They Think I’m Just a “Cowgirl Barbie” — But I Run This Whole Damn Ranch
From the moment I could walk, I was in boots. My mama says I learned to lasso before I learned to write my own name. But somewhere along the way — maybe because I’m blonde, maybe because I like a little lipstick with my saddle — people decided to call me “Cowgirl Barbie.”
They meant it as an insult.
And maybe I smiled when they said it, because I’ve learned that underestimating me is their first mistake.
Our ranch isn’t some picture-perfect postcard. It’s 3,000 acres of hard, uneven land, the kind that doesn’t care how pretty your manicure is. The air smells like hay and manure, the fences always need mending, and there’s never a day without work.
But it’s mine. All of it.
My daddy left it to me when he passed. Some folks in town still don’t believe that was his choice. They whisper that it should’ve gone to my cousin Travis, the “real cowboy” in the family. Travis himself made sure to tell me I’d never last a year out here on my own.
“You’ll run back to the city with your hair spray and your high heels,” he laughed that day.
Well, that was four years ago. I’m still here. And the only thing running is my cattle.
Running a ranch isn’t romantic — it’s war. Every morning at 5 a.m., I’m out before the sun, checking the herd, feeding the horses, and praying the coyotes kept their distance overnight. I’ve wrestled calves twice my weight, fixed fences in the pouring rain, and buried animals with my own hands when nature decided to be cruel.
And yes — I do it in jeans that fit and a braid that doesn’t quit. My nails might have dirt under them, but they’re painted pink. That’s what gets under people’s skin. They can’t reconcile the image: a woman who can rope a steer and still look like she could walk a runway.
Last month, we had our annual livestock auction. Buyers from three counties over came to bid. I walked in wearing my best denim jacket, a silver belt buckle my daddy won back in ‘92, and boots so polished you could see your reflection.
I saw the smirks. I heard the whispers: She’s just here for show.
Then the bidding started. I held my own against men twice my age and three times my size — and I walked away with three prize bulls at prices they didn’t see coming. By the end of the day, those same men were asking me for advice. I just smiled sweetly and told them, “Guess I got lucky.”
The truth is, I’ve had to be twice as good to get half the respect.
When the well pump broke in the middle of a summer drought, the repair crew asked, “Where’s your husband?”
I told them he was fictional — and to hand me the damn wrench.
When the bank tried to talk me into selling off part of the land because “it’s too much for one woman to manage,” I reminded them I’d just increased our cattle yield by 15% in one season.
And when Travis showed up last winter, hat in hand, asking for a job after his own ranch went under, I gave him one — then put him on fence duty for six straight weeks. Respect is earned.
Some nights, when the work is finally done and the stars are so bright they look close enough to touch, I think about why I fight so hard to keep this place. It’s not just dirt and grass. It’s the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields. It’s the smell of rain on dry soil. It’s the rhythm of the earth that no city clock can match.
My daddy used to tell me, “The ranch will test you. Every day. But if you love it, it’ll give back.”
He was right.
I’ve seen calves take their first shaky steps, wild horses learn to trust, and neighbors come together after storms to rebuild what was lost. There’s a beauty in this life that you can’t put into words — but you sure can feel it.
Do I get tired? Sure. Do I wish sometimes that people would see me for what I am instead of the stereotype in their heads? Absolutely.
But here’s the thing: the nickname “Cowgirl Barbie” doesn’t sting anymore.
Because while they’re busy judging my hat or my lipstick, I’m the one signing their checks when they buy feed from me. I’m the one whose cattle win blue ribbons. I’m the one who knows every inch of this land, every weak fence post, every hidden spring where the deer come to drink.
They can keep talking. I’ll keep running the ranch.
A couple weeks ago, I was hauling hay bales into the barn when a tourist drove up the dirt road. He was lost and needed directions. He leaned out of his car and said, “Can I talk to the owner?”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, pushed my hat back, and said, “You’re looking at her.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? You don’t look like—”
I cut him off with a grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Then I gave him directions and went back to work.
Later that night, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My braid was messy, my shirt was dusty, and there was a streak of dirt across my cheek. I laughed. Maybe I didn’t look like a ranch owner to him — but I looked exactly like one to me.
They think I’m just a “Cowgirl Barbie.”
Let them.
Because the truth is, I’ve learned that being underestimated is one of my greatest advantages. People don’t see you coming. They don’t prepare for you. And by the time they realize you’re more than just a pretty face in a cowboy hat, it’s too late.
This ranch is in my blood. It’s in the calluses on my hands, in the ache in my back after a long day, in the quiet satisfaction of a job done right.
I’m not playing dress-up. I’m not pretending.
I run this whole damn ranch. And I’m just getting started.
