If you've stood in a supermarket checkout line anytime in the last decade, chances are you've seen Janna Breslin. Maybe you don't know the name, but the face—and yes, the body—are impossible to miss. Ten magazine covers, countless campaigns, and millions of followers have made her one of the most recognizable figures in health and wellness.
The irony is that Breslin is a self-professed introvert. A California girl who's always been more comfortable in small circles than center stage, she never planned on building a public life. But life had other plans. In her twenties, she was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The road back to health was anything but typical. It was alternative medicine, lifting heavy weights, eating clean food, and rebuilding her body piece by piece. She shared that fight on social media—not because she wanted attention, but because it kept her accountable. The world noticed anyway. Millions watched as she transformed from a frail 98 pounds into a powerhouse athlete, less concerned with aesthetics than with performance.
But the spotlight isn't gentle. A toxic marriage, the contradictions of social media, the endless scrutiny—all of it forced her to step back, reassess, and rebuild again. At the end of that chapter, there was Evan.
Evan DeMarco is a true renaissance man, though one who often looks like he'd be more comfortable in another century. He's a scientist, entrepreneur, and regenerative farmer. He writes children's books, not because it was on a bucket list, but because of his daughter, Piper. For her, he wanted stories that reflected the kind of world he hopes she will inherit: playful, magical, honest, and full of possibility. He can toggle between quoting Marcus Aurelius and diagramming metabolic pathways without missing a beat. For him, there's no real separation between science, philosophy, and survival—they're all just pieces of the same puzzle.
Together, Breslin and DeMarco are gravity. They orbit one another with ease, but pull everyone else into their world too. They're the couple behind Modern Homestead, the hit TV show that turns their rural Tennessee experiment into a spectacle of trial, error, and triumph. They're also the founders of The Immortal, an olive oil brand born from Janna's health journey and Evan's obsession with transparency. And they're betting big on green building technology—convinced that thermal batteries and off-grid systems will be as crucial to the future as running water.
Which is how I find myself here, turning off a backroad in Tennessee where my GPS insists I'm in the right place. There are no signs, just a gravel drive that winds through the trees. The instructions I'd been given were simple: Follow the long, winding road.
At the crest of a ridge, the landscape opens. Below me sits one of the most striking properties I've ever seen. A massive white dome rises from the earth like something dropped here from another planet. Beside it, a smaller, clear dome glints in the sunlight. Scattered across the land are cows, baby goats, and a camera crew darting around like they're late for a shot. And at the center of it all are Janna and Evan.
From a distance, their dynamic is obvious. Janna radiates warmth, smiling, laughing, checking on crew members to make sure they're fed and hydrated. Evan is intensity incarnate, arms moving as he directs the team like a conductor guiding a symphony. She is the breeze that makes everyone feel good. He is the force that makes everything move forward.
Digging In
When I step out of the car, Janna greets me with a hug that feels like we've known each other for years. Evan offers a quick handshake, but before I can catch my breath, there's a shovel in my hand and a tree waiting for a hole. It's while digging that I start to understand him. He talks as he works, launching into a mini-lecture on a modified potassium mix that will cut down on irrigation needs. Mid-sentence, a crew member calls his name for direction on a shot. Minutes later, one of the builders needs him for placement advice. He nods, excuses himself, and disappears back into the rhythm of the farm. Suddenly, it's just Janna and me, side by side with the shovels. The energy shifts instantly. Where Evan is kinetic, sharp, and relentless, she's grounding, soft, and easy. Within moments, I get why the world is in love with her—she makes you feel like you belong.
The Dome
When Evan returns, we head toward the massive white dome that crowns the property. From the outside, it looks otherworldly, almost alien against the Tennessee hills. Inside, it feels like a cathedral carved from light. Sun pours through skylights and bounces across curved walls, softened by Janna's touch—plants trailing from shelves, cozy textiles in earth tones, furniture that looks as if it belongs both in a farmhouse and a modern loft.
Evan doesn't start with the design, though. He starts with the systems humming beneath it all.
"This dome isn't just pretty," he says. "We're running an aerobic digester that processes waste and feeds into a thermal battery. That system gives us hot water across the whole property—completely off-grid."
He mentions SolThera, the company they acquired to bring the technology here, and explains how the batteries can capture and store heat that would otherwise be wasted.
Janna smiles as he talks, then gestures around the room. "And I just make sure the space feels like home."
It's the duality that defines them: her, tending to comfort, connection, and warmth; him, designing systems to power it all. They both speak with such confidence that it comes as a surprise when Evan suddenly admits what I don't expect to hear.
"Honestly? We still don't know what we're doing. Homesteading is constant trial and error. Try, fail, retry—that's the rhythm of this place."
The thing is—he loves it. His face lights up when he says it. The failures aren't setbacks, they're data points. A hypothesis is tested. A new chance to iterate. Watching him talk, I realize this is the scientist in him—not confined to a lab, but roaming the land, always testing, tweaking, recalibrating.
