I knew something was off the moment Jalen came back from his dad’s visit. He was flipping his hair, talking like a social media influencer, and eyeing my boots like they were contagious.
Then, over breakfast—no less—he dropped it: “Why should I help with chores? That’s like… low class. Only farmers do that.”
I almost spit out my coffee. I put the mug down, locked eyes with him, and said, “Lucky for you, your mama’s a farmer.”
He blinked, half-confused, “Yeah, but, like, a cool one.”
I didn’t bother arguing. Instead, I told him to pack up—we were going to the ranch.
It wasn’t some glossy, Instagram-worthy pumpkin patch. It was real work—5 a.m. feedings, busted fences, hauling bales twice his weight. I didn’t sugarcoat a thing. I handed him a pair of gloves and said, “You want to eat? Then you work.”
At first, he dragged his feet, checking his phone every two minutes. That was until Thunder, our oldest horse, stepped on his sneaker. The way he screamed, you’d think he’d been caught in a crime scene.
I didn’t laugh—at least, not out loud. Instead, I said, “That’s what you get when you forget horses don’t like being filmed.”
Each day, Jalen got dirtier and grumpier. But slowly, he started to listen more—really listen. Especially to Ms. Salome, our neighbor who’d been ranching since before I was born. She sat him down one afternoon and told him stories about growing up during drought seasons—how she used to carry water barefoot, her hands now like leather from years of hard labor.
Something clicked in him after that.
Then today… it happened.
I caught Jalen crouching next to one of the lambs, talking softly to it. He didn’t see me watching, but I swear I saw him wipe away a tear.
He came up to me after and handed me his phone. “I’m done with this for now,” he said.
At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “Done with what, honey?”
He shrugged, eyes down. “Just… done. I want to focus on doing something real.”
It was all I could do to keep from tearing up. “Okay,” I said, “you help me spread some fresh straw in the barn, and then we’ll talk.”
The rest of the day passed with the usual ranch chores—feeding goats, checking the fence, hauling hay bales. Jalen didn’t complain once. He didn’t ask for his phone or whine about boredom. Instead, he asked real questions—like why the goats like standing on the highest thing they can find (they like being tall, apparently)—and if the hens are always that noisy (they are, especially after laying eggs). He was really listening.
The big moment came that afternoon. Petunia, one of our pregnant cows, went into labor early. She was in distress, pacing and bellowing. I had to call the vet, but it would take an hour before he could make it out to the ranch.
I looked at Jalen. “I’m going to need your help.”
He paled a little. “I don’t know what to do.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re my second set of eyes. Just do what I say.”
We got Petunia into a smaller birthing pen, and Jalen stayed calm, gently stroking her head, whispering soft words like, “It’s okay, girl. We got you.” He was nervous, but he stayed by her side, calming her as best he could.
And then, after what felt like forever—and me getting elbow-deep in cow to help things along—a healthy calf arrived. Wobbly, blinking, and full of life. Jalen’s eyes went wide, and he reached out, trembling, to touch the calf’s side. Petunia nuzzled her newborn, exhausted but safe.
“You did good,” I told him, my voice steady despite the emotions bubbling up. “You didn’t back down.”
He gave me a shaky grin. “That was… intense. But also kinda amazing?”
“Incredibly amazing,” I agreed. “This is ranch life. Sometimes, you only get one shot at doing the right thing.”
Jalen didn’t say much after that. He just watched Petunia lick her calf clean. He watched the miracle of new life unfold, realizing how powerful and simple it all was.
By the time the vet arrived, the crisis had passed. He confirmed both cow and calf were fine, and Jalen let out a whoop. I hadn’t heard him sound so genuinely excited in ages.
Later, as the sun sank low and the crickets started their evening chorus, Jalen and I sat on the porch with tall glasses of lemonade.
“Mom,” he said, softly, “I’m sorry I said all that stuff before. About farmers being low class. I guess I just got caught up in what Dad was saying and what people online make fun of… regular work.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I get it, sweetie. We all get influenced by things we hear or see sometimes.”
He fiddled with his drink. “But I didn’t get it. I didn’t realize how much you do, how much goes into this place. If farmers didn’t work, we wouldn’t have… anything.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Farmers feed the world.”
He nodded. “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. He stepped out, all polished shoes and city clothes, and made a face at the dusty ranch. Jalen stood up, squared his shoulders, and waved him over.
His dad took one look at Jalen—his jeans muddy and shirt soaked with sweat—and asked, half-mocking, “Did she force you to do all that menial labor?”
Jalen didn’t flinch. “Dad, it’s not ‘menial labor.’ It’s real work. And it’s important.” 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. “That’s great and all, but—”
“No ‘but.’ This ranch is Mom’s life. It’s my life, too. I forgot that. But I get it now.”
His dad stared at him for a moment, then sighed, muttering something about giving us space. He turned and left, tires kicking up dust as he drove away.
I could tell Jalen was still tense, but he relaxed when I handed him another lemonade. “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 softly. “You’ve got your own path.”
Jalen turned to look at the barn, the stars starting to twinkle above us. “Yeah. And I like that path.”
We sat together for a while, the world winding down, sipping our lemonade. It was the first time Jalen truly seemed proud of ranch life—not because he had to prove something to anyone, but because he’d finally found his own way.
Before bed, he showed me a video he’d made. Not of him being stepped on by the horse or the goat doing something ridiculous, but a short, shaky clip of Petunia and her newborn calf. You could hear the soft nickers of the calf, the quiet miracle of new life, and Jalen’s hushed excitement behind the lens.
“Maybe I’ll post this,” he said, “to show people farmers do real stuff. Serious stuff.”
I nodded. “Just remember, it’s about the animals’ welfare. Don’t stress them out just for a video.”
Jalen nodded thoughtfully. “I won’t.”
The next morning, Jalen was up before the sun, already feeding the lambs, checking on Petunia and her calf, fixing the chicken coop. He grumbled a bit (old habits die hard), but there was something different in his attitude—more effort, more understanding.
In those early morning hours, with Jalen cradling a lamb in his arms, you wouldn’t have guessed he was the same kid who once called farmers “low class.” He was still Jalen—headstrong, a little sassy—but he’d rediscovered his appreciation for the land, the animals, and the people who worked it.
That’s the biggest lesson he learned: Every role matters. There’s no such thing as “low class” when you’re putting in honest work to feed families, care for animals, and nurture the earth.
So here’s my message: If you ever feel like your work—or someone else’s—is beneath you, remember that every job is worth respect. Every role is valuable. And when you respect what others do, you’ll find a little more harmony within yourself.
If this resonates with you, if it makes you think of someone who could use a reminder, share it. Spread the message. You never know who might need to hear it.
Sometimes, the best lessons come wrapped in dirt, sweat, and honest labor. And that’s where we find the real beauty of life.
