Why wait?

Strung out across the cold tile of our basement floor was a farm of small figurine cows and wooden barns. After long mornings spent helping Dad with chores, we would come in for lunch — only I would head straight for the basement, choosing to play farm instead of living it. Down there was the one place where I could shape a vision completely my own: I would line up the cows carefully, making sure no pen was overcrowded, and move barns inch by inch until it all fell in place.

I wasn’t just playing — I was learning. I was learning just as I had from my dad how decisions affected outcomes, how order created calm, how small changes could improve a whole system. I always kept one ear open, though, listening for the sound of Dad getting up off the couch and heading back to the barn so I could follow him out. No adventure ever felt too big for me. Being left behind was never an option I was willing to accept.

For as long as I can remember, I have followed my dad, watching his every move —learning, growing and planting seeds for my future. As soon as I was old enough to know what a cow was and understand that my dad cared for them, I knew I would follow in his footsteps. I have never envisioned my future anywhere else but right by his side.

Working together and talking have always come easily for us. He has always included me in conversations, decisions and dreams, even when I felt undeserving of a place in them. Conversation flows naturally between us, and I think that is because we have been breathing the same air for as long as I can remember. I will always consider myself Daddy’s little girl.

My favorite moments have always been the ones that drive Dad to shut the skid loader or tractor off for a second, the ones where we are envisioning and discussing ways to make the farm better. No idea is ever too big or too small to fit within our operation, and no thought is ever dismissed. Even the wildest ideas feel possible when we talk them through together. I remember one time we talked about building a drive-in movie theater, surrounded by a pasture full of heifers. My parents have always been dreamers and thinkers; otherwise, they would not be where they are today.

Recently, we have been pondering building another heifer shed. We have a group of heifers called “the gap group,” and it consists of 14 heifers we created about a year ago to ease overcrowding in other pens. When we created it, it was a practical solution. It was well thought out and a needed option, but we always knew that it was a short-term solution.

Currently, this group is housed in our old, small freestall barn, which we converted into a pack barn. While the setup functions, it requires us to trailer heifers in and out more often than we would like. These are the kinds of inefficiencies you don’t notice in a single day, but over weeks and months, they begin to shape how smoothly a farm runs.

This is where the conversations begin, the ones that make Dad shut the tractor off and lean back in his seat. We talk through possibilities, weigh costs against benefits and imagine how a new shed could simplify chores and improve animal comfort. I am not just listening during these discussions; I am learning how thoughtful planning can turn small frustrations into long-term improvements.

The gap group may only consist of 14 heifers, but the decisions surrounding them represent something much larger: the constant problem-solving that defines farming and the responsibility that comes with shaping its future.

The cows do not wait for Jan. 1 to make a resolution, so why do we wait to improve ourselves, to work for the things we really want and to dream? There are so many decisions and changes you can make every single day. The biggest one we make is the second we roll out of bed: What kind of attitude am I going to bring into today? Those are the things that you should be working toward every single day.

Improvement happens in seasons, not resolutions.

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.