“Mom.” A title I’d always known I was destined to have. In every friend group, I was the mom of the group-the one with the snacks, the Advil, the Chapstick, and the schedule of events—the ultimate planner.

Everyone tells you how life will change when you become a mom.

“You’ll be so tired all the time.”
“Your house will never be clean again.”
“You won’t have time for anything fun.”
“You won’t have time for yourself.”

Well, they were right. Everything did change. And I mean everything. But what most people don’t tell you is how wonderful those changes can be.

In June of 2024, I experienced everything everyone warned me about. But I also experienced something more – something life-changing. The overwhelming amount of joy that a tiny 7-pound, 11-ounce baby girl brought into my life in unexplainable. Unimaginable, until I became a mom to Rory Jeanne on June 7, 2024.

Finding Out I was Pregnant During Harvest

I found out I was pregnant in October 2023- right in the middle of harvest, just before heading out to the tractor to run the grain car. I rushed around the house, found a few Beck’s onesies I’d bought for friends’ babies, made a little sign, and grabbed my first baby (Margo, the Rottweiler). I had big plans to surprise my husband, Michael, with the sign and onsies out in the field.

But when your husband owns a small business, plans change-constantly. So I adjusted. I decided I’d tell him that night at home, no matter how late it was. Once he got in the door, his first stop was the bathroom (as you probably guessed). I set up the little display in the kitchen, hit record on the camera, and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Finally, I yelled, “Michael, come out here-I have a surprise for you!” He came out, grumbling…. and wearing only his underwear. So there went my cute TikTok reveal. But honestly? His reaction was perfect. The excitement on his face said it all. We were about to start the most exciting adventure of our lives: parenthood.

Changing Plans, Changing Priorities

The panic set in about a week later- not because I was becoming a mom (I had always wanted that), but because just a month earlier, I had announced my candidacy for Indiana Farm Bureau’s 2nd Vice President. A volunteer role that would take time, energy, and resources…. all while I was already working a more-than-full-time job at Beck’s.

Could I do it all? Yes. But did I want to?

I knew something would have to give. And I knew it wasn’t going to be my family. I made the incredibly tough- yet absolutely right- decision to withdraw from the election. I give 100% to everything I do, and I knew I couldn’t give that to the position if I were also raising a newborn. Being a mom had to come first.

From Seed Sales to a New Season

I didn’t realize just how much my role in agriculture was about to change. I’m the 7th generation to grow up and work on our family grain farm. I showed livestock in 4-H and on the national level. I now judge livestock shows throughout the Midwest. I had a career at Beck’s on the marketing team and was thriving.

My career mattered. Farming mattered.

But now? The most important thing in my life is being Rory’s mom.

After she was born, my priorities truly shifted. Suddenly, nothing else mattered the same way. This was the shift everyone talks about, and it hit me like a freight train- Mom. Momma. Mommy. The greatest title I’ve ever had. This was the moment I realized my true purpose.

Leaving a Dream Job to Build a New One

I had always believed I was a “lifer” at Beck’s. I loved the job, loved the company, and loved the people. But in my role, travel was a big part of the job-and I loved that too…until I had a little baby at home calling me “Momma.”

Add to that: Michael’s “little side gig” had turned into a full-blown business that he now needed help running. I could feel it-everything was changing again. And I had to make another choice.

I chose family.

I left the security of corporate life to start my own business- a marketing consulting firm where I set the hours, choose the clients, and get to be fully present for my daughter. If you’d asked me two years ago if I thought this is where I’d be, I would’ve said HECK NO… but now? HECK YEAH. I’m proud.

Farming with a Baby on Board

Just one harvest after I found out I was pregnant, I had a new little sidekick in the cab. A 4-month-old baby girl riding shotgun in the tractor and combine.

As a woman in a male-dominated industry, I’ve always felt the need to pull my weight. I stay late. I finish the field. I get dirty. But as a new mom? I had to do it differently.

Sometimes I couldn’t finish the field. Sometimes I couldn’t start on time. Sometimes I had to head home early to get Rory to bed. I was breastfeeding in the cab, stopping to change diapers, rotate her in and out of the carrier, and hold her when she needed it.

Sure, kids add challenges to farming, but they also add joy. So much joy.

And here’s the truth: for the farm to survive another generation, we have to raise that generation first.

Embracing the Beautiful Mess

Things look different now. They are different. But that doesn’t mean they’re bad.

Being a mom is a superpower. Being a mom in agriculture, in an industry that quite literally feeds, clothes, and fuels the world, is an absolute gift.

