Life In the Grey Area

One of the funniest things about living this lifestyle is how little we fit the stereotype.

People assume that because we ranch, we're "cowboys." But Western isn't really who we are—it's simply how we live.

Most days I wear barefoot shoes instead of cowboy boots. The boots mostly come out for riding or events. Our home isn't decorated with cowhides and antlers; We have pieced together a home from thrift shops and what Kimberleys' family brought on wagons. Gifts from family and friends and artwork that may not make big bucks - but means something to each of us. We have solar power, well water, EMF remediation, and a few horseshoes hanging on the wall because someone gifted them to us. The cowhides? They're out in the shop waiting to become repairs for horse boots, not rugs for the living room.

We spend a good amounts on good groceries and our naturopathic doctor, but we'll happily stop in town for a cheeseburger. A lot of our budget goes to traveling; either by dirt road or airplane. Not even half of us drink. None of us take daily medications. We live together on a ranch, but we're certainly not a commune. Our boys spend most of their days shirtless, barefoot, dirty, and free. Some of us watch crime shows and documentaries, some watch westerns and classics, some want a complete break from reality and are traveling through space on the Enterprise.

We don't go shooting nearly as often as we'd like, and none of us have hunted in years. If we weren't ranchers - that might be different. For me, I'm not interested in taking any more life than I already have - or will take. The loss of life from outside factors affect me as much as the reality of raising meat for families does.

If we have a long haul with livestock, there's a good chance we're listening to a science fiction or fantasy audiobook instead of country music. More than half of us had never even ridden a horse before moving here. Our closest friends can be counted on one hand, but they'll probably be there for life.

The truth is, our lives don't look much like the version of ranching you see on television. They don't fit neatly into the "cowboy" box, and they don't fit neatly into the "hippie" box either. We are not the Duttons, but we carry the weight of legacy and making sure it continues far beyond our reaches.

Some of us came here carrying burnout. Others brought eating disorders, depression, anxiety, addiction or simply the feeling that something about modern life wasn't working.

Living with the land hasn't magically fixed those things, but it has given us room to heal.

The pace is different. The priorities are different. The land has a way of stripping away everything unnecessary until you're left with what actually matters.

Maybe that's why I struggle so much with imposter syndrome online.

I don't feel like enough of a cowgirl to represent ranching. I'm certainly not enough of a hippie to represent that crowd either. I'm too far removed from city life to ever want it back, but I'm also not interested in proving how primitive I can live. (Unless Naked and Afraid is calling)

And maybe that's okay.

Somewhere along the way we've convinced ourselves that we have to belong completely to one group or another. So much of modern life asks us to pick a label—cowgirl, hippie, homesteader, crunchy, conservative, liberal, city, country—and then perform it.

That if we buy organic food we can't enjoy a drive thru burger. That if we ranch we have to wear Ariat and Wranglers every day. If we care about health we have to reject every modern convenience.

Life has never been that black and white.

Most of us are living somewhere in the grey.

Maybe that's where real life happens—not in perfectly fitting a label, but in building a life that reflects your own values, one choice at a time.