The last guy I liked ghosted me after I said I raise chickens. Never even made it to “I also fix my own combine.”

I’m thirty-six, sunburnt half the year, and I can reverse a trailer better than most men I meet. I run 160 acres solo. Corn, soybeans, a dozen Angus, two beehives, and one failing love life.

It’s not that I need someone—I want someone. Someone who doesn’t wrinkle their nose at manure or flinch when I say I make more than most of the guys I’ve dated. But they either treat me like a novelty or a threat.

I tried a local speed dating event last fall. Wore a dress. Even painted my nails. Second guy in, Lyle, says, “You farm? Like, as your real job?” I laughed. He didn’t. Another guy asked if I was “looking for a man to rescue you from all that hard work.” I left early.

It started eating at me—maybe I’d built a life too big for two. Maybe the quiet was what I chose, not what was left.

Then last month, I got interviewed for a regional ag magazine. “Young Women in Farming” or something like that. I didn’t think much of it.

Until my inbox flooded.

A welder from Kansas. A soil scientist from Alberta. And one message that made me drop my phone:

“I think I’ve been looking for you for a long time…”

His name was Dimas. He lived in Iowa, a couple hours from me. Said he grew up on a dairy farm, but now helped manage a grain elevator. “Not glamorous,” he wrote, “but I love being around harvest dust and loud trucks. Your story made me smile. Would you maybe want to chat sometime?”

I stared at the screen for a while. He didn’t mention my land. Or the fact that I own my own machinery. Just… that I made him smile. That stuck.

I replied that evening. We kept it casual at first—talked about soil pH, our mutual hatred for mid-July humidity, and which brand of overalls actually holds up. He sent photos of his dog, a goofy shepherd-lab mix named Tulsi. I sent back one of my barn cat asleep in a seed bag.

Over the next few weeks, our messages turned into calls. Then video chats. He had laugh lines around his eyes and this low, steady voice that somehow made my evenings feel less lonely.

One night, I found myself sitting in the cab of my truck, talking to him for over two hours while the crickets chirped and the dew started to set. I didn’t even notice how late it got until I realized I hadn’t eaten dinner.

“Come visit,” I said, without really thinking it through.

There was a pause. “You sure?”

I was. More than I expected.

He came that weekend. Brought Tulsi, a cooler full of his mom’s tamales, and a bag of tools. “Just in case something needs fixing,” he joked.

I didn’t expect him to look at my broken chicken coop door and immediately start measuring hinges. Or that he’d walk the whole fence line with me before dinner, noticing a place where the wire had sagged. We didn’t kiss that weekend. But we talked. We worked. He fit into the rhythm of the place like he’d been here before.

After he left, the quiet came back—but it didn’t sting as much.

We kept seeing each other, once or twice a month. Sometimes I’d go to his place, sometimes he’d drive out to mine. We’d cook, fix things, check cattle together. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt good.

And then… things got weird.

It started with his cousin, a guy named Mateo. The three of us had beers together one night after dinner. Mateo kept cracking jokes about “snagging the jackpot” and “early retirement on a farm.” At first, I thought he was just being dumb. But Dimas got real quiet.

Then his mom called me. Out of the blue. Said she was “excited” to hear we might be settling down soon. That Dimas had always “dreamed of running his own land.”

That word—own—got stuck in my head.

I didn’t want to be suspicious. But the last time Dimas came over, I casually asked what he thought about renting land or sharecropping. He shifted in his seat, said something vague about “maybe someday having a little patch of his own.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I started noticing things I hadn’t before. Like how Dimas always asked questions about my acreage—how many acres were in production, how much was pasture, if I’d considered subdividing the southern field.

I told myself I was being paranoid. But I called my neighbor Lupe, who used to date a guy who sweet-talked her into co-signing a land lease before vanishing. She didn’t sugarcoat it.

“Protect your name, girl,” she said. “Men lie. Dirt don’t.”

So I did some digging. Not on Dimas. On myself. Looked through my land title, trust documents, my will. Everything was still solid—Dad had set it up airtight before he passed. But it made me realize something else.

I’d been so busy hoping someone would want me, I hadn’t really asked what I wanted in return.

A week later, I invited Dimas over.

He showed up with a bottle of wine and a smile. I handed him a pair of gloves and pointed to the barn roof. “Storm ripped a panel loose,” I said. “You up for a little climb?”

He hesitated. “Thought we were gonna talk about the future tonight.”

I smiled. “We are.”

We fixed the roof. Then we talked.

I told him I liked him. That I was grateful for his time, his help, and his steady calm. But I also told him the truth: I wasn’t looking for someone to take over. Or tuck into a ready-made life.

“I want a partner,” I said. “Not a passenger.”

He looked stunned. Then quiet.

Then he told me the truth.

That he’d lost his job two weeks ago. The elevator had downsized. That he was thinking about whether life with me meant stability. He admitted Mateo had teased him about it—but said it wasn’t the reason he reached out.

“I messaged you because I saw someone strong,” he said. “Not because I thought you’d save me.”

I believed him. I did.

But I also knew I needed space to sort out what I wanted.

So we paused things. Not dramatically. Just… paused.

The first few weeks were tough. I missed the calls. The voice. Tulsi.

But something strange happened. Without the distractions, I started hearing myself again. I planted late-summer squash. Painted the chicken coop. Fixed my own damn roof this time.

I also opened an email I’d been ignoring from the Ag Extension Office—an offer to mentor young women in farming. Something about it sparked.

A month later, I started hosting Saturday meetups. Ten women showed up the first week—one brought her baby, another her college roommate. We talked about land loans, livestock injuries, loneliness, and legacy.

And I realized something: maybe the life I built wasn’t too big for two. Maybe it was just meant to be shared differently.

Dimas and I still talk, every now and then. We’re friendly. No bitterness. He ended up taking a job teaching ag mechanics at a community college. Says he likes it. He’s dating someone now, a teacher from Des Moines.

And me?

I’m still here. Still sunburnt. Still herding cattle and bees and dreams. But now, there’s a fuller porch on Saturdays. A little more laughter around the kitchen table.

I even started dating again—not out of loneliness, but from a place of choice. I met someone at a fencing supply store of all places. His name’s Haruto. He’s quiet, kind, and runs a small native tree nursery. He didn’t even flinch when I showed him the calluses on my hands. Said, “They look like proof of something good.”

We’re taking it slow. No rushing. No big promises. Just planting, growing, waiting.

And I’ve learned this much:

The right person won’t be intimidated by your strength, or drawn by your assets.

They’ll just see you. And stay.

If this hit home for you—or you know someone it might—give it a share and a like. You never know who needs the reminder. 💛