God has entrusted us with raising the next generation of farmers. And I couldn’t be more honored to do just that.

About the Author: Rachel Hyde

Rachel Hyde is a 7th-generation Indiana farmer, owner of Connection Consulting, and marketing manager for 2nd Shift Garage Doors. She’s raising her daughter on the farm, showing sheep across the Midwest, and championing small business and agriculture every step of the way.

Connect: Instagram | Facebook | Website

The post Life as a New Mom in Agriculture: Balancing Farm and Family appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

I’ve always said the best thing about winter is spring. It’s my favorite of the four seasons, hands down.

The long, dark, cold days of winter finally loosen their grip and allow the first colors of spring to pop through the ground. Around my house, that’s usually the crocus. I’ve seen those persistent little devils poke right up through the snow- just when I need it the most.

Once that first sign of spring shows, I know I can make it through any final cold, dreary day the Eastern Nebraska winter throws at me.

A New Meaning to “Season”

The word “season” holds a completely different meaning to me now.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

Ecclesiates 3:1

I’m certain a few of you just started humming The Byrds’ song Turn! Turn! Turn! right? If not, you’re probably too young to remember it.

This scripture speaks of a time to do this and a time for that. And now, I’m at an age where I finally understand what those words are really telling us.

Finding Purpose in Each Season of Life

Our lives are built on living. Our days are filled with whatever we’re going through at the moment. Some days are so full that it feels like we can hardly breathe —and then we do. We get through it. And we move on to the next season.

Lately, I find myself wondering: how did so much time and so much life already happen?

I celebrated my 63rd birthday in January. I’m still trying to figure out what season of life I’m currently in. Somewhere between late fall and early winter, I think.

Most of us have heard the saying, “Time goes faster as we get older,” or “It’s gone in the blink of an eye.” Yes- that’s exactly the season I’m in.

The Journey I Didn’t Plan

I often think back to my early days as a young bride. I had so many ideas and dreams, so many plans for what life would hold.

And then- those plans changed. The road I thought I was on took a sharp turn in a completely different direction. God had other plans.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d end up as a custom harvester. Sure, I married the hired man- but buying a combine and following in the footsteps of my grandparents? That was never the plan.

Becoming a Storyteller on the Harvest Trail

I’ve always been a storyteller. Since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of writing a book. The problem? I have no clue how to start a book. But I can tell a story- through pictures, video or words.

So that’s what I’ve done since we began this harvesting journey.

I carried a video camera on my shoulder longer than I probably should have. You know the kind (or maybe you don’t)- big, bulky, and heavier than you’d like. Eventually the cameras got smaller and easier to carry, but i never stopped recording.

And through every season of life, I just kept writing. Not a book, but something even better.

Harvest, Purpose, and Letting Go

As a custom harvester, I got to experience a deep love for agriculture- but only during harvest. I can’t imagine the even deeper love farmers and ranchers feel, living it day in and day out, year after year. I envy that.

But that chapter of my life has closed.

The combine and support equipment are sold. The days of chasing the wheat harvest from south to north are over. No more diesel-scented morning, long dusty evening, or the wild rhythm of life on the road.

And that’s been a hard pill to swallow.

Raising Daughters and Discovering New Purpose

Raising a family, teaching our four daughters to be strong, independent, responsible women, was my purpose for a long time. God gave those four amazing girls to love and raise with all the heart I had.

Those days were hard, but every second was worth it.

When each of them left home, I knew they’d be okay. What I didn’t expect was how deeply it would hurt when they walked out that door. They came back, of course, but it was never quite the same.

For a while, I felt like I’d lost my purpose.

Then harvest filled the gap. It gave me something to pour my heart into again. I’m not even sure why I loved it so much, but the desire to tell the story of how we put bread on the table never left me.

Once again, I had a purpose.

Entering a New Season-Still Telling the Story

Now, life has changed again. I’m in a new season. I’m still figuring out what it looks like and where I fit in this crazy world.

But I’m still telling the story- anyway I can. Sometimes, it’s through sharing memories of raising those girls. Sometimes, it’s remembering what it felt like to bounce across a wheat field in a combine. And sometimes, it’s just reflecting on what it meant to be a custom harvester.

Once Wheatie…. ALWAYS a Wheatie.

