Warning: This is an unnecessarily sentimental reflection on a single heifer shown by a middle-aged woman who ended up winning a Reserve Division. Proceed at your own risk.

Of all the things I’ve shared about my journey back into Shorthorns, this part feels the most personal. I’ve delayed writing about it because my thoughts and emotions around it are so tangled that I don’t know how to do it justice. But skipping over it wouldn’t be fair—to myself, to the people who have followed this journey, or to the ones who have been right beside me: my parents, my husband, and my son. One day, I want them to be able to look back on this and know, without a doubt, just how much this has meant to me.

A Firework Moment of Clarity

Stay with me on this. I know it might sound silly, but recently, one moment changed something in me.

Our little family—Luke, Knox, and I—took our first trip to Walt Disney World in November 2023. We had the most wonderful, magical time. I didn’t know it before, but now I do: we’re Disney people. 

And honestly, if I could, I’d go every year. The only problem? I also want to show Shorthorn cattle, and unless I win the lottery, I probably won’t be doing both.

One night, we were at the Happily Ever After fireworks show at Magic Kingdom. I had never seen it before, and I was completely mesmerized—not just by the fireworks themselves, but by the entire experience. The music, the narration, the way it all comes together to tell a story. I know I wasn’t the only one with tears in my eyes. If you’ve ever been there, you probably understand.

The show begins with these words:

“Each of us has a dream, a heart’s desire. It calls to us. And when we’re brave enough to listen, and bold enough to pursue, that dream will lead us on a journey to discover who we’re meant to be. All we have to do is look inside our hearts and unlock the magic within.”

I know, I know. This is the part where you roll your eyes. But just stay with me.

As I stood there in the middle of Magic Kingdom, those words felt like they were speaking directly to me. I remember leaning over to Knox and whispering, “Our dream is Shorthorns.” He gave me the sweetest smile, one I won’t ever forget.

Then, later in the show, another voice echoed through the night—this time, one I knew by heart. Mufasa from The Lion King.

“Look inside yourself. You are more than what you have become. Remember who you are. Remember. Remember.”

And it cut straight to my core.

Because the truth is, I had forgotten her. The version of me who lived and breathed Shorthorns. She was still there, buried under years of busyness and shifting priorities, but she had been quiet for a long time. That moment, standing in the middle of Magic Kingdom, fireworks bursting above me, it was like something inside of me woke up. A stirring, a push. A reminder.

It was time to come back.

A Book Judged by Its Cover

For the past several years, I’ve lived in the Brahman cattle world, and the people in it have a version of me that’s different from what the Shorthorn people know. And honestly, some of that is by my own design.

Take the way I dress at stock shows, for example. At Brahman shows, I’m the person wearing white pants. Yes, white pants at a cattle show. In my defense, the Houston Brahman show is the cleanest cattle show in the world, and besides, I don’t like wearing black. But I think a lot of Brahman people see me and assume I’m more of a city version of a cattlewoman—someone who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty, someone who isn’t in the cattle business as much as around it.

A good example of this happened a couple of years ago when I called a fellow American Brahman breeder to purchase semen on one of their bulls. They didn’t recognize my name, so I started explaining who I was—where I was from, that I was with V8 Ranch, giving them a few extra hints. Finally, they said, “Oh! I know who you are! You’re the hairdresser!”

I had to laugh. “No,” I told them, “I’m not a hairdresser. But you’re thinking of the right person.”

Despite growing up on the ranch my entire life, I tend to give off “city” vibes. Maybe it’s my style preferences. Maybe it’s my background in wedding photography. I don’t think people in the Brahman world see me as clueless about cattle, but I do think many of them assume I have more of a hands-off role, that I’m more about marketing and branding than the cattle themselves. And honestly, I was fine with that for a while. What they thought of me didn’t change how I saw myself. But the truth is, over time, I slipped into that role so fully that I sort of forgot who I was.

And here’s the thing—while I may not be out tagging newborn Brahman calves or halter breaking heifers, I am not a hands-off cattlewoman.

I am a good penner—trained by my dad and grandpa. If push comes to shove, I’m a solid member of the penning team.

For years, I spent many a middle-of-the-night holding the spotlight for my dad, checking heats in the pasture, quietly learning in the darkness.

There are a thousand little skills I’ve picked up over time—things that aren’t flashy, things that don’t come with a title, but things that make me feel at home in this world.

You Can Fool the Fans, But Not the Players

I never show our Brahman cattle—not because I can’t, but because I don’t need to. We have outstanding showmen who are part of our V8 family, and they do an incredible job. There’s never been a reason for me to step into the ring. But there’s one exception: group classes.

I’ll still step in for those, especially if it means standing next to my dad. There’s something sentimental about it. Something grounding. It’s a reminder of where we come from, of the hours spent together working cattle, preparing for shows, believing in what we’d built.

But outside of that, I stayed on the sidelines.

Then, one day, without even thinking, I didn’t.

At the 2024 Kickoff Classic, I was standing in the makeup ring, watching one of our heifers come out of the show ring. I was talking to our showman about the way she was being set up and explaining how I thought it could be adjusted. Then, instinctively, I reached for the show stick, took the heifer for a loop, and set her up myself.