Janna laughs, brushing dirt from her hands. "And people love that about the show. They've seen the ugly greenhouse that blew away. They've seen us replace it with this dome. They've seen the shower Evan insisted on building inside it. The audience gets to grow with us. It's messy, it's chaotic, but it's real."
Standing there in the dome, listening to the two of them volley between science and story, design and data, I realize that Modern Homestead works for the same reason their marriage does. It's not about perfection. It's about evolution.
Hell's Cabin
From the dome, Evan and Janna guide me down a winding path through the trees. The walk takes about ten minutes, just long enough for them to fill me in on what has become the property's most notorious failure: the cabin.
"We thought this was it," Janna says, her voice carrying a trace of nostalgia. "A little rustic cabin in the woods—the perfect starting point for our off-grid dream."
Evan laughs, though there's no joy in it. "Day one, we pulled a board off the wall and watched these brown recluses come weeping out of the wall. That was our welcome."
It only got worse. Black mold threaded through the ceilings, and termites gnawed their way through the foundation. What began as an idyllic vision of a simpler life quickly curdled into what they now call Hell's Cabin.
By the time we reach the clearing, I can see why. The cabin squats in the trees like a wounded animal—leaning, weathered, beaten. The structure seems to radiate bad energy. I don't go inside. I don't need to.
Evan folds his arms, studying it. "Tomorrow, it ends," he says simply.
I look at him, then at Janna. They exchange a glance, equal parts relief and anticipation. I ask what they mean, and that's when I'm sworn to secrecy. All I can say is that something spectacular is planned for the following day—something I'll be watching right alongside their audience when season two of Modern Homestead airs.
We stand there for another moment, the three of us staring at the cabin like jurors at a sentencing. Then Janna breaks the tension with a laugh and a tug on my arm. "Come on," she says. "There's more to see."
We turn back toward the heart of the homestead, leaving the cabin in the shadows where it belongs.
Lunch Break: The Immortal
By the time we make our way back from the cabin, the crew is breaking for lunch. The smell of smoke and seared beef drifts across the property, pulling everyone toward the grill. On the long picnic table sits a platter of burgers—juicy and charred at the edges—alongside a Mediterranean-style salad glistening with a drizzle of golden-green olive oil. Janna points at the bottle resting near the salad like it's the guest of honor.
"That's The Immortal," she says with a grin.
We sit, plates balanced on our laps, and I take the chance to shift the conversation.
Q: Olive oil doesn't exactly scream disruptor brand. Why make it your thing?
Evan: "Because the whole industry is broken. The Environmental Working Group estimates that up to 80% of the extra virgin olive oil sold in the U.S. is adulterated with cheap, toxic seed oils. That means people think they're buying health, when in reality they're buying fraud. No accountability, no transparency. So yes—it's disruptive. Not because olive oil is new, but because honesty is."
He says it flatly, without drama, like a fact too obvious to dispute. And as I taste the salad—bright, peppery, the oil coating the greens in a way that feels almost decadent—it's easy to see why The Immortal has become one of the top-selling brands in the U.S. People are waking up to the difference.
Janna: "For me, it's mythology. Athena gave the olive tree to humans as a gift—life, wisdom, endurance. That story always resonated. When I got sick, I realized how much of what we think is healthy isn't. Learning about olive oil adulteration was devastating. So we wanted to create something that felt like a gift. Not just a bottle, but a ritual that could actually change lives."
She gestures toward the salad. "Food should feel like this—simple, nourishing, alive."
Q: And the Immortal Shot?
Janna: "Oh, that's my ritual. Olive oil and lemon juice first thing in the morning. I posted it online, and it went viral—tens of millions of views. Now people all over the world start their mornings that way. It's not about trends, it's about connection. Claiming your morning before the world claims you."
Q: What makes your oil different from the others?
Evan: "Transparency. We went to the source. Our partner Angel in Spain manages the entire process—farm, press, bottling. It's vertically integrated, which means there's no middleman cutting corners. Every batch is tested for purity. When you buy The Immortal, you're getting exactly what's on the label. Nothing more, nothing less."
Janna: "It's become more than olive oil. It's a movement. People feel like they're part of something—something timeless. That's why we called it The Immortal. Olive trees live thousands of years. We wanted to capture that sense of endurance, of vitality."
Around us, the crew eats and laughs. The dome gleams in the distance, the cabin broods in the trees, and here in the middle of it all, a bowl of salad becomes the centerpiece of a larger conversation.
The Immortal isn't just selling bottles. It's rewriting trust in food itself.
Work and Reward
After lunch, I'm handed over to the farm. Not to tour it, but to work it.
In the span of a few hours, I dig more holes for saplings, help Evan align a solar array to power the container-ship kitchen they're building, and assist Janna in running pipes for a new grey water system. Each task is foreign to me, but they guide me patiently. I find myself marveling at how Evan keeps the whole operation on track—always aware of what's happening around him, always patient and kind, yet always marching forward as though the mission itself is the only compass that matters.