About the Author: Tracy Zeorian

Life on the road as a third generation harvester provided Tracy and her family with so many memories and adventures while following the ripening wheat from south to north. Although this lifestyle was not always without challenges, it created a tight family unit, provided a way to be involved in agriculture and a reason to travel the Midwest. Tracy and her husband, Jim, raised four daughters who are all married and now have families of their own. Currently, nine is the number of grandchildren they have also been blessed with. The 2022 wheat harvest was the Zeorian’s final journey as custom harvesters. However, they get their “fix” while driving combines for a farm family in Montana during the wheat harvest. They also help local farmers near their Eastern Nebraska home during the fall harvest.

Connect: Facebook | YouTube

The post Once a Wheatie, Always a Wheatie: One Woman’s Journey Through Life’s Changing Seasons appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

We’re all human, and in some way, we carry things with us from our youth as we grow older. Farmers are no different. The experiences and lessons ingrained in us early – good, bad, or indifferent – shape how we operate for the rest of our lives.

Farming is a family occupation. Apart from a few first-generation farmers, most of us grew up working alongside our parents – and likely our grandparents too. Along the way, they planted seeds in us that made us who we are, both personally and professionally.

Growing Up in the Golden Age of Agriculture

I was born in 1975, during what some would call the heyday of American agriculture. It was a time of unprecedented exports and profitability for farmers, a golden era that gave way to one of the darkest: the 1980s farm crisis. Aside from the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, few times in American agriculture have been tougher.

I started my education in farming early, following my dad and grandpa around from the time I could walk. I’m sure they thought I wasn’t paying attention, but even now, I can still hear my dad’s voice in the back of my mind. He had plenty of sayings and plenty of wisdom.

Farming Through the 1980s: Scarcity, Ingenuity, and Survival

Learning to farm in the 1980s wasn’t ideal, but it came with lessons that shaped me. There wasn’t always money for the part you needed or the tool that would make things easier. So, we got resourceful. We made parts. We repurposed tools. We fixed things most people would’ve thrown away.

But the 1980s left a long tail- for those who survived it and for those of us who came up during that time. It built a healthy skepticism of risk- necessary, but not always helpful since. My dad was an eternal optimist, but I now realize there were ideas or ventures I was excited about that he discouraged- not because they weren’t good ideas, but because of the financial scars he carried.

Looking back, I still can’t fathom the stress he and my mom lived through. I asked more than once why they didn’t just walk away from farming and try something else. Every time, he said the same thing:

“Because you were interested, and I wanted you to have the chance to farm.”

Little did I know, the only way I’d eventually be able to farm full-time was because we lost him in 2007.

Losing My Dad and Gaining the Weight of Legacy

Being in business with family adds a whole layer of complexity. Generational differences have torn many farms – and families – apart. My dad and I certainly had our differences, but waking up one morning and realizing he was just… gone, is a shock I still carry.

He passed in late April, and there wasn’t time to mourn or overthink. In 2008, my brother-in-law and I stepped up. Every decision felt heavy. I couldn’t let them down, not just my dad, but my mom, my grandpa, and everyone who endured the storms before me.

That pressure shaped me, for better or worse. I became so risk-averse that it held me back. I overanalyzed every decision. It’s taken years to find peace with the uncertainty that comes with farming. I still get stressed, but I make better decisions now. I trust myself more.

The Real Pressure Isn’t the Market – It’s the Mirror

Yes, markets, politics, and unpredictable weather are tough. But the hardest part? Living up to the people who built the foundation. Trying not to fail them.

There’s a quote from Issac Newton that sums it up best:

I’m forever grateful for those giants—especially my dad—and for the chance they gave me to farm. My hope is that I make them proud. That I carry the torch without dropping it. That I keep farming, not just with my hands, but with my heart.

About the Author: Jonathan Sparks

Jonathon Sparks is a lifelong farmer from Hancock County, Indiana, where he works the land with deep roots and a love for tradition. He and his wife, Sarah, are raising their two kids—Charlie and Ruthie—on the family farm, where lessons and values are passed down across generations.

The post Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: What My Dad Taught Me About Farming and Life appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

A Decade in the Delta

I did live it, for a decade or so. I still work in agriculture every day, but home for me is the city. I was born to it, and I love it as deeply as any farmer loves their open fields, small towns, and dusty roads

Those rural years were spent in the Mississippi Delta. I bought my first house in the tiny town of Benoit and spent months renovating it before moving in. I battled mosquitoes and stubborn vines like it was a full-time job. Luckily, a kind farmer would often take pity on me when it looked like I might lose the war on that overgrown yard.

My mayor didn’t use email. He wrote letters by hand and had someone deliver them door-to-door to save on postage.

