I don’t usually let people get to me—but today came close.
At the feed store, covered in mud and sweat after a long morning, I got that look from the guy behind the counter. Then came the comment:
“You need directions to the gift shop, ma’am?”
And the kicker: “Will your husband be loading the truck for you?”
I told him my husband left five years ago—and the cows didn’t seem to care. I’ve been running 240 acres solo ever since. Calving at 2 a.m., hauling hay, fixing busted lines in snowstorms. But all some people see is blonde hair under a baseball cap.
That same day, I found a note nailed to my barn door. No name. No return address. Just:
“We know what you’re doing.”
It rattled me. The west pasture is my pride—it’s where I rebuilt after my ex left. I reseeded, repaired, poured everything into it. Who was accusing me of something, and why?
I drove over to ask my neighbor Roy. He looked genuinely surprised. “There’s been talk about you selling your heifers,” he said. “People gossip.” He offered to help if I needed it. I left unconvinced—but grateful.
Next morning, my dog Pepper froze during our fence check. Fresh footprints near the barn. Scratches on the door. Someone had tried to pry it open.
I told my friend Lucia. Her response was immediate:
“Someone’s trying to scare you. Don’t let them.”
So I called the sheriff. Warned my neighbors. Two days later, Roy called: “Saw someone by your fence. Got the plate number.”
The sheriff traced it to a private land consultant hired by a development company. They were using intimidation to pressure landowners into selling.
They picked the wrong woman.
Once word got out, other ranchers stood up too. The county stepped in. The developer backed off.
Weeks later, I walked back into that same feed store. The guy behind the counter didn’t joke this time. Just gave me a respectful nod.
I drove off with the sun on my face and something new in my chest: pride.
Because I didn’t back down. And I didn’t do it alone.
I used to think strength meant doing it all yourself. But real strength? It’s knowing when to stand your ground—and when to let others stand beside you.
People thought I was just a girl playing cowgirl. They learned different.
I’m grit, not glitter.
And I’m not going anywhere.
