about that life, but my dream was always to leave. I wanted the energy of a big city, coffee shops on every corner, and a little more chaos than small-town Kansas could offer.

When I left for college, life took a turn. After a few major changes, I graduated with a fine art degree—a degree that didn’t exactly come with a roadmap. My husband, Troy and I moved to Denver, where he pursued his master’s in Landscape Architecture, and I found myself building a career in the tech world.

I was designing websites and apps that millions of people used every day, and over time I grew into a design leader—shaping product experiences, mentoring younger designers, organizing meetups, and speaking on panels. I connected with some of the brightest minds in the industry, and by many measures, I was “successful.”

The path in front of me was clear: bigger titles, bigger teams, more responsibility. I could see exactly what the next twenty years of my life might look like if I stayed the course. And yet, as polished and predictable as that future appeared, something about it felt incomplete—like it would never quite reach the deepest part of me.

I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I decided to return to agriculture—it was more of a slow circling back. After our years in Denver, we moved to Seattle during the pandemic. By then, Troy was already well into his career as a landscape architect, while I was still searching for what came next. During Zoom meetings, I’d find myself half-listening while scrolling listings for small businesses for sale.

The truth is, even at the height of my design career, I never stopped growing things. Whether it was a community garden plot, a handful of pots on a patio, or a little yard in whatever city we lived, I always found myself tending something. The tech world gave me so much—skills, perspective, creative range—but I missed the rhythm of seasons, the quiet work of soil, the joy of growing something you could touch, taste, and share.

And that’s when it started to click: I didn’t just want a side project or a pretty garden. I wanted to build something lasting, something rooted in my background but shaped by my creativity. A farm that was more than a farm. A place where design, agriculture, and experience could live side-by-side.

Then came a layoff from a job I loved, which cracked something open in me. Not long after, I walked the Camino de Santiago in Spain, with nothing but a pack on my shoulders, fueled by bocadillos and albariño, and discovering how life feels when you finally slow down enough to notice it. By the time I returned home, my late-night online browsing turned into scheduling in-person farm tours.

Buying the property was its own leap of faith. From the beginning, I knew the name would change, and the first brand identity we put out into the world was really just a placeholder. It was enough to get us started, to put a sign on the gate and a logo on the website, but it never fully reflected what we were creating here.

That’s why working with Christi on this refresh felt so important. She and I had collaborated before, but this time was different—I wasn’t the designer guiding someone else’s vision. I was the one sitting on the other side of the table, answering the big, searching questions. It was humbling, exciting, and deeply affirming.

The process reminded me that brands aren’t static. They’re alive, they evolve, and they grow right alongside the people and places they represent.

The farm is still the same—berry-stained smiles, armfuls of flowers, celebrations tucked between the fields. But it’s also a work in progress, always becoming, season-by-season. Its story is still unfolding, and now the way we introduce ourselves to the world finally feels like it belongs to both who we are and who we’re becoming.

So yes, we’ve rebranded. But more than that, we’ve reintroduced ourselves. It’s going to be a slow roll-out—because like everyone else, I only get 24 hours in a day, and the to-do list around here seems to stretch on forever. But piece by piece, season-by-season, this new identity will make its way into the farm.

The new look is rooted in the land itself. The colors come straight from the valley—fog, lichen, moss, oak, blueberry—tones you can spot in a morning mist, a patch of wildflowers, or the shadowed edges of the woods. Our typography carries that same balance: one font is elegant and timeless, echoing rolling hills and woodland charm, while the other is clean and modern, clear enough to guide someone to the right row of berries or their seat at a wedding.

The voice we’re carrying forward is warm, thoughtful, and a little wild—because this place has never been just a venue or a u-pick. It’s an invitation to gather, to celebrate, and to rediscover a sense of wonder in everyday nature

Thanks for being here as we grow into it.