Finding balance in the barn

From a very young age, I never missed a beat when answering the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I would spring to life and be the first to answer, “I want to be a dairy farmer just like my dad.” As I have aged and worked hard to live out that dream, while also trying to build a life that I love, that question now stumps me.

Why do I hesitate to own that part of myself? I have spent a lot of time searching for the answer to that question — searching for myself.

Am I scared of the silent, uncertain judgment that can come from people when I tell them, letting other people’s definitions of success creep into my own? Am I measuring my life against standards that were never meant for me? Maybe I’m scared to stand tall and to own my ability to stay rooted in who I am by choosing a different path that many won’t understand. Mostly, I’m a little scared of losing myself to the farm and all its responsibilities.

For years, farming has been built upon a life that asks more of you than even you know you can give, one that you can too easily lose yourself in. From a young age, I have been known as the worker. The girl who puts her head down and gets it done, no matter how difficult the task or how long it may take. I’m the one who doesn’t stop for anything.

But along the way, with a little encouragement from my husband, I started finding myself outside of work. I started to wonder, if I never stop, who am I without it?

When the day is done, what’s left of me that isn’t tied to responsibility or routine? I’ve spent so much of my life proving that I can handle it all, that I’m strong enough, capable enough, committed enough. But I’m beginning to realize that being able to carry it all doesn’t mean I always should.

Those small moments away from the farm are hard for me, and probably always will be. They are filled with an immense amount of guilt and shame. But the more I allow myself to step away, the more I start to piece together parts of who I am outside of it. I am learning that I don’t want to put the farm before my husband, my future family or my own happiness.

Maybe that’s where the hesitation comes from, not because I’m unsure of the dream itself, but because I’m unsure of who I become inside of it. I am afraid to wake up one day and realize I built a life I’m proud of, but lost the person I was, the people I love, and the things I love along the way. I don’t want to only be known as the one who works, the one who sacrifices, the one who never stops.

I want to be known as a selfless, attentive, loving and happy wife, daughter, friend and someday, hopefully a mom. I want to have the energy to show up for the people I love when they need me the most. I want to bring my best smile and energy into any room I walk into. I want to live from that big, empathetic heart — even if it means learning how not to lose myself in the process.

I still love the idea of being a dairy farmer. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is my understanding of what it might require and what I’m willing to give without question.

So maybe the real question isn’t ,“What do you want to be?” Maybe it’s, “How do you want to live while becoming it?”

Looking back into the eyes of my 3-year-old self is hard. I see her passion, her big heart, her drive and her love for the cows. Her worth was never tied to how hard she worked. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s OK to protect her first. And as I do, I can feel myself slowly building a life that I love that includes the farm.

Abby Fairbanks is the third-generation on her family’s farm. She works full-time with her parents, Doug and Jody, where they milk 400 cows  near Anamosa, Iowa.