When She Leaves…

Look, I’m gonna be real with you for a minute. Sometimes when I’m out there doing the morning chores—zipping up tiny coats against the Wyoming wind, hauling feed buckets, and cursing at water that’s turned to ice again—I’ll catch myself just… watching her.

Watching this little human who gets genuinely excited about mucking stalls and thinks collecting eggs is the highlight of her entire day. And when I see her out there, completely in her element, pushing that wheelbarrow around like she’s running her own agricultural empire, something hits me right in the chest.

That kid is living the exact childhood I dreamed about.

Here’s the thing nobody talks about: I didn’t grow up on a farm. Not even close. I grew up in one of those cookie-cutter suburban neighbourhoods where the biggest agricultural adventure you could have was maybe growing some tomatoes in your mom’s flower bed—and even that was considered slightly weird by the homeowners association.

But even as a tiny kid, I knew something was missing. While my friends were playing house with their Barbies, I was out in our pathetic excuse for a backyard, pushing our family wheelbarrow around and pretending I was cleaning horse stalls. Pretty desperate behavior for a seven-year-old, but here we are.

I used to stare out my bedroom window at our neighbor’s perfectly manicured lawn and imagine horses grazing there instead. I’d beg my parents to take me to the feed store just so I could smell that sweet combination of grain and hay. I was basically that weird kid who got more excited about visiting farms than going to Disneyland.

The Great Escape to Wyoming

That childhood obsession eventually turned into what I can only describe as an all-consuming need to get the hell out of suburbia. So at eighteen—because apparently I thought I was invincible—I packed up everything I owned and moved 1,200 miles away to Wyoming.

My parents thought I’d lost my mind. My friends thought it was a phase. But I knew I was finally going where I belonged.

And holy crap, was it scary. Moving that far from everything familiar when you’re barely legally an adult is terrifying. But you know what? It was also the best decision I ever made, because it set the precedent for actually chasing the life I wanted instead of just accepting whatever seemed “normal.”

I spent years working with horses, learning everything I could about rural life, and slowly building the skills that would eventually become this homestead. When we finally bought our 67 acres in 2008, I literally walked on air for months. I still pinch myself sometimes.

But What If She Leaves?

Here’s where my brain starts spiraling in the most ridiculous way possible. People love to ask me, with this concerned look on their faces, “What are you going to do if your kids hate country life and want to move to the city as soon as they turn eighteen?”

And honestly? That question used to keep me up at night.

I used to panic about this possibility.

Think about it. This kid is learning things that most adults don’t even know how to do:

She knows where food actually comes from.

And she’s developing courage because prairie thunderstorms, rattlesnakes, and Wyoming blizzards don’t mess around—and neither does she.

The Beautiful Reality

But here’s what happened yesterday that made me think she might not be going anywhere:

We were finishing up morning chores, and I mentioned we still needed to let the chickens out.

Then she wiped the dust off her hands and asked, “What’s next, Mom?”

Look, I don’t know what the future holds for any of us. Maybe she’ll stay and take over the homestead. Maybe she’ll leave and build something completely different.

Because honestly, seeing your childhood dreams come to life through your kid’s eyes? That’s better than any fairy tale ending I could have imagined.