I was nineteen, leaned against a wooden corral under the vast Wyoming sky, and convinced of one thing: I could do anything if I worked hard enough. After all, growing up on a ranch teaches you to grit your teeth and get things done, whether that’s digging fence posts through frozen soil or calming a spooked gelding that outweighs you ten to one. Failure? That was a tourist I didn’t plan to host. I thought I had it all figured out—until a single calf taught me otherwise.

When Confidence Collides with Reality

Picture this: the summer before college, I scored what seemed like the perfect setup. In exchange for helping wrangle livestock between pastures, I’d get to oversee my first solo branding operation. I'd watched my dad do it a thousand times, and I thought, “How hard can it be?” The answer, I would quickly discover, was somewhere between “a lot harder than taming a cranky mule” and “full-blown comedy of errors.”

Let me introduce you to the star of this story, a wiry little steer with a Napoleon complex. He was ornery from the get-go, and when it came time to corral him, he wriggled through every gap in our fencing like some Bovine Houdini. It wasn’t long before I was sprinting through sagebrush, swatting at his tiny rear end with a lasso like Indiana Jones on a budget. My friends and I laughed at first, but each escape fueled his rebellion—and eroded my pride.

By the time I wrestled him to the branding chute, my arms were jelly, my face was streaked with dust, and my friends had moved right past helpful advice into backhanded compliments on my “unconventional technique.” Ah, camaraderie.

But the biggest blow came during the actual branding process. I stoked the iron, gripped it tightly, pressed the metal to his hide, and—nothing. In my nervous energy, I hadn’t checked the heat, so instead of a clear mark, there was just a faint, smudgy outline that no one (human or cow) would take seriously. My dad came over, tilted his hat back, and gave me a look I can only describe as a mix of “bless his heart” and “what in tarnation are you even doing?” The steer bolted, unbranded, into the field.

Failure, it seemed, was no longer just a hypothetical threat—it had arrived, kicked me square in the ego, and waved goodbye as it strutted out of sight.

Lessons from the Land (And Life)

Looking back, I realize land teaches you humility in ways few classrooms ever could. Out in the open, mistakes are glaring. They don’t hide under bad lighting or Zoom filters. But as I rode home that day, utterly bruised inside and out, I started piecing together something not even my toughest high school geometry teacher had taught me: failure doesn’t define you—it teaches you.

Here’s what that calf, in all his smug glory, taught me about resilience, relationships, and life:

1. You Can’t Lasso Every Outcome

If there’s one thing dating shares with ranch life, it’s this: you’re not in control as often as you think. Sometimes, the people you care about—or hope to care about—don’t want what you’re offering. And sometimes, the timing is off, or the sparks just aren’t there. Chasing someone who’s not meant to “be corralled” (like my runaway steer) only leaves you exhausted and empty-handed. Know when to let go, even if it stings.

2. Preparation Doesn’t Equal Perfection

I thought watching my dad brand cattle was all the training I needed. I skipped the part where practice meets preparation. Similarly, in love (and life), there are so many moments when you walk in thinking you’re ready—only to stumble, say something cringy, or realize you didn’t read the room. That’s okay. Just like a ranch, relationships thrive on effort, not flawlessness.

3. Laugh in the Midst of the Chaos

Endlessly chasing one stubborn calf could’ve turned into a full-blown meltdown, but having my friends around helped me keep perspective. I’m a firm believer that laughter, even the self-deprecating kind, is one of the healthiest things you can bring into a situation, especially in relationships. You forgot your anniversary? Tripped on the first date? Said “I love you” a little too early? Laugh about it later—together. Compassion starts with a good chuckle.

4. Scraped Knees Are Worth the Ride

Just like falling off a green-broke horse, my first big “failure” knocked me down in all the ways that matter—physically, emotionally, and pridefully. But I still wouldn’t trade that day for all the polished moments in the world. Sometimes, the hard lessons born of failure shape you into the kind of person who can appreciate success when it does come galloping into view.

Learning to Ride Again

After patching up my battered self-esteem, I convinced my dad to let me try again a few weeks later. It was nothing fancy: an iron, a chute, a brand-new calf who didn’t yet know my track record of incompetence. But once the job was done (properly this time), my dad gave me a subtle nod of approval. And while nods from stoic ranch dads might not make the nightly news, they hit harder than any gold star could.

Fast forward a few years, and I think about that failure more often than I’d like to admit. It doesn’t just linger in my memory—it keeps me grounded. Whether I’m pitching a story to my editor, hashing out differences with a partner, or tackling some completely foreign challenge (like replacing my truck’s alternator), I remind myself of that smudged brand and how it didn’t stop me from moving forward.

So yeah, my first big failure humiliated me, left me sunburned, and gave me a year’s worth of ranch-hand teasing. But it also handed me a blueprint for resilience. Life’s not about dodging all the screw-ups—it’s about embracing them, dusting yourself off, and getting back in the saddle.

Final Takeaway

No matter how badly you botch things—on a ranch, in a relationship, or anywhere in between—there’s always tomorrow to try again. Whether you’re chasing someone’s heart or chasing a stubborn calf, the occasional mess-up isn’t just inevitable; it’s vital. It’s how you learn, grow, and eventually laugh about it all.

Failure doesn’t mean you’re finished—it means you’re learning to ride.