Something different this week as my heart is still heavy...
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Last week, my husband and I had to make one of those decisions that every farmer dreads, and nobody outside the industry truly understands.
We lost a sow and her litter because her piglets were too large to deliver.
There was no way to save them, and no vet who could help.
These are the moments that define this life, yet they're the hardest to explain to others.
If you've never stood in a dimly lit barn at 2 AM, watching an animal you've raised and cared for struggle, knowing the only “gift” left to give them is to end their suffering…you might not understand why we make the choices we do.
If you've never had to tell your kids their favorite calf didn't make it through the night, despite you spending hours trying to save her…you might not get why we keep going back to the barn every morning.
If you've never had to choose between saving one animal or protecting your entire herd from a spreading illness…you might question our decisions.
If you've never watched a year's worth of work disappear in fifteen minutes of hail, then had to figure out how to make the next mortgage payment…you might wonder why we don't just quit.
And if you've never delivered a foal in -20 degree weather, your hands so numb you’re not sure they’re still attached, but knowing if you go inside to warm up you'll lose them both…you might not understand our dedication.
Piglets nursing at night.
These are the moments that mold us as farmers, that test our resolve.
And if we survive them — ultimately make us better stewards of the land and animals we're responsible for.
They're the unspoken trials that every farmer or rancher faces. The ones we rarely talk about because they're too raw, too real, and too far from the pastoral image most people have of farm life.
When Minutes Matter…or Don’t.
The thing about farming is that it doesn't care what’s convenient.
It doesn’t care that you really wanted to sleep in this morning for the first time in who knows how long.
It doesn’t care that you just paid that feed bill last week and can’t afford a vet bill this one.
And it doesn’t care that you were supposed to have Thanksgiving dinner with your family later on — because you now have a sick cow at home, and if you lose her, you lose two months’ worth of income.
Critical decisions often come at you fast, usually in the worst conditions imaginable.
Last week my husband and I had to stand in the barn and watch a sow we’d farrowed and raised, struggle to give birth to her first litter.
Usually when we see signs of distress, I’m able to reach in and help her since my arms are smaller than his. I can go in, pull the piglet through the birth canal and out into the world. We even have a makeshift “pig puller” that 99% of the time can also get the job done.
But as soon as I reached in, I knew these piglets were not fitting through her pelvis - puller or not.
It was a mathematical impossibility. Like trying to fit a 10’ round peg into a 1’ square hole.
And with no vet in our area who knows how to perform C-sections on pigs, and not enough antibiotics in the world to save her from a full-body sepsis, we knew there was only one outcome.
It’s different than having your dog put down.
While gut-wrenching, at least someone else is doing the humane thing for you. But on the farm, with no one else around, it’s you who has to perform the act of greatest mercy.
Those are the moments they don't show you in the cheerful farm documentaries or the idyllic social media posts.
They don't show you standing there, devastated, knowing that multiple lives hang in the balance of your next decision.
Every farmer I know has dozens of these stories – the ones that keep us up at night, the ones that teach us life’s hardest lessons.
The Weight We Carry
People often ask me if you get used to it – the tough calls, the losses, the constant pressure of knowing lives depend on your choices. The truth is, you don't. Not really. What you do get better at is carrying the weight of those decisions while still moving forward.
My friend Sarah once told me something I'll never forget. We were sitting in her kitchen after losing three lambs to a difficult birth, and I was questioning whether I was cut out for this life. She looked at me over her coffee cup and said,
“The day these decisions stop hurting is the day you should quit farming. The pain means you still care, and caring is what makes a good farmer.”
Learning the Hard Way
There’s no textbook or manual for how to handle these situations.
Every wizened farmer leaves a trail of hard lessons behind them, and most of us can point to the exact moments that taught us our most valuable ones.
I remember the first sow I ever watched give birth. We’d bought her at the Indiana State Fair and she was one of the first my husband bought, rather than bred and raised himself. Her name was Patience. I’m telling you her name because the irony of the situation is when Patience had piglets, she tried to eat every single one of them.
It sounds barbaric and it is, but it happens. Some animals, like humans, just don’t have that maternal instinct.
But we’d never experienced this before, and so before we had time to process what was going on, she’d already killed one of the babies. That day taught me that while knowledge is crucial, there's no substitute for experience, and developing and trusting your instincts.
These days, my husband and I find ourselves telling more people that story, just to help others who may end up experiencing what we did. We wholeheartedly believe in prevention over procrastination.
Because that's how this knowledge gets passed down — through stories, through failures and successes.
The Path Forward
After last week's loss, I did what farmers have done for generations. I gave myself the evening to grieve, to feel the weight of the loss, to question and second-guess.
Then I got up the next morning and went back to the barn.
Because there are other animals that need care, other lives that depend on me showing up.
Healthy baby piglet in our farrowing house.
That's the thing about farming that I find hardest to explain to the public. The highs are indeed high – nothing can match the joy of seeing a sow give birth and feed a litter of healthy piglets. Of seeing your fields flourish, of knowing you're contributing to feeding the world.
But the lows? They're rock bottom. Yet it's often these crushing moments that remind us why we chose this life in the first place.
Because when you're forced to make impossible decisions, when you're tested beyond what you think you can handle, that's when you truly understand the depth of your commitment to this way of life.
It's not just a job. It's a calling that demands everything you have, and then asks for more.
To those outside looking in, farming might seem simple:
Grow things
Raise animals
Harvest crops
But it's in these unspoken moments, these dead-of-the-night decisions, these heart-wrenching choices, that the true essence of farming lives.
It's not just about what we do – it's about who we become in the process.
And to every farmer reading this who's had to make those impossible decisions…
I see you.
And I hope you know that those moments of doubt, of pain, of questioning – they're not signs of weakness. They're proof that you're doing exactly what you're meant to do — caring for the land and animals that feed our world, one difficult decision at a time.
✍️Writing Prompt:
When I've lost something or someone I love, what does my grieving process look like? What are other ways I can ask for additional support if I need it?
🗨️One quote to finish your week strong:
“The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but of the cultivation and perfection of human beings.”
Masanobu Fukuoka
Have a great week!
Enjoy the ride,
Charlie
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