I knew something was off when Jalen came back from his dad’s last weekend visit. He kept flipping his hair, talking like some influencer, and scoffing at my boots like they were contagious.
Then he dropped it. Over breakfast, no less.
Why should I help with chores? That’s like… low class. Only farmers do that.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. I set the mug down and looked him dead in the eye. “Well, lucky you. Your mama is a farmer.”
He blinked. “Yeah, but like, a cool one.”
I didn’t even argue. I just told him to pack his stuff—we were heading to the ranch.
It’s not some Instagrammable pumpkin patch. It’s real work. Five a.m. feedings, fixing busted fencing, hauling bales twice his weight. I didn’t sugarcoat a thing. I handed him gloves and said, “You want to eat? Then work.”
At first he dragged his feet, kept checking his phone. But that changed quick when Thunder—our oldest horse—stepped on his sneaker and he screamed like it was a crime scene.
I didn’t laugh (out loud). I just said, “That’s what you get when you forget horses don’t like being filmed.”
Each day he got dirtier. Grumpier. But he started listening more. Like really listening—especially to Ms. Salome, our neighbor who’s been ranching since before I was born. She sat him down and told him about growing up during drought seasons, and how her hands got like leather from carrying water buckets barefoot as a girl.
He got quiet after that.
And then today… something happened.
We were out by the coop when I saw Jalen crouched next to one of the lambs, talking to it real low. He didn’t know I was watching. But I swear, I saw him wipe his eye.
Then he walked up to me, handed over his phone, and said, “I’m done with this for now.”
At first, I didn’t fully believe what I was hearing. “Done with what, honey?”
He shrugged, eyes downcast. “Just… done. I wanna focus on, you know, doing something real.”
I almost cried. But I kept it together. “All right,” I said, “you go help me spread some fresh straw in the barn, and then we’ll talk.”
The day carried on with the usual chores—feeding the goats, checking for any loose boards in the fence, and hauling a new stack of hay bales from the truck to the storage shed. Jalen managed to do it all without once asking for his phone or complaining about being bored. He asked a few genuine questions—like why the goats sometimes stand on the highest thing they can find (I told him goats just like to feel tall)—and if the hens always make that much noise (they do, but especially after laying eggs). He was listening, truly listening.
The real turning point, though, came that afternoon. One of our pregnant cows, Petunia, went into labor earlier than expected. She was showing signs of distress—pacing in circles, bellowing in short, labored bursts. I had to call the vet, but it would be at least an hour before he could get out to the ranch.
I looked at Jalen and said, “I’m gonna need help.”
He looked a little pale. “I… I don’t know what to do.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re my extra set of eyes. Just do as I say.”
We led Petunia into a smaller birthing pen with some fresh straw. She was skittish, and Jalen held a calming hand near her head, whispering gentle encouragement like, “It’s okay, girl. We got you.” I could see he was nervous, but he didn’t run. He stayed right there, stroking her muzzle, doing his best to keep her calm.
After what felt like forever—and me getting elbow-deep in cow to ease things along—a healthy calf arrived, wobbly and blinking. Jalen’s eyes got huge. He reached out a trembling hand to gently touch the calf’s side. Petunia, exhausted but safe, nuzzled her newborn.
“You did good,” I told Jalen, trying to keep my voice steady. “You didn’t back down.”
He gave me a shaky grin. “That was… intense. But also—kinda amazing?”
“Incredibly amazing,” I said. “This is ranch life. Sometimes you only get one shot at doing the right thing.”
He didn’t say much after that, just stared at the calf and watched how Petunia licked it clean, watched how life just carried on in this simple yet powerful way.
By the time the vet arrived, the crisis had passed. After he checked both cow and calf, confirming they were fine, Jalen gave a whoop. It made me laugh. I hadn’t heard him sound so genuinely excited in a while.
Later that evening, once the animals were settled, Jalen and I sat on the porch. The sun had dipped low, and the moon was creeping over the horizon. It was quiet enough to hear crickets. I poured us two tall glasses of lemonade, and we just watched the world wind down.
“Mom?” he said softly. “I’m sorry I… said that stuff before. About farmers being low class. I guess I just got caught up in what Dad was saying, and people online… making fun of folks who do, you know, regular work.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I understand, sweet boy. We all get influenced by what we see or hear sometimes.”
He fiddled with the straw in his drink. “But I didn’t get it. I didn’t realize how hard you work, how much goes into this place, or how important it is. I mean, if farmers stopped working, we wouldn’t have—well, anything.”
