What Ranch Life Taught Me

I didn’t realize it at the time, but ranch life was teaching me more than just how to work hard. It was teaching me how to live well. A lot of it comes down to just showing up for those in need.

Showing Up When It’s Tough

• Work before rest.

  Chores came first. It taught me discipline, purpose, and that the best rest is earned.

  
  

• Show up even when you’re tired.

  The cows don’t care how you feel. And sometimes life doesn’t either. You show up, and you give what you’ve got.

  
  

• Life (and fences) break — fix it anyway.

  Nothing lasts forever. But learning to repair what’s broken, instead of walking away, is its own kind of strength.

  
  

• Mornings are earlier out here and they’re holy.

  The sky, the cool air, the quiet before the chaos. I learned to love mornings because of the ranch.

  
  

• Don’t wait on perfect conditions.

  The wind is always blowing. Do it anyway.  If you wait for the ideal moment, you’ll never get anything done. You learn to start anyway and to do the work in imperfect conditions and find joy in the effort.

  
  

• Fix it with what you’ve got.

  Baling wire, duct tape, a prayer, you figure it out. That kind of creativity sticks with you far beyond the barn. Ranch life makes you resourceful.

  
  

Things Don’t Go as Planned

• You’ll lose things you love. Keep going.

  Calves die. Droughts come. Summer ends. People leave. You don’t get to quit because your heart’s heavy. You carry the loss, and still, you feed the rest of the herd. That’s what strength really looks like.

  
  

• When in doubt, ride it out.

  I've ridden plenty of horses who just run with no care in the world. Sometimes, all you can do is hold tight, trust your footing, and keep going — until the way becomes clear.

  
  

• Fences break. So do hearts. Both can be mended.

  It takes time. And sometimes help. You can’t always fix it alone, and you don't have to. Mending is slow work. It requires patience, care, and the belief that what’s broken is still worth restoring.

  
  

• The land will teach you if you’re willing to listen.

  About patience. About time. About how things grow slow and deep. Growth happens in its own time.

Community That Cares

• Everyone pitches in — even if you don’t want to.

  Nobody is too good for a shovel or a pair of gloves. You learn to show up, not just for the work, but for each other.

  
  

• You eat together when the work’s done.

  Even if it’s late. Even if it’s leftovers. It tastes better when it’s shared.

  
  

• You show up for your neighbors.

  Whether it’s a funeral, a fence line, or working cattle, you go. No RSVP needed. You don’t wait to be asked, and you don’t keep score. Where I’m from, community means presence, not perfection.

  
  

• A case of beer is a preferred form of a Thank You note.

  Dropping off a couple of drinks as a thank you and getting a few handed back to you as an excuse to spend a little more time together is a pretty good way to show and be appreciated.

  
  

• You can say a lot with silence.

  Sometimes the best conversations happen without words; just a glance, a nod, a shared task that say "I see you, I am here with you, and this is where I am supposed to be."

When No One’s Watching

• Do it well, even if no one sees it.

  Integrity looks like cleaning out a water trough when no one’s watching. Your work reflects your character, not your audience. Show up with care, even when there’s no credit to earn.

  
  

• Pray like rain depends on it.

  Because sometimes it really does. I’ve seen storms miss us by a mile when the pasture was dry and the fields were cracking. That kind of waiting teaches you how to ask and trust with your whole heart.

  
  

• You are not in control.

  You can plan. You can prepare. But storms still roll in. Calves are born breech. Machinery breaks in the middle of harvest. There’s something freeing in admitting you’re not in charge and leaning on the One who is.

  
  

• Hard doesn’t mean bad.

  Hard just means real. Life on the ranch wasn’t easy. Hard stretches you, grows you, and shows you what you’re really made of.

  
  

The Little Things

• Wear jeans when you throw hay. Always.

  Every ranch kid learns that one the hard way. It usually comes with scratched legs and a bad attitude. It’s one of those simple, unwritten rules that sticks with you: be prepared, even if it’s uncomfortable. Long-term comfort usually comes from short-term grit.

  
  

• Real beauty doesn't demand attention.

  Sunsets hit different out here. You pause. You breathe. The noise of the day fades, and for just a moment, you remember what matters. Sunsets don’t ask for attention — they just show up in full color, like grace. It’s hard not to feel grateful when the sky looks like that.

  
  

• You don’t need much to be happy.

  Good boots, good dogs, good people — and a sky wide enough to hold all your dreams. Life on the ranch strips things down to what really matters. It taught me that happiness isn’t found in more, it’s found in being grateful for what you have.

I may not live on the ranch anymore, but it lives in me. In the way I work, the way I love people, the way I pray, and the way I hope. I carry that dusty, quiet strength with me everywhere I go.

All my love,

Neva