I don’t usually lose my cool over strangers, but today nearly pushed me there. It started at the feed store, where I was picking up mineral blocks and fencing wire — just another day in mud-caked boots, faded jeans, and a braid tucked under my old ball cap. The man at the counter looked me up and down and asked if my “husband” would be loading the truck. I smiled and told him my husband left five years ago — and that the cows didn’t seem to mind. His face flushed, but the sting of that question lingered. It wasn’t the first time someone mistook me for “playing rancher.”
People see blonde hair and assume softness, not strength. What they don’t see are the 2 a.m. calvings, the endless fence repairs, the frozen water lines I fix before sunrise. I manage 240 acres alone, and while some neighbors worry about me, I’ve patched their pipes in snowstorms more times than I can count. But the day took a darker turn when I found a letter nailed to my barn door: “I know what you did with the west pasture.” My heart dropped. That pasture was my pride — 30 acres I’d restored by hand. The next morning, fresh footprints led to the pond, and the barn door bore new scratches. Even Pepper, my Australian Shepherd, was on edge.
I called Roy and my friend Lucia, and soon the sheriff’s department was involved. Turns out, the “mystery” came from a property consultant trying to intimidate me into selling. They’d been snooping, hoping fear would make me cave. But fear has no place here. With photos, witness statements, and support from my community, we shut it down fast. Once the dust settled, the fear gave way to gratitude. I realized that strength doesn’t mean doing everything alone — it means standing tall and letting the right people stand with you when it matters.
A week later, I returned to that same feed store. The clerk didn’t say much — just nodded as I loaded my truck myself. The respect was subtle but real. I drove home with the sun cutting through the windshield, pride swelling in my chest. This ranch is more than land — it’s proof that I can hold my own. People might see a “Cowgirl Barbie,” but I know better. I’m calloused hands, stubborn hope, and hard-won peace. Grit over glitter, always.