Learning and Giving Back

While living there, I taught Junior Achievement at the local school- helping students understand how to manage checking accounts. Later, I learned some of those kids had taken the lessons home to parents who were skeptical of banks and only operated with cash.

I kept going back to that school. One time, I brought a traveling son-and-dance troupe from across the world because I knew how powerful new experiences could be. Not everyone in that town had the chance to attend plays or musicals, so we brought them a matinee.

Familiar Faces and Silhouettes

From my office chair, I could track crop progress and tell you who was in which tractor just by their silhouette, no matter the time of day or night. In small towns, stories circulate like gospel, and newcomers often feel like outsiders, even if they’re doing the required two-finger wave from a Jeep.

Being a new face meant hearing the town’s “greatest hits” of storytelling more than once, and honestly, laughter is good for the soul.

A City Girl’s Upbringing

I grew up in a place where you could remain a little anonymous. You traveled in different circles – school, sports, church – and could be surprised to bump into someone from one circle while in another. That rately happens ina small town, and honestly, bing recognized everywhere can feel vulnerable to a city girl.

There are probably too many details to explain how the city raised me, but it shaped my soul in unique and meaningful ways.

Finding Independence in a City Childhood

Independence came early. My siblings and I often went to different schools, which meant different schedules and no expectations to be just like each other. I didn’t have many teachers in common with older siblings until junior high, so I got to build my own identity early on.

I know rural friends whose kids are taught by the same teachers they had, and who go to the same church and sit in the same pews.

Exploration, Lessons, and Stitches

City life offered endless options. Want to try something new? It was always there- church groups, after-school activities, foods, even wildly different dance styles than anything our parents could recognize.

My sister and I once took trampline “lessons”, and I use that word lightly. We mostly learned how not to get hurt. She still ended up with stitches.

But we also did serious things. My brother and I joined the cast of Godspell through a community and church collaboration.

Welcoming the World In

The city was a revolving door of new faces and voices. I learned young how to listen beyond an accent and use context to understand people. I heard stories of faraway places and was asked questions about things I thought were universal, only to realize they were distinctly American, or even Southern.

We welcomed many of those people into our lives and cried when they went home.

Safety, Street Smarts, and Shared Awareness

Safety meant something different in the city. Developing street smarts wasn’t just for kids; it was something families talked about openly. Reading the room was a survival skill, and we taught each other took out for more than just ourselves.

We locked car doors without thinking and knew that trust wasn’t handed out freely.

Freedom, Discovery, and Joy

The city offered constant discovery. We could ride our bikes in one direction for snow cones, in another for ice cream, and find a vacant lot to build ramps in a third.

Music? Everywhere. Live rock concerts at school, ballet the next week, and the symphony after that. It was all within reach.

A Life in the Middle

Today, I still love that mix- the uniqueness of people, places, and things to do. I’ve lived in the New York metro, spent time back home in Memphis, and now live in St. Louis.

Still, I find myself missing those really dark skies full of stars, and the peace of not seeing another car or building for miles.

Bridging the Gap Between Worlds

Somehow, I’ve built a career that connects these two experiences. I serve as a. bridge between “Our Way of Life” and others.

So maybe that’s what makes it work for me- just make “way” plural.

I’m comfortable living in the middle. And maybe the diversity is what suits me best.

About the Author: Janice Person

Janice Person was born and raised a city kid but connected deeply with agriculture through her love of the environment and journalism. Known to many as JPlovesCOTTON, she’s a speaker, trainer, and advocate who helps bridge the gap between ag and the 98% of the country not living it firsthand. She founded Grounded in Ag to help others build meaningful ag-focused careers from unexpected places.

Connect: Instagram | Facebook | Website

The post Our Way of Life: Familiar and Foreign appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

Fourteen years ago, I hit the neighbor’s mailbox with a tractor. And I still cringe when I pass it.

I don’t like to think of myself as a quitter, but I quit 4-H tractor driving after just two practices.

I’m a big believer in the idea that you can do anything you put your mind to. But I’m also a big believer in being honest, especially with yourself. And honestly? I can’t drive tractors.

I Help on the Farm – Just Not in the Tractor

“You didn’t grow up driving tractors?
You didn’t hang out or help on the farm then?
So you don’t help farm now?”

I did hang out on the farm.

• Instead of driving a tractor, my dad taught me farm math on the whiteboard in the scale house.
• Instead of driving a tractor, my mom taught me how to wean piglets without getting bitten by the sow.
• Instead of driving a tractor, my grumpy taught me the history of the fields we farm while he ran the combine.

And now?

