I Tried to Go Full Cottagecore and Accidentally Started a War With a Squirrel.

You know cottagecore, right?

That dreamy aesthetic where you abandon modern life to bake sourdough, wear flowy linen dresses, grow herbs, and live among the butterflies like a fairy who also makes her own jam?

Well, I saw exactly three TikToks and a Pinterest board titled “Wistful Mushrooms & Gentle Melancholy” and decided I was ready to give up capitalism and fully embrace my inner woodland maiden.

Spoiler: I live in a very suburban apartment with noisy neighbours and zero fields of wildflowers.

But that didn’t stop me.

What followed was one week of trying to live my best pastoral fantasy and instead discovering that squirrels are jerks, flour is a liar, and homemade tea tastes suspiciously like grass.

Let’s begin.

Day 1: The Aesthetic Transformation (Or: Why I Now Own an Apron I Can’t Explain)

Step one: Look the part.

I ordered a cottagecore starter kit online (yes, that’s a thing):

A linen apron

A mushroom-printed tea towel

A suspiciously large wicker basket

Dried flowers that smelled like sadness and commitment

I also thrifted a dress that looked like I was either about to churn butter or join a cult. Perfect.

I wore it while holding a book of poetry and staring wistfully out the window. It was all going well until the mailman caught my eye and said, “You okay?”

I just whispered, “The forest speaks,” and closed the blinds.

Day 2: Baking Bread and Burning Down Expectations

No cottagecore lifestyle is complete without rustic bread.

I followed a sourdough recipe called “Ancient Starter, Modern Soul”. It required me to make a starter from scratch and name it. (I named mine “Flourence”.)

The recipe warned: “Feed it every 12 hours and don’t give up.”

Within three hours, Flourence smelt like gym socks and betrayal. By hour six, she was bubbling ominously like a science fair volcano.

Still, I persisted.

I kneaded. I let it rise. I prayed to the gluten gods. I accidentally left it on the heater and created a yeast monster.

The final bread was… a rock. A sincere, heavy, emotionally distant loaf. I still thanked it, like a good cottagecore peasant.

Then I ordered pizza and blamed it on modernity.

Day 3: Tea Making and the Subtle Taste of Lawn

Inspired by forest witches on TikTok, I decided to forage herbs for homemade tea.

My apartment balcony has two pots of mint and something I think is lavender. So I plucked a few leaves, dried them, and brewed my first cup of what I called “Mystic Meadow Elixir”.

It tasted like a lawn clippings smoothie.

I tried adding honey. Then lemon. Then a prayer.

Still tasted like regret. I tried to smile through it like a soft, whimsical wood nymph, but I gagged and burnt my tongue.

In the end, I poured it into a mason jar, added a flower, and just looked at it. Aesthetic over flavour. Cottagecore rule #1.

Day 4: Gardening and the Rise of the Squirrel

Okay. The garden.

I don’t have a yard, so I transformed my balcony into a mini cottagecore sanctuary. I planted rosemary, thyme, and—because I’m dramatic—edible flowers.

I even set up a tiny table where I could journal about mushrooms while pretending I had Victorian secrets.

But then he arrived.

The squirrel.

He stared at me from the tree like he was the mayor of the neighbourhood and I had built on his turf. I named him Sir Chompsalot.

At first, we coexisted. He’d glare. I’d sip tea. Very Jane Austen meets Animal Planet.

But then I caught him digging up my rosemary like it owed him money.

He looked me in the eye. He challenged me.

The war had begun.

Day 5: The Cottagecore Breakdown

I tried to crochet. I really did.

But my “delicate handwoven shawl” looked like a net designed to trap ghosts. My jam didn’t set. My cottagecore playlist looped the same song 18 times.

And Sir Chompsalot was now actively mocking me—he brought a friend.

I looked around at the chaos: dead bread, cursed tea, plants with PTSD, and myself in a milkmaid dress Googling “Can squirrels smell fear?”

It all came crashing down.

I stood in my apron and whispered, “I just wanted to be gentle.”

Then I ate a Pop-Tart and stared into the abyss.

Day 6: Acceptance, Mushrooms, and a Minor Victory

I decided to scale back.

I lit a candle. I put on soft music. I wrote a poem about the thyme plant that had been slightly chewed but not defeated.

I even tried mushroom painting. (You paint actual mushrooms, apparently. It’s a whole vibe.

Turns out, I’m bad at that too. But it didn’t matter. I laughed. I burnt incense. Sir Chompsalot pooped in one of my flowerpots, and I didn’t even scream.

That’s growth.

Day 7: The Final Picnic

I set up a final picnic to close the week—complete with homemade lemonade (from a mix, but shhh), thrifted dishes, and a scarf for a tablecloth.

I wore my big sunhat and took selfies like I was the last survivor of a Jane Eyre cosplay convention.

I sat in the sun, surrounded by slightly traumatised herbs, and read poetry.

Sir Chompsalot watched me from a tree. I nodded respectfully. He nodded back. (Or maybe he blinked. Hard to tell.)

We had reached détente.

And for a moment, just a moment, I did feel like a forest sprite. A whimsical, dusty, tea-burnt sprite. But still.

What I Learned from Cottagecore

The aesthetic is peaceful. The execution is chaos.

Especially when squirrels are involved.

You can be romantic and rustic… even with frozen waffles.

It’s about vibe, not perfection.

Bread is hard. Tea is harder. Squirrels are the hardest.

They do not respect linen.

Cottagecore isn’t about escaping life.

It’s about slowing down. Laughing at your failed jam. Crying over sourdough. Forgiving yourself when your picnic gets invaded by ants.

TL;DR:

I tried to live a dreamy, fairytale lifestyle.

I dressed like a baking ghost and fought a squirrel.

My tea was terrible, my bread was worse, and my soul was very slightly restored.

Would I do it again? Maybe.

Would I fight a squirrel again? Only if he throws the first acorn.