08/31/2026
🇺🇸🐂 SO… WHO AM I?
Apparently a whole lot of new people have found their way onto my little corner of Facebook lately.
Some came because of cattle.
Some came because of beef.
Some came because of a post that unexpectedly traveled farther than I ever imagined it would.
And quite a few arrived already convinced they knew exactly who I was.
So maybe it’s time I introduce myself.
I am an American cattle rancher.
Not because it sounds good in a Facebook bio.
Not because ranching became trendy.
And certainly not because somebody handed me a farm and a set of keys.
Cattle are in my blood.
I am a third-generation cattle rancher, but even that doesn’t tell the whole story.
Start digging through my family’s genealogy and you’ll find cattle, farming and ranching woven through generations going all the way back into the 1800’s.
My family has raised cattle.
We’ve hauled cattle.
We’ve bought them.
We’ve sold them.
We’ve bred them.
We’ve fed them.
We’ve worked land.
We’ve grown crops.
We’ve fixed fences.
We’ve lived through good years and bad ones.
We’ve watched rain clouds disappear when we desperately needed them and watched storms roll in when we desperately didn’t.
Agriculture isn’t something I discovered.
It’s part of the story I came from.
But here’s something else people should understand:
What I have today wasn’t simply handed down to me.
I didn’t inherit some giant ranching empire.
Nobody dropped a paid-for farm in my lap.
I have built my life through work, risk, sacrifice, blood, sweat, tears, a whole lot of prayer and more faith than I sometimes knew I had.
I’ve bet on myself when the safer choice would’ve been walking away.
I’ve gotten up when I was exhausted.
I’ve kept going when the numbers didn’t make sense.
I’ve fed animals before I fed myself.
I’ve worried about bills while checking cows.
I’ve stood in pastures asking God how in the world I was going to make something work—and then got up the next morning and tried again.
That’s who I am.
And no, I have not built what I have on government handouts.
That doesn’t mean I believe every agricultural program is wrong or that farmers who legitimately use available programs should be ashamed of doing so.
It simply means my story is my story.
And my story was built one decision, one animal, one fence post, one dollar and one prayer at a time.
Maybe that’s why what’s happening in American agriculture matters so deeply to me.
Because when I talk about the American cattle industry, I’m not discussing some abstract economic theory I read about yesterday.
I’m talking about my life.
I’m talking about families like mine.
I’m talking about men and women who are standing in pastures before daylight while most of America is still asleep.
I’m talking about generations of knowledge that disappear every time another cattle producer sells out because they simply can’t make the numbers work anymore.
I’m talking about land.
Cattle.
Processing.
Markets.
Drought.
Feed.
Hay.
Fuel.
Veterinarians.
Imports.
Exports.
Competition.
The cost of producing a pound of beef and the cost a mother pays for that same pound of beef at the grocery store.
And yes, I care about BOTH of those people.
I want the mother standing at the meat counter to be able to afford dinner.
And I want the family standing behind the pasture fence to be able to afford to keep raising it.
Those two families should never have been made enemies.
We need each other.
That is why I will talk about beef imports.
I will talk about rebuilding the American cattle herd.
I will talk about processing capacity.
I will talk about competition.
I will talk about policies that help producers.
And I will absolutely talk about policies that I believe hurt them.
I don’t care which political party gets credit.
And I don’t care which political party gets uncomfortable.
Because somewhere along the way America has developed this ridiculous idea that if you criticize one policy, you must hate the person who signed it—and if you support another policy, you must worship them.
I don’t operate that way.
A good policy doesn’t become bad because somebody I dislike proposed it.
A bad policy doesn’t magically become good because somebody I like signed it.
Presidents come and go.
Congress changes.
Political parties trade power.
Campaign signs get taken down.
But America still has to eat.
And that matters more to me than whether the person sitting in the White House has an R or a D beside their name.
My ballot is private.
My principles aren’t.
I believe America should maintain the ability to feed herself.
I believe a nation that loses the people, land, livestock, infrastructure and knowledge required to produce its own food has surrendered something incredibly difficult to rebuild.
I believe food security is national security.
I believe independent farmers and ranchers matter.