• Instead of driving a tractor, I check seed depths behind the planter.
• Instead of driving a tractor, I make last-minute chemical deliveries to the field.
• Instead of driving a tractor, I analyze yield data and help make informed decisions using logistics, agronomic, and financial skills I picked up in school, my job, and by just showing up.

I get – driving a tractor looks cool. Especially now that you can get thousands of likes on TikTok with a sunset cab shot. But honestly? You know what’s cooler to me? A fertilizer spreadsheet that can be sorted by owned vs. rented ground or price per acre. It just doesn’t photograph as well.

My Strength is in the Decisions, Not the Driving

Let’s be clear – this isn’t a girl thing.
It’s not my anatomy that keeps me out of the cab.
It’s the number of objects I could hit and the cost of the equipment I could break.

I’ve got plenty of strong female operator inspiration around me. And I’ve got a solid support system that would back me if I wanted to jump in the seat. It’s just not something I’ve ever loved. And that’s okay.

Not being able to run machinery hasn’t stopped me from farming. I take the skills I do have and I put them to work.

Every farmer has strengths and weaknesses.
Some aren’t strong with finances, so they get help with the books.
Some don’t study agronomy, so they use scouting programs.
My weakness is driving. So someone else does the operating.

Farmers spend more time making decisions than they do actually running equipment. But somehow, machinery operation is still what people see and value.

I love the behind-the-scenes work: seed selection, fertility programs, budgeting, spreadsheets. I thrive in that zone.

Right now, my biggest contributions are analyzing programs, fertility, and yield. This year, I’m setting goals to learn more about financials, herbicide programs, and data management – because let’s face it, that stuff’s constantly evolving.

Value Doesn’t Always Have a Steering Wheel

My hope? That every person on a farm finds where they provide value, because value isn’t tied to a steering wheel.

And value doesn’t always look like spreadsheets or soil tests either.

Sometimes in the spring, it’s grabbing a cheeseburger from McDonald’s or making a DEF run to NAPA.
In the summer, I help time fungicide applications.
In the fall, my most critical decision might be how to time supper delivery to the field.

This Is What My Role Looks Like

If I filmed a video of my little farm life, it wouldn’t have cool tractor transitions or flashy new equipment. It would be me in a truck for hours, making three stops at different agronomy retailers, picking up chemicals and dropping off checks. It would be me sitting in the cab – not driving – but uploading a variable rate seeding prescription to the 20/20. It would be me bringing parts, cooking and delivering meals, and keeping our kids alive.

And if you ask my husband, keeping the kids alive is harder than driving a tractor anyway!

I Finally Found My Place

For years, I felt like I wasn’t enough on the farm.

Now? I know I have a place.
It’s just not in the driver’s seat of a tractor.

And for that…well, everyone’s mailboxes are safer.

About the Author: Casey Fix

Casey Fix works in precision agronomy at Helena Agri-Enterprises and on her family farm, as well as her husband’s family farm. She does everything agronomy year-round, from dropping the soil sampling points to yield analysis. Her favorite parts of the job are writing fertility recommendations and finding correlations in yield data. A proud alumna of Iowa State University, she holds both a bachelor’s and master’s degree in agronomy. Her degrees, along with almost ten years of agronomy experience and countless grower interactions have helped her become the agronomist she is today. She scouts fields all summer both on the job and on weekends at home with her husband Blake. Two under two kids, Riley Mae and Carter, along with three dogs keep her busy. Delivering field meals, riding the ranger, and attending concerts is how she loves to spend her time.

The post Beyond the Cab: My Farm Contributions Without Tractor Driving appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

In the summer of 2006, we lived in Iowa, and our farm was all in hay. One particular week in August, my wife was away finishing a veterinary externship, our kids were with my mom back in Indiana, and I had the whole place to myself. It meant time for me to do farm stuff after work without regular family responsibilities.

One of those decisions started with a newly acquired hay rake.

I had just bought a Vermeer 10-wheel rake, a major upgrade from our old 5-bar side delivery model. This thing was big time in comparison. I could take two windrows and merge them into one clean, efficient path. I was excited to put it to use, and the weather forecast looked perfect: sunshine, dry air, ideal conditions for third-cutting alfalfa.

The Forecast Looked Good… Until It Didn’t

I cut the hay and let it lay. Then, with all the pride of a guy moving up in the world, I hit the field with that shiny new-to-us rake and turned that field of alfalfa into beautifully shaped windrows. I stood there for a minute, hands on hips, admiring the progress. I had made the jump to be a “real” hay farmer.

But then I checked the forecast again.

