Why we keep going

When I was young, I spent countless hours playing in the lime pile outside our milk cows’ pen. I’d drag out the hose, determined to make mud pies and carve trenches through the soft, wet ground. I can still remember when I scrambled to the very top of the pile, lifted my hands to the sky, and just stood there. The wind whispered through my hair and the sun warmed my face. As I focused on the cows and the gentle hum of the milk pump in the distance, the rest of the world fell away. From up there, I felt both grounded and limitless all at once.

Moments like that — moments when we pause long enough to breathe life in — are rare gifts, especially amid the chaos that farming often brings. I find myself constantly searching for those small, steady seconds that help restore my mind and remind me why I chose this life.

It is easy to get swallowed up by the setbacks farming throws at me. Every mistake, every decision that did not pan out, seems to replay in my head over and over, as though thinking about it long enough could somehow change the outcome. Hindsight is both a blessing and a burden. It teaches you but also weighs you down if you are not careful. I cannot change what is already done, so I am learning to look forward, to take what I know now and do better tomorrow. I remind myself that this life, these people, this farm, they are what I once prayed for. This is the life I asked God to help me create.

Growing up, my dad used to say, “If this is the worst thing that happens today, then it’s still not that bad of a day.” I never fully understood those words until I started farming full time. Some days are undeniably tough; everything seems to go wrong at once, and the exhaustion feels impossible to shake. But, if the worst thing that happens is a tractor breaking down or the cows getting out, you are still doing alright. When you know in your heart that you gave everything you had, you can be disappointed in the outcome without destroying yourself over it. You can take the hit, but you do not have to lose yourself over it.

Sometimes, I jokingly tell my husband — an engineer — how lucky he is to work with radios instead of cows. If something does not work for him, a life is not at stake. My compassion for these animals is what pulls me out of bed each morning, but it is also what weighs heaviest on my heart. I have always adored every creature on our farm, especially the calves and heifers I am responsible for. When I was younger, I would wander around and take pictures of cows doing anything, or nothing at all, until I filled three photo albums that still sit in my room.

We work tirelessly to keep our animals happy, healthy and comfortable, which makes it heartbreaking when one gets sick, injured or does not make it. However, we also cling to the victories: the calf born three weeks early that we managed to save, the heifer we treated before she ever showed a symptom, the difficult calving that ended with a healthy calf and cow. Those moments remind us why we keep going.

It is important to stay level-headed, even on the hardest days, because there are 400 other cows on this farm counting on us to keep them happy and healthy. So, I look for the many small moments that bring joy — the heifers bucking and running through fresh bedding, the sweet smell of fresh cut hay, or a fresh cow quietly chewing her cud.

Even when the air is cold and sharp, it is important to stop and take it in. With everything on my plate — farmer, wife, daughter and friend — it can be hard to find time to simply be still. But, when I do pause, when I look around and breathe deeply, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the blessings that surround me and for all that God has guided me through. It is in those moments when I once again feel like I climbed up that lime pile, both grounded and limitless at the same time.

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.