Finding Routine on the Unpaved Road
{4.16.26}

Feeding livestock is a daily thing.
Walking the herd.
Checking for any signs of illness.
Making notes.
Tagging newborns.
Picking out the sassy ones.
Snagging photos of the ones I’d like to maybe keep down the road.

It’s routine. It’s rhythm. It’s what we do.

And yet—rarely is it ever the same.

Lately, finding that rhythm again has been harder than I’d like to admit. The very things I love, the things that have always grounded me, have started to feel like a center point of stress. Not because I don’t love them—but because everything around them feels different.

Running with Rex.
Mucking stalls.
Feeding cattle.

It’s routine… until it isn’t.

There’s a weight that comes with the unknown. Trying to find answers where there aren’t any yet. Trying to balance it all—farm, family, faith, emotions—while quietly asking yourself how to keep your footing when the ground feels like it’s constantly shifting.

And if I’m being honest… that balance feels harder to find these days.

But even in the middle of all that, there’s still a need for routine. Not the kind that’s perfect or predictable—but the kind that simply keeps you moving forward. The kind that reminds you that life is still happening, one step at a time.

Yesterday, it was simple.

A little time outside.
Walking through the herd.
Talking calves.
Talking plans for hay season.

Nothing groundbreaking. Nothing big.
But it was enough.

Enough to breathe.
Enough to reset.
Enough to remind me that even when life feels uncertain—there are still pieces of it that are steady.

Because the truth is… the future is going to look different than we ever imagined. And that’s a hard thing to wrap your heart around.

Plans shift. Dreams pivot.
Even the farm—the thing we’ve poured ourselves into season after season—is stepping into change.

And change is one thing when you choose it.

It’s another when it chooses you.

Yesterday reminded me of something I didn’t even realize I needed—tractor time.

There’s something about it.
The hum of the engine.
The focus of the task.
The quiet between thoughts.

It’s therapy in a way nothing else quite matches.

As we near the end of feeding season and start looking toward grass and rotational grazing, I find myself ready for that shift. Ready to leave the mud behind. Ready for the sound of cattle grazing—the quiet, steady crunch that somehow feels like peace.

It’s a different kind of routine.
A softer one.

And maybe that’s what this season is asking of me too.

Not to have it all figured out.
Not to force answers where there aren’t any.
But to find small rhythms again.
To lean into the simple things.
To take the next step—even if the whole road isn’t clear.

So as we navigate this unpaved path, I’ll say this—

There’s always a seat open.

Hop in the buddy seat with me.
Some days might feel heavy.
Some days might be quiet.
Some days I might just be baling and babbling about who knows what.

But it’s real.
It’s honest.
And somewhere in it… there’s healing.

Even if it comes one uneven step at a time.

🤍🩷🖤