Now, keep in mind, this was before smartphones. I had to walk back into the house, fire up the dial-up internet, and check the National Weather Service. And there it was: several straight days of rain in the updated forecast.

I was stunned. Disappointed. Mad. I’d trusted the forecast from earlier in the week, and now I was staring down a complete loss. But I had my typical farmer positivity; maybe the forecast would be wrong, and the hay wouldn’t get too much rain. Maybe, just maybe, we could still get the hay up in decent shape.

When Baleage Isn’t an Option

On our farm today, we would bale it wet and wrap it as baleage to make good feed even in the face of a challenging weather forecast. But back then, we small-squared everything, and it had to be dry. If not, you were flirting with spoilage and even fire risk in the hay barn.

As the first drops fell, I watched from the window as those perfect windrows turned soggy. The rain didn’t stop. For days, it poured like it did on Noah when he was safe in the ark. What was once a beautiful third cutting of alfalfa was now a black, moldy, mildewy mess.

A Field Full of Rotting Windrows

I walked the field when the rains stopped, hoping something might be salvageable. But it was useless. Even trying to mulch it down seemed like a waste of time. I asked a few friends for advice, but none offered a real solution we could implement. Yet I had to do something to preserve the new alfalfa sprout, desperate for sunshine to grow, struggling under the black mess of spoiling vegetation.

Then it hit me like a lightning bolt: I would light up the Iowa twilight with fire and burn away that mess of failure.

The Night I Set Fire to My Hayfield

It was a Friday evening. The windrows were dry again, brittle, rotten, and smothering out the new alfalfa underneath. I figured they would act like natural fire breaks. Even though it was August, we had just received a lot of rain. The ground was moist; the wildfire risk was low.

So I grabbed a propane torch and a tank from the barn and lit them up.

Now, if you’ve ever burned pastures in the Flint Hills of Kansas, you know the rush. There is a strange excitement that comes with setting fire to dry vegetation: that mix of nervous energy and awe at watching it run and seemingly come to life as it eats away at the dry fodder. I may have only been torching 25 acres of ruined windrows, but I felt it just the same. I was channeling my inner teenage pyromaniac as I put the torch to each windrow.

I started on the windward side of each row and let the flames carry. I had buckets of water and a couple of shovels in the back of our Ford Expedition in case it got away from me, but with damp oil and isolated rows, I was not too worried.

Sheriff Lights and One Man’s Bonfire

As the sun set and the fire glowed brighter, and the flames marched across the field in nicely spaced plumes, I started noticing headlights coming down our gravel road. In that part of rural Iowa, you noticed cars, especially after dar, especially when you lived on a stretch where the old homesteads had all disappeared long ago and you were one of three farmsteads within eyesight of our farm.

And then I saw the lights on the roof: someone had called the sheriff.

He drove by several times, had a look around, and apparently decided the fire wasn’t quite the emergency it must’ve sounded like over the radio.

After the sheriff left, I stood there leaning on my shovel handle, basking in the heat from the flames that lit up the Iowa evening – flames that poured the failure of that cutting of hay. A failure born from trusting a weather forecast and the excitement of a new piece of farm equipment.

The Lessons Burned Into My Memory

There are a couple of lessons from that whole experience.

One: Do not get so excited about new equipment that you look for an excuse to use it before checking every variable.

And two, the big one, is something that of us in agriculture should tattoo on our foreheads: Mother Nature is in charge.

We can plan. We can double-check forecasts. We can time everything just right. And sometimes, she still wins. It’s humbling, frustrating, and an unavoidable part of this life. It is a lesson I regularly relearn, and I am relearning again this spring, as we sit here preparing for another planting season in northeast Indiana, watching as rain passes across our area on the radar.

That day, the weather won. But I walked away with a better understanding of who’s really calling the shots-and with one heck of a story about how a hay rake, a torch, and a field-sized bonfire all collided on a Friday night in Iowa.

About the Author: Jim Smith, Ph.D.

Jim Smith, Ph.D. is a farmer, swine nutritionist, and writer based in northeast Indiana. He shares stories from decades of experience in livestock and agriculture—stories that honor the lessons, challenges, and triumphs of farm life.

Connect: Facebook (Personal) | Patio Pondering | JK Smith Family Farms | LinkedIn

The post The Day the Weather Won: Hay, Fire, and a Lesson in Farming appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.