“That’s true. We wouldn’t have food on the table, milk in the fridge, clothes on our backs… Farmers feed the world, Jalen.”
He nodded. “Exactly. I was being a jerk. I’m sorry.”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Apology accepted.”
Just then, headlights swept across the yard. It was his dad’s pickup pulling in. My ex stepped out, all polished shoes and city clothes, making a face at the dusty ranch yard. Jalen stood up, squared his shoulders, and waved him over.
His dad took one look at Jalen’s grimy jeans and sweat-stained shirt. “Did she force you to do all that menial labor?” he asked with a half-smirk.
Jalen didn’t flinch. “Dad, it’s not menial labor. It’s real work. And it’s important.” Then he pointed to the barn. “Mom and I helped deliver a calf today. She was in trouble, and we saved her. You can’t tell me that’s not worth something.”
His dad looked stunned. “Son, that’s great and all, but—”
“No ‘but.’ This ranch is Mom’s life. It’s my life, too. I kinda forgot that.” Jalen shrugged, gaze steady. “It’s where I grew up. I get it now.”
His dad looked from Jalen to me, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he just sighed and muttered something about giving us space. He went back to his truck, and within a few minutes he’d driven off, tires kicking up dust along the gravel road.
I could tell Jalen was still tense, but he loosened up when I pressed another lemonade in his hand. “You okay?” I asked.
He blew out a breath. “Yeah. Just—Dad’s never gonna get it, is he?”
“That’s for him to figure out,” I said gently. “You’ve got your own path.”
Jalen turned to gaze at the barn. “Yeah. And I like that path.”
Jalen turned to gaze at the barn. “Yeah. And I like that path.”
We sat for a while longer under the stars, sipping our lemonades. Crickets sang, and the horses whinnied off in the distance. I think it was the first time Jalen truly felt proud to be part of ranch life. It was as if a weight had lifted, and he realized he had nothing to prove to anyone else.
Before bed, he dug out his phone again and showed me a draft of a video he’d taken. Not of the horse stepping on his foot, not of the goat on top of the tractor, but a short, quiet video of Petunia and her newborn calf. The camera was a bit shaky, but you could hear the soft nickers, the miracle of new life, and Jalen’s hushed excitement behind the lens.
“Maybe I’ll post it,” he said, “to show people that, you know, farmers do real stuff. Serious stuff.”
I nodded. “That’d be nice. As long as you keep the animals’ welfare in mind and don’t stress them out for the sake of filming.”
Jalen nodded back, thoughtful. “I will.”
The next morning, he was up with the sun, feeding the lambs, double-checking Petunia and her calf, even pitching in to fix a broken latch on the chicken coop. He grumbled a little (old habits die hard), but there was something different in his attitude—more willingness, more understanding.
And let me tell you, in those early dawn hours, seeing him cradling a lamb in his arms, you wouldn’t have guessed he was the same kid who called farmers “low class” just a few days ago. He was still the same Jalen—headstrong, a little sassy—but he had rediscovered a sense of gratitude for the land and the people who work it.
I think that’s the biggest lesson he learned: Everyone contributes in their own way, and there’s no such thing as “low class” when you’re putting in honest effort to feed families, to provide, to care for the earth and the animals. Work is work, and it’s worth respecting—whether it’s on a ranch, in an office, or anywhere else.
And sure, we’ll still have our disagreements. I’m his mom; that’s part of the job description. He’ll still probably roll his eyes when I tell him to muck out stalls, and I’ll still get on his case about finishing up properly. But at the end of the day, he’s learned to appreciate not just the ranch, but also the people who dedicate their lives to it.
As for me, I came away with a reminder that sometimes, you have to let folks experience your world firsthand so they can truly understand. You can’t just talk at them, or scold them—you show them. Let them see the hard work, the sweat, the precious moments that make it all worthwhile.
That’s the funny thing about life: The best lessons usually come wrapped in dirt, sweat, and a day’s honest labor.
So here’s my message to you: If you ever start feeling like your work—or someone else’s—is beneath you, remember that every role is important. Every job can be done with pride and passion. We depend on each other more than we realize. And if we can find dignity in what we do, we’ll find harmony in ourselves.
If this story speaks to you at all—if it makes you think of your own experiences, or someone you know who could use a reminder of the value of hard work—please share it. Give it a like, spread the message around. You never know whose eyes might be opened with just a few kind words or a powerful story.
Thanks for reading, and remember: sometimes you’ve just gotta get your hands dirty to finally see the beauty that’s right in front of you.
