the weight we carry

The pain is heavy. It settles deep into your bones—the kind of weight that doesn’t lift with a nap or a hot cup of coffee. It’s cumbersome and unrelenting. The work is tedious, the kind of endless repetition that dulls your spirit and grinds down your joy. And the monotony? It’s the most uninspired shade of gray—like February skies that never break, no matter how long you stare up waiting for sun.

Farm life is often compared to strength, resilience, and grit. But rarely does anyone talk about how it feels to be the emotional and mental equivalent of a pack mule—dragging behind you a load that only grows heavier by the day. Imagine trying to carry every single grocery bag in one trip: refusing help, refusing to return for a second load. Now imagine that instead of dropping those bags off at the counter, more just keep getting piled on...

Parasites.

Hoof rot.

Pink eye.

Mastitis.

Pneumonia.

And sometimes, even death.

It’s draining. It’s consuming. It’s hard.

Sometimes it feels like we’re living inside the pages of Job—but we dare not say that out loud. Not because we don’t see the resemblance, but because we’re terrified of what more might befall us if we speak it. We don’t want to tempt the enemy. We don’t want to give him ammunition—not when we already feel like he’s stocked up from our tears, our grief, our struggles. So instead, we go quiet. We say nothing. We trudge forward, quietly carrying the weight, unsure if rescue will ever come.

"We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed" —2 Corinthians 4:8-9 (ESV)

Recently, Little M lost her 10-week-old bottle baby goat, Truffle. She wasn’t just another kid—she was comfort wrapped in fur, full of sweetness and sass, a tiny bright light in the midst of big, heavy grief. She’d only been with M for a month, but Truffle had already started to heal the wound left behind three weeks earlier—when a freak accident took M’s prized Nigerian buck. Truffle filled that void—not replacing the love, but easing the ache.

Then came the ADGA National Show. The Bearded Man and Little M had looked forward to it—the laughter, the ribbons, the reminder that even in the hard seasons, farm life still holds joy. And for a while, they found it. But grief doesn’t wait for a convenient time, and while they were more than 300 miles from home, heartbreak struck again.

Halfway through their trip, Truffle began feeling unwell. Concerned, the Bearded Man and Little M sought the guidance of veterinary friends also attending the show. After examining her symptoms, they advised that Truffle be seen by the on-call show veterinarian. After an evaluation, treatment, and a short observation period with the show vet, Truffle was released with a guarded prognosis—but there was still hope.

The Bearded Man returned to the show grounds from the vet’s office, carrying Truffle back to where Little M waited—hopeful, and ready. Gently, he placed her into M’s arms.

Moments later—mere moments—she was gone. One last breath, one last heartbeat, and that precious comfort goat slipped away as quickly as she had entered our lives.

It was crushing. For M, who had already given up so much joy to grief. And for the Bearded Man, who had unknowingly handed heartbreak back into his child’s hands.

Sometimes the pain is so sharp it doesn’t have words. Sometimes the weight is so great it silences even our prayers. But even in these moments—especially in these moments—we remember we are not forsaken. There is no valley too deep for the Shepherd to find us in.

We cling to hope. Not because it’s easy. Not because we feel it every day. But because we need it to keep going. Because the only thing heavier than grief is grief without hope.

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.” —Hebrews 10:23 (ESV)

So we wipe away our tears. We hug our girls. We bury the ones we’ve lost—those with names, and hooves, and pieces of our hearts. And then we wake up and care for the ones still with us. Again. And again.

Not because we’re strong, but because we love this life—the quiet moments, the chaos, the animals… even when it hurts.