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They Think I’m Just a Cowgirl Barbie — But I Run This Whole Damn Ranch

I don’t usually let strangers get under my skin. Out here, you learn to shake off comments the way you shake dust from your jeans. But that day was different. At the feed store, the clerk laughed, asked if my husband would be loading the truck—like I was some cowgirl playing pretend. He didn’t know I’ve run 240 acres alone for years, fixing fences, hauling hay, and birthing calves in the dead of night. I swallowed the anger, but when I pulled into the yard and saw the paper nailed to my barn door, my blood ran cold. The words scrawled across the note caught me off guard…

I don’t usually let strangers get under my skin. Out here, you learn to brush off comments the way you brush dust from your jeans. But today was different. Today, I nearly lost it.

It started at the feed store. I was buying fencing wire, mineral blocks, and salt licks — same as every week. My boots were caked with dried mud, jeans faded, braid tucked under a ball cap that’s seen better years. The guy behind the counter looked me over like I was a tourist who took a wrong turn.

“You lost, miss? Gift shop’s that way.”