Many people think farming is simply getting to have fun “playing” in the dirt while driving a tractor, or combine if you’re king or queen (IYKYK) – two times a year; planting in the spring and harvesting in the fall. Maybe some livestock pastured in, of course, nothing but the most idyllic of settings. And a life of freedom to do what you want, when you want. No headaches, stress or negativity…no meetings (HA!), no boss, no office, no staring at a computer. Just sunshine, acres of fields, and whistling while you work like you’re one of Snow White’s best friends.

This utopian scene is really nothing but of a pile of the actual steam and stink you’d see at any given time of the day, night, or year in that pasture with livestock. I mean, don’t get me wrong, us row crop farmers do have a bit more scheduling freedom at certain times of the year and do love scheduling in when we can take our winter beach vacations and late summer camping trip too, I’d totally be lying if I said I didn’t. We recently had our first beach vacation in….. 10 years? But camping usually happens annually. Sometimes. But anyway, I digress.

Farming Is a Business (and the Office Comes with It)

There really is a shocking amount of office and bookkeeping involved in managing a farm that many folks may not realize. A farm is, in fact, a business. And as such, it is managed just like any other business with seat time not only in the tractor but an office chair as well. Only the many hats and titles that make a business go round are usually handled by one, maybe two people depending on the size of the farm, instead of multiple departments and staff.

I’m writing today about one of those days that everyone has – hopefully not on the regular – when, even as a farmer or farmwife (whichever title you use), you find yourself stuck in the office (maybe your office also doubles as your kitchen table), bogged down in paperwork, crunching numbers, answering emails – faxes at one time…. egads – and taking phone calls to the point that your eyes are crossing, your head is pounding, you’re growling in frustration, maybe pulling your hair, and you just can’t take it anymore.

Laverne & Shirley, Farm Edition

My mom was having one of those days. She wore many, many hats on the farm I grew up on and co-manage myself today. We sometimes called ourselves Laverne and Shirley. We never talked about who was Laverne and who was Shirley, but we were the best of friends. And we could dip and pop and laugh while singing “Schlemiel! Schimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!” like nobody else.

Side Note: I totally googled how to correctly spell the words to the TV show theme song. And I was today years old when I learned those words are Yiddish for an inept clumsy person and a very unlucky person. As in, one is the person that spills the soup, and the other is the person that gets the soup spilled on them. Huh. That could track for me for sure – I wouldn’t say so for Mom!

The Heart of a Farm Wife

Mom had the patience of a saint, a hefty dose of dry wit and sarcasm rarely voiced but often thought and shared with just a select few. The living, breathing epitome of the Proverbs 31 woman, she met and exceeded (sometimes even when she didn’t want to) just about every role of the traditional farmwife and all that that entails – and oh… oh so much more. Organization and bookkeeping? Skills that would put most large corporations to shame. She was our doer, our fixer, our absolutely everything. Pride ran deep in the way she cared for the farm, for my Dad, and in how she raised us kids – with grit, grace, and an unmatched ability to handle it all.

But sometimes even the best get bogged down in a rough day in the office. And on this particular day, between good old Uncle Sam and the powers that be at the BMV, it was just too much of that behind-the-scenes office time that nobody thinks about happening on the farm – and too much frustration even for her to take.

Jesus and Margaritas: The Answer to a Rough Day

And what was her answer to that stress? Jesus & Margaritas.

The text conversation went something like this:

Mom:
It’s been a horrible day between getting tax info together, answering questions for the accountant, and trying to get plates for the semis and the extra forms we have have now at the BMV. I’ve had enough. I’m done. We’re going to Texas Roadhouse for 99-cent margarita night and Thursday night church. I’ll try again tomorrow.

My response was simply:

Me:
I think that’s the most Lutheran thing you’ve ever said.

Smartphones were fairly new at the time, and emojis weren’t a thing yet, but I certainly would’ve been using that little happy, laughing yellow fella if it had been a thing then. I’d have had to add a cocktail emoji and follow it up with the little white church and purple cross.

Because in the end, when life gives you lemons…all you need to do, according to the late, great Judy Ketner, is exchange those lemons for limes, make a margarita (or even better, have someone make it for you for 99 cents), and follow it up with a whole lot of Jesus.

About the Author: Kristin Lykins

Kristin is a farmer’s daughter, granddaughter, wife, homeschooling mom who works full time on her family’s multi-generational farm where she grew up. She works wherever she is needed in the field, shop, and managing books. Kristin also has a passion for work as a freelance photographer where she owns and operates Twisted Tree Photography at Hawclif Farms alongside her husband.

