My family hit hard times, and I grew up in extreme poverty—no electricity, barely enough food, and no running water except the creek on our land.

Life was a constant struggle.

My stepfather was bedridden and couldn’t work, and despite my mother putting in 60-80 hour weeks, we were still scraping by, saving every penny for gas money. I felt trapped, unsure of how to pull us out of this cycle.

Everything changed one day in my 8th-grade FFA (Future Farmers of America) class. A guest speaker introduced a new livestock program that seemed like a lifeline. The program offered loans to purchase seven cows and one bull to breed and sell livestock. It felt like a godsend—an opportunity for me to help lift my family out of poverty. But there were hurdles. We needed land, which we had—160 acres my stepfather had bought before he became disabled. Next, we needed a fence and a barn to feed the cattle. We had nothing, so I took on the challenge.

I grabbed the paperwork and couldn’t wait to get started. When I got home, I burst through the door and shared the idea with my stepdad. I promised to build the barn and fence and wake up every morning at 5:30 to care for the cows. It sounded foolproof to me, and somehow, I convinced both of my parents to agree. At 13, I sold them the dream of becoming a rancher more convincingly than I ever thought possible.

Once everything was approved, there was no time to waste. I started with the fence, fixing the borders and building new sections where needed. It was grueling work—picking up posts, driving them into the ground, stretching barbed wire, and dealing with countless scratches from the wire. By the time the fence was done, I was exhausted, but my determination only grew stronger. Next was the barn. My stepfather gave orders, and I hammered nails and screwed boards, driven by the single goal of providing for my family. Despite the hardship, the work was fulfilling. I had found my purpose and felt like I truly mattered.

With the fence and barn complete, it was time for hay and cattle. I took the truck, despite having only driven on those rough dirt roads since I was 11, and worked with a local farmer to load up 10-12 bales of hay. I never scratched as much as that day—the hay got everywhere, and I ended up jumping into the creek to soothe the relentless itching.

Meeting Big Boy the bull was a turning point. He and I formed a bond quickly. He knew how to handle me, but there was mutual respect and affection. Every morning at 5:30 am, I’d call out to him to feed, and we’d greet each other with heads lowered. I believed we were building something special—fattening him and the other cows, creating a sustainable life on our land. But that dream never fully materialized.

I never became a rancher, and I couldn’t lift my family out of poverty. Desperation only deepened, and one day I came home to find Big Boy and the cows gone. My parents had sold them before we could reap the benefits of all the hard work I’d put in. I understand why they did it—they were trying to do what they thought was best—but it was still heartbreaking.

In the years since, I’ve found my way back to agriculture through a different path. I became a partner at Fresh Chile & Rio Grande Winery, reconnecting with my roots. I’ve worked alongside chile farmers in Hatch, New Mexico, and helped harvest grapes in the Mesilla Valley for our wine. From stacking chile sacks in the sweltering July heat to crushing grapes in August’s monsoon season, I’ve experienced the relentless challenges of farming in the southwest.

When my family was at its lowest, I took a chance at an impossible dream. Even though it didn’t turn out how I hoped, it set me on a path that eventually led me back to agriculture and allowed me to build something meaningful. It’s a reminder that sometimes, our risks define our future, even if the outcome isn’t what we initially envisioned.

Move forward.