Before the eggs are cracked, before the coffee’s even poured, before the sun stretches herself across the hills—we are already in motion. Not we as in the collective farm, not even we as in husband and wife. I mean me. The Farmer’s Wife.

And if you know, you know—being the farmer’s wife isn’t just a role you play. It’s the foundation everything else is built on. It takes precedence over every part of life, whether you plan for it or not.

It’s knowing that plans can shift with the weather, the livestock, or a last-minute hay delivery. It’s holding space for dreams of your own while anchoring someone else’s legacy. It’s being the glue when the farm is stretched thin, and the grace when tempers run short. It’s sitting at the kitchen table long after supper is cleared, going over feed invoices and school schedules, wondering how you’ll do it all—and then doing it anyway.

There are days when you wear ten hats before breakfast. Chauffeur. Bookkeeper. Tractor seat partner. Fence fixer. Toddler wrangler. Butcher’s assistant. Peacekeeper. Encourager. Cook. Homemaker. And somehow, you’re expected to smile sweetly through it all, or at least not scream into a bucket of chicken feed.

But this is the confession I need to make: being the farmer’s wife has taught me more about strength than anything else ever could. It’s not loud, spotlight strength. It’s quiet. Sacred. The kind that digs in her heels while holding a baby on her hip and stirring the soup with her free hand. The kind that gets back up after hard words at the dinner table and still folds his socks with tenderness.

Some days I feel like I vanish under the weight of it all. And yet, somehow, I’m more me than I’ve ever been.

So if you’re reading this from your own kitchen table, coffee gone cold again, wondering if anyone sees what you’re carrying—I see you.

And I’m raising my chipped mug to you tonight, dear sister in flannel and grit. The Farmer’s Wife always comes first—not in attention or in praise, but in priority. Because when she’s standing strong, the whole house holds.

Until next time,

From my kitchen table to yours,

The Farmer’s Wife