Connect: Instagram | Facebook |

Photographs courtesy Twisted Tree Photography at Hawclif Farms

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I sat on my dirty kitchen floor and cried…..more than once, to be honest. But the time that is burned into my brain – the one that still feels like it just happened yesterday was November 2, 2011.

The kids were 15, 12, and 9. They were three active, beautiful, loud humans—and a husband of 19 years that I was blessed to have, but who also made me feel like I was drowning some days.

The Heavy Load Farm Moms Carry Every Day

On that particular morning, I had been out to feed the cattle in my pajamas. Not the cute matching kind, either. The pajama pants had holes in places I’d rather not admit, and the shirt was a worn-out free seed company shirt that was at least five years old.
I was wearing a dirty Carhartt jacket that wasn’t even mine and rubber boots that also weren’t mine.

Apparently, nothing clean or sized appropriately for my body was available.
The jacket was too big, and the boots were too small—or too small and too big. I can’t remember, honestly. I just remember none of it feeling right and all of it smelling like cattle, hogs, and desperation.

A Morning That Felt Like Drowning

I remember feeding the cows, the freshly weaned calves, and then six calves that were the kids’ show calves.
Those six sweet things were headed to Hoosier Beef Congress in less than a month, and not one of them was truly broke to lead. Not. One.

They had about as much training as a toddler with a sugar high! Somehow, once again, we were down to the wire.

We were smack-dab in the middle of harvest, which meant any minute I would be getting the call to get the grain cart to the field.
The laundry was approximately three feet deep on the laundry room floor, though that was probably a conservative estimate. We had officially reached the part of the season where clean socks were a luxury, clean underwear was a lucky find, and the kitchen – well, we won’t go there.

That’s when I realized I was slumped down on my sticky kitchen floor. Drinking flat Dr Pepper out of a measuring cup, clutching a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies like they were the only thing keeping me afloat.

And I cried. Big, ugly, snotty, soul-draining tears.

When Farming, Motherhood, and Exhaustion Collide

I cried for the chaos.
I cried from exhaustion.
I cried because most likely I had yelled at my kids before they got on the bus about the show calves.
I cried because I wasn’t 100% sure the measuring cup I was drinking out of was clean.

And for the life of me, I don’t remember the exact thing that broke me that morning – the single thing that had sent my whole house of emotional cards tumbling.
But I absolutely remember what got me off the floor.

A Reminder at Just the Right Time

It was a newspaper clipping my mom had mailed me – yes, snail-mailed me. It had arrived the day before. I had opened it quickly and put it aside. Aside, as in right there withing arm’s reach of my spot on the floor. Right there among the dirty dishes, take-out trash, and old mail. It was right there withing reach, like God knew exactly where it needed to be.

It was a simple clipping from a farm newspaper, with a Post-it note in my Mom’s handwriting that said, “I thought you might need this.”

How do moms do that?

The article was titled “Never Forget All You Really Do for Everyone on a Farm” by Melissa Hart. And in the middle of my ugly cry, with cookie crumbs all over me and drinking my stale soda, I read these words:

“Never forget how much you do.”

And just like that…I exhaled.

These words are etched in my brain now. The article is somewhere in this house – I couldn’t find it if I tried – but I’ll never forget it.

I wrote those six simple words on a Post-It note that’s still hanging inside the cabinet door – the one that holds the Chips Ahoy emergency breakdown cookies.

Farm Mom Burnout Is Real

“Never Forget How Much You Do”

It’s the sentence that holds me together when I’m unraveling. Because sometimes, I still find myself on my dirty kitchen floor in tears.

It doesn’t matter what you do – if you’re human, life can get overwhelming. Especially when you’re the one everyone turns to. The one holding the proverbial list of all the things no on else remembers.

Somewhere along the way, without applying for the job or being handed a title, you became the one holding it all together.

The Mental Load of Farm Moms Is A Heavy One

The Chaos Coordinator who’s on duty 24/7.

And even when it feels like the plates you’ve got spinning are crashing to the floor around you and everyone is staring – let me gently remind you: they’re not.

What you’re doing matters.
Even when it’s a mess, even when no one sees it but you.

👉🏻 If you’ve ever had a moment like this, you’re not alone. I’d love for you to share this with someone who might need a reminder today: “Never forget how much you do.”

About the Author: Jennifer Campbell

Jent is a wife, mom and gram who works full-time on her family’s 7th generation farm. She is also the owner and creator of Farmwife Feeds.

Connect: Instagram | Facebook | Website

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The post Farm Mom Burnout Is Real: Crying on the Kitchen Floor appeared first on The Farmwife Feeds.