I believe we need more cattle producers—not fewer.
More processing capacity.
More competition.
More young people who can actually afford to enter agriculture.
More consumers who know where their food comes from.
More opportunities for producers and consumers to meet each other without twelve layers of corporations standing between them.
I believe farmers deserve to make a profit.
Yes, I said profit.
Because profit isn’t a dirty word.
A farm that only survives during the good years won’t survive the bad ones.
Profit buys next year’s hay.
It fixes the tractor.
It replaces fence.
It pays the veterinarian.
It absorbs the calf that didn’t make it, the crop that failed, the drought that came, the equipment that broke and the hundred other things agriculture throws at you without asking whether there’s money in the checking account first.
And I believe the American consumer deserves affordable food too.
We have to figure out how to protect BOTH.
I also believe something else that apparently needs saying in 2026:
You cannot determine somebody’s character from the livestock they raise.
Being a cattle rancher isn’t a voter-registration card.
Muddy boots don’t tell you somebody’s ballot.
And disagreeing with you politically doesn’t automatically make somebody racist, hateful, stupid, evil or your enemy.
I have been called things in the last few days that I wouldn’t say to another human being.
People who have never met me have decided my politics, my morality, my beliefs, my character and apparently my entire life story because they learned one thing about me:
I raise cattle.
Some have even said they hope I lose everything.
Think about that.
Not lose an argument.
Lose everything.
A home.
A farm.
A livelihood.
Years of work.
Something being built for children and generations that come after me.
I wouldn’t wish that on you because you voted differently than I did.
I wouldn’t wish it on a Republican.
I wouldn’t wish it on a Democrat.
I wouldn’t wish it on an independent.
Because compassion shouldn’t require checking somebody’s ballot first.
And neither should being an American.
My family knows the cost of this country isn’t theoretical, either.
People in my family have served it.
People in my family have fought and died for it.
So when I say I care about America, I don’t mean a political party.
I mean America.
Her families.
Her farms.
Her ranches.
Her communities.
Her food.
Her future.
The people who live in cities and the people who live twenty miles from the nearest stoplight.
The person buying the steak and the person raising the steer.
Because whether we agree about politics or not, eventually we all sit down at a table and eat something somebody had to produce.
Maybe that’s the conversation I’ve been trying to have all along.
Not red versus blue.
Not Trump versus somebody else.
Not rural America versus urban America.
Not farmer versus consumer.
America.
How do we keep American agriculture alive?
How do we make food affordable without making producing it financially impossible?
How do we rebuild our cattle herd?
How do we keep independent producers on the land?
How do we create more processing competition?
How do we make sure our children and grandchildren inherit a country capable of feeding itself?
Those are the conversations I want to have.
And if that makes me loud about American agriculture…
good.
Maybe I should’ve gotten louder sooner.
Because cattle aren’t merely numbers on a USDA report to me.
They’re mornings before daylight.
They’re calves hitting the ground.
They’re generations.
They’re memories.
They’re responsibility.
They’re livelihoods.
They’re families.
They’re part of my family’s past, they’re part of my present, and God willing, they’ll be part of the generations that come after me.
So if you’re one of the thousands of new people who landed here wondering exactly who this woman talking so much about cattle is…
Now you know.
I’m a third-generation American cattle rancher carrying a story that stretches back centuries.
I’m a wife.
I’m a mother.
I’m a small-business owner.
I’m a woman who has lost, rebuilt, fallen down, gotten back up and prayed her way through more than most people scrolling Facebook will ever know.
I’m imperfect.
I’m stubborn.
I’m still learning.
I’ll get things wrong.
I’ll change my mind when better facts prove I should.
I’ll give credit where it’s deserved.
I’ll criticize where I believe it’s warranted.
And I refuse to hand my ability to think for myself over to a political party.
Most importantly—
I give a damn about the future of the American cattle producer.
Because I know what happens if we lose them.
And America shouldn’t have to discover their value after they’re gone.
🇺🇸🐂🌾
Know your farmer.
Know your rancher.
Know your food.
And maybe, while we’re at it…
get to know the person before you decide who they are. ❤️
