I don’t usually let strangers get under my skin, but today came close. At the feed store, a man assumed my husband did all the ranch work. I run 240 acres alone—birthing calves at 2 a.m., fixing fences in snowstorms, hauling hay—but because of my blonde hair and ball cap, people see “Cowgirl Barbie” instead of a rancher.
Then I found a note on my barn: “I know what you did with the west pasture.” My pride and joy had been tampered with. Footprints and scratches confirmed someone had been there. Was it a prank? No—someone was trying to intimidate me.
With the sheriff’s help and neighbors watching, we discovered the culprit: a private land consultant pressuring ranchers to sell. The intimidation failed. I stood my ground.
By the next week, respect replaced assumptions. That “blonde girl playing cowgirl”? She runs this ranch. And I’ve learned real strength isn’t doing it all alone—it’s knowing when to let others stand with you.
Grit, not glitter. That’s what keeps this land—and me—standing.