It is exhausting, repetitive, dirty. And yet, it's peaceful. There's a serenity in the rhythm of it—the scrape of the shovel, the click of metal brackets on solar panels, the splash of water flowing into new channels. What surprises me most isn't just the satisfaction of working with my hands, but the sense of community threaded through it. Everyone contributes. It's a quiet antidote to the fractured, disconnected pace of city life.
By late afternoon, I'm covered in sweat and dirt, sore in places I didn't know could ache, and, against all logic, genuinely happy.
Janna and Evan reappear, grinning at my state. "You've earned it," she says. Together, they lead me toward the clear dome that's been shimmering in my peripheral vision all day.
Inside, it feels like stepping into another world.
"This is my Fern Gully," Janna says, her voice lilting with pride. "My fairy-tale castle."
In the center of the giant see-through dome rises a cedar-wood shower, built from trees felled on their own property. The structure glows warmly against a sea of green. Ferns, palms, and trailing vines cascade around it. The air is thick with humidity and scent, alive with the rustle of leaves and the quiet trickle of water. Science and nature converge here—the thermal battery Evan installed powers the whole thing, but it feels less like technology and more like magic.
"This is us in a nutshell," Evan laughs. "I builds the systems, she makes it beautiful."
They hand me a towel and step back. "Go on," Janna says. "You'll never forget it."
The water hits my shoulders and I laugh out loud. It's otherworldly—like showering in the rainforest, light filtering through the dome, plants pressing in close as if they're part of the ritual. The cedar walls exhale their scent into the steam and mix perfectly with the rosemary and citrus plants. For a moment, it feels like I've stepped into a dream where civilization and wilderness, technology and nature, are no longer at odds but perfectly fused.
By the time I step back out, dripping and reborn, I understand what they've built here isn't just a homestead. It's a vision of how life could be—messy, physical, yes, but also transcendent.
Firelight and the Future
As the last light fades, Evan builds a fire just outside the dome. Janna curls up beside him, knees tucked, a blanket around her shoulders. I settle in across from them, still warm from the water, now warmed again by the fire.
The pace of the day finally slows. Evan, who has spent every moment in constant forward motion—directing, digging, teaching—leans back. His body rests, but his mind does the opposite. In the flicker of firelight, his thoughts ignite.
"The Kardashev scale," he begins, "measures a civilization's advancement by how it uses energy. And right now, we're sliding backwards." He pokes at the fire, the sparks floating up like stars. "We've built a world that wastes what it has, that scrambles for resources while ignoring the obvious. Government is rarely the solution and almost always the problem. Pierce Brown said that, and he was right."
He gestures upward. "The sun cranks out enough energy in a single hour to power Earth for a year. One hour. And yet here we are, still burning through dead dinosaurs like it's the best we can do."
He talks about SolThera—the company they acquired, the thermal batteries that turn waste heat, solar heat, and a myriad of other inputs into stored power. Systems that can give hot water to a dome in Tennessee or energy security to an entire community. His words don't come like a pitch. They come like prophecy—an impassioned plea to anyone who will listen.
Across the fire, Janna watches him with the same quiet smile she's worn all day. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't need to. She grounds the moment just by being in it.
When the conversation softens back into the personal, I ask how they balance all of this—the work, the mission, the marriage.
"Intimacy," Janna says without hesitation. "That's our foundation. If we don't protect that, nothing else works."
"Our date nights are simple," Evan adds. "A steak, Japanese sweet potatoes, a great conversation. When we have my daughter, it's games. Throw Throw Avocado, Catan, whatever makes her laugh. That's the center of my universe. Every decision I make—olive oil, SolThera, this whole place—I make with her in mind. Her lifetime. And her kids' lifetime. That's the timeline I'm working on."
The fire pops. The stars press in overhead. For the first time all day, there's no crew, no noise—just the three of us sitting in the glow. And it's impossible not to notice: these two don't just love each other. They love being with each other. The playfulness, the friction, the tenderness—it's all real, and it's all right here in front of me.
As the fire dies to embers, so does the day. I gather my things, say my goodbyes, and drive back down the long winding road. I came expecting a quick couple of hours of questions and answers, maybe a glossy look at a TV couple with a side hustle.
I leave realizing that Janna and Evan aren't building a brand. They're building a future.
Their lives aren't simple, but their missions are. Better food. Better energy. Better ways of living. They don't talk about themselves. They talk about ideas. Concepts. Possibilities. Unlike most influencers or TV stars, they seem to shrink from the spotlight—but the spotlight keeps finding them. Maybe because destiny demands it.
For them, social media and television aren't the goal. They're the tools. The real work is in the dirt, in the dome, by the fire. And maybe that's why this feels different. Because when you strip away the noise, what they're really doing is reminding us that the future isn't something to wait for. It's something to build.
And as my headlights catch the bend of the road back toward the city, I realize this wasn't just one of the most unusual interviews I've done. It was one of the most transformative—leaving me asking the very question Evan and Janna seem to live by: What kind of future do you want?
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