05/28/2026
The Ones Who Don't Make It: Reflections on Loss
With life, comes death. On a farm, even a small one like ours, death has a profound impact. There is grief, frustration, exhaustion, helplessness, and grief again.
Oh, the highs are high, almost euphoric. The victories, the wonder, the pride, and deep fulfillment; the dopamine from hard-earned positive outcomes just cannot be matched elsewhere.
But as they say, "what goes up must come down." Attentive and diligent daily care, responsible land and herd management yields better outcomes, almost every time. Almost.
With animal husbandry, we strive to achieve a harmonious, mutually beneficial relationship between animal and farmer. For the animals, this means that food, water, protection from predators, parasites, and weather, preventive and emergency care are all provided. This body of work is no small task. "Nature," played out without any intervention, has a very high casualty rate. The care we strive to provide cuts the premature casualty rate to darn near zero. But not zero.
I was not brought up in this lifestyle. Everything is newly learned for me--nothing ingrained in my upbringing. The intuition I have today has come from great mentorship, effort and time; time learning, observing, adjusting, improving, and pruning away anything that does not work, and watching for the result. The better things go, the more winning starts to feel like the result of a formula that can be reproduced at will.
When your casualty rate is very low and your success is high, you can forget that nature is still going to play her hand and sometimes she will win. It is painfully humbling when she does.
Since 2022, 52 new lives have been born to my little herd of goats. Of those, 50 have survived until weaning, when they leave to start their lives on other farms. That's 96%. Even past a year, to my knowledge, 46 of these kids born on my farm are still living today. That would be about a 92% survival rate past a year. For perspective, goat kids in the wild have a survival rate of about 50-65%, going into their first winter.
So as I was grappling with the swift illness and loss of Clover's boy, Sgt. Douglas, watching him suffer as I battled to save his life, wondering if I could have done better, intervened sooner; grieving for Clover, calling for her baby as her udder fills for him... I have to remind myself that I am not 100% in control of the outcome of every life.
Every part of me wanted to restore him to health. To watch him play and jump and among the rest of the animals I love and care about so much.
But in caring for a sick or dying animal, comes with the responsibility to "make the call" when survival is unlikely or not possible. To end the suffering involved in the battle to live. Mercy on a farm, even a small one like ours, will sometimes mean ending a life you invested everything in. All the time, the hope, the joy, the effort, the blood, sweat and tears, the investment of the heart and the soul.
With life, comes death. I share this with you, a reflection of the painful truth that governs us all. I feel fortunate to have had a quiet day yesterday to process all of this and to grieve and cry in privacy.
Today, my work resumes to care for the lives I have promised I would do everything for. We will be picking up a fresh batch of hay and I will relish in the joy of watching them devour it in big mouthfuls. I will give extra love and attention to Clover and all the babies still prancing around, living their best lives.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my heart with you.
