I wanted to pull this comment from @ashleymclin because I’ve been thinking about it all day.
Ashley asks, “If farm life is really as hard and heartbreaking as you said in your last post, why do you still do it? What makes it worth it?”
This is the real question, isn’t it? It’s the one I ask myself when the alarm goes off at 4:30 AM and it’s 10 degrees outside. It’s the one I ask when I’m standing over a new grave I just had to dig. It’s the one I ask when I’m looking at a feed bill that seems to double every month.
The easy, Instagram-friendly answer is “because of the quiet mornings” or “to be close to nature” or “for the simple life.”
None of those are the real reason. This life isn’t simple; it’s brutally complex.
The real answer is a lot harder to explain. I do it because it’s real. In a world that feels increasingly digital, disposable, and disconnected, this life is the most tangible and grounding thing I have ever experienced. You cannot fake a harvest. You cannot “circle back” on a predator. You cannot delegate the responsibility of a blizzard.
The truth is, I do it because it’s hard.
There is a profound, almost spiritual meaning that comes from tangible, physical responsibility. Knowing that a barn full of living, breathing creatures is 100% reliant on you for their food, their water, their safety, and their health is a weight. It’s a heavy, crushing weight some days. But it’s a real weight. It’s not an abstract deadline, or a performance review, or a stressful email. It is life.
When I was in an office, my “failures” were things like a project being delayed or a client being unhappy. Out here, failure is immediate and has consequences. You learn, very quickly, to be competent. You learn to be a amateur vet, a mechanic, a carpenter, and a meteorologist. You learn that your comfort is the last thing on the priority list.
That struggle, that friction against reality, is what makes the good moments matter. The joy is not separate from the heartbreak; it’s caused by it.
That first perfect tomato in July tastes so good because you spent three months fighting blight, cutworms, and drought. The sight of a healthy new lamb taking its first steps is a miracle because you know just how many things can go wrong.
So, @ashleymclin, why do I do it? I do it because it forces me to be a better, stronger, and more capable human. I do it because the pain of the loss is the price of admission for the profound joy of the successes. It’s not an escape from life; it’s a full-contact immersion in it. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
