I grew up on a Limousin cattle ranch, surrounded by the warmth of cow’s breath, climbing hay bales to the top of the barn until we could touch the swallow nests, and a solid understanding of life and death and all that comes between. It was a life balanced with grit and tenderness, especially on days like the one I’m about to tell you about.
I was fifteen—old enough to know my way around the ranch, but still young enough to feel invincible. My dad was out of town, leaving just my mom and me to tend to the herd. That’s when we saw her—one of our prized Limousin cows, struggling with a labor gone wrong.
It was the dark of a chilly spring night, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and new grass. We pulled into the field in our old Suburban, the headlights slicing through the darkness to catch the cow’s heaving flanks. She was laboring hard, her eyes wild and panicked.
My mom and I exchanged a glance. Now, my mom is one of those women who can do anything. A friend once said, “If you need someone to watch your baby, bake you a pie, and change your oil all at the same time, you call Donna.” That pretty much sums her up.
But neither of us had ever delivered a stuck calf without the help of my dad or a vet. Still, I had the utmost faith in her. We didn’t hesitate. We didn’t waver. We just did.
We knelt in the cold grass, gripping slick hooves with raw, numb fingers. My mom’s face locked in fierce concentration, her hair falling loose from her ponytail as we pulled with every ounce of strength we had. You know those moments where you’re running purely on primal instinct, completely removed from the civilized world just inside the house?
This was one of those moments. The kind where you connect to something ancient, where your hands and heart remember what your mind has never been taught. I watched the steam from my mom’s breath as she fought to pull that calf free from his mother, working against the forces of nature with nothing but her will and her hands.
And then—finally—the little bull calf spilled into the world. All gangly limbs and slick fur, tangled up in birth’s messy remnants. But he wasn’t breathing.
Without pause, my mom knelt down, her face close to his, and pressed her mouth to his nostrils. It was pure instinct, the kind of reaction that leaves no time for doubt or hesitation. She just acted.
A shudder. Then a cough. He spluttered to life.
But his mother wanted nothing to do with him. Whether it was the trauma of the birth or something deeper, she turned away, leaving him helpless and orphaned in the field.
He became mine.
I named him Goliath. Maybe it was wishful thinking or maybe it was a promise. He was small and clumsy but stubborn as hell, fighting for life like he had something to prove.
Bottle-feeding him became part of my daily routine. I’d take him for walks through the garden, where he’d nibble sugar snap peas straight from my hand. He grew familiar with the faces of my friends, nudging them for treats or play. And he grew. Before I knew it, I had a 900-pound puppy. I’d climb onto his broad back and ride him around the yard, his hooves sinking into the dirt like small craters.
On a cattle ranch, though, you learn early that most bull calves are raised for a purpose. Whether it’s to join the herd, be sold to another rancher, or provide food for families. It’s the natural order of things, something that ranch kids grow up understanding.
Still, he was part of my days for longer than most. And for a while, it was just me, Goliath, and the rhythm of the ranch.
One day, I came home and he was gone.
Nobody warned me. Nobody thought to mention it. I never asked where he went—to auction, to another farm, or something else. That’s the way of a farm kid. You know things that other kids and even adults can’t quite grasp or are shielded from by plastic-wrapped beef in the grocery store.
It stung, sure. But it was a different kind of hurt. Not betrayal, just life. The same life I’d been raised in and understood well enough by then. The same kind of life that made my mom reach her arms deep into the womb of a struggling cow and pull out a calf with nothing but grit and determination.
The same kind of life that raised me.
My mom was tough in the ways that matter most. Not just strong, but steady and sure in a crisis. The kind of person who could dig deep into the messy, hard parts of life and pull out something worth saving. Goliath was part of that. And so was I.
It wasn’t about the ending. It was about that night and all the mornings that came after. It was about learning that grit isn't always loud or heroic. Sometimes it looks like a woman, arms buried to her elbows in blood and muck, doing what needs to be done. Sometimes it looks like showing up, day after day, no matter how hard or thankless the work feels.
My mom taught me that kind of grit. And even if Goliath was only mine for a little while, he was proof that I’d learned it.
Because real grit isn’t about holding on forever. It’s about giving everything you have, even when you know you might have to let go.
And that’s a kind of lesson you can only learn from the land, from your mother, and from the creatures you love.
Paired Painting: The Greeting Committee
The Greeting Committee is a reworked piece that was previously fingerpainted in acrylics. Now, with the addition of oils, it's more vibrant, with greater depth and more detail, enhancing the warmth and curiosity of the cows as they greet the viewer.
The Greeting Committee is currently available for sale. Click here to view and purchase.