And for a split second, everything went quiet.

I looked up to see our own crew—people who have worked alongside me for years—staring at me, surprised. Almost confused.

It hit me then.

I had spent so long in the background that even the people who knew me best had never seen me in this way.

For them, I had always been the person behind the brand, behind the scenes. They knew me as someone who understood cattle but not necessarily as someone who showed them. It had been so long since I had played that role that, to them, it was like watching someone step into a character they never knew existed.

Or, as my dad always says when judging cattle, “You can fool the fans but not the players.”

And in that moment, I realized—our own crew hadn’t seen me as a player. They had seen me as a fan.

And honestly? Their reaction was both thrilling and humbling.

Thrilling because, for the first time in a long time, I felt a spark of something familiar—something I had forgotten.

Humbling because I realized how far I had drifted from the person I used to be.

And yes, I did it wearing tennis shoes and my favorite Old Navy joggers. (It was summer. But rest assured, if it were Houston, I’d have probably been in white pants both then and now.)

A Family Decision

As we were getting ready for the 2025 Cattlemen’s Congress, the plan was simple: Knox would show Margie in the Junior Show. That had always been the goal. It’s funny—I call it the endpoint, but in reality, it was the starting line. The first step in what will hopefully be a long and meaningful Junior Show career.

But as we made preparations, I also wanted Knox to show in the open show. That was important to me.

When we sat down as a family—my parents, Luke, Knox, and me—the entire V8 Shorthorns crew—I argued my case. I wanted Knox to show her. I gave all the reasons why it was important to me, but mainly, I drew from my own experience.

Even as a kid, my parents insisted that I show my own heifers in the open show. Back then, this was unusual—the open show was typically the domain of adult, professional showmen. The breeders who entrusted us with their best heifers likely expected seasoned handlers in the ring, showcasing their cattle at these major shows. But my parents had a different vision. They believed in me.

Sure, there were moments when a more experienced showman might have presented the heifers with more polish, but they saw beyond the immediate. They saw an opportunity for me, their daughter, to learn, to grow, and to stand on her own two feet in the show ring. Undoubtedly, my dad could have showcased those animals spectacularly himself. But for them, the bigger picture mattered.

What mattered was the opportunity. They trusted me enough to represent our family’s program, even if it meant I might not have the same polish as a professional showman. And that belief in me? It was empowering. It gave me confidence. To be trusted with carrying the banner for V8 Shorthorns at such a young age was defining.

But as we talked, my parents and Luke pointed out something I hadn’t considered: Knox was younger than I had been when I started. Yes, they had made me show in the open show, but by the time I first stepped into the Louisville open show ring, I was nine years old. Knox is only seven.

I’m incredibly grateful that the rules allow him to show at his age because that gives him an extra year in this incredible association. But still—he’s smaller than I was my first time on a national stage.

They also reminded me that this would give Knox the opportunity to watch and learn. He could sit ringside, study the ring from a different perspective, and absorb the nuances of showing at this level.

And so, together, we made a decision: I would show Margie in the open show.

Time, Tradition, and an Old Blue Stick

As I prepared to show at Cattlemen’s Congress, I looked back to pinpoint the last time I had stepped into the ring as an exhibitor. As best I can tell, it was 2008 in Denver.

That year, I showed our best heifer, Miss V8 Mollie Jo 93S2. She was a big heifer, heavy springing, and we thought she was going to win Denver. Spoiler alert: she didn’t. 🙂

Dad usually showed Mollie Jo, but he had to leave Denver early to attend my Uncle Max’s funeral. That left me with the responsibility of carrying the mail for us. And well… I did not.

I don’t even have a photo from that show—probably because we were all a little disappointed and just didn’t take one. That was 17 years ago. I was 24. Now, I’m 41.

In some ways, I still feel like that exact same person—the one who can vividly remember standing in the first hole at Louisville after that initial pull (there always seems to be a good hill there, doesn’t it?)—soaking in the best moment an exhibitor can experience. That place. That moment. There’s nothing like it.

But in other ways, the difference between who I was then and who I am now is impossible to put into words.

The good news? I think deep down, I always knew this moment was coming.

I knew that part of this journey—this return to Shorthorns—would include getting back in the ring myself. The day we bought Margie, I went straight to Amazon and ordered Knox a maroon sweater vest. But I also ordered one for myself.

I had a sneaky feeling we’d end up here. And I was going to be ready.

So I got my show clothes. I had my maroon sweater vest.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt it again: Excitement.

But there was one more thing I needed. We were flying to Oklahoma City, but my parents would be driving. So the night before we left, I knew I wanted to send my show stick with them.

I’ve always shown with the same show stick, something rare in this industry. From the first time I went in the ring until the last time I went in the ring, it was always with me. A well-worn blue aluminum stick.

The handle is shorter than it should be because, at some point in my childhood, I went through a phase of chipping it down, little by little. For years, it lived between the toolbox and the headache rack in whatever our show truck was at the time. That’s where all of our family’s show sticks stayed. But as life moved forward and we spent years away from the show ring, those sticks found a new resting place: the closet in my parents’ office.

So as I packed for Cattlemen’s Congress, I opened that closet and picked up my old show stick.

I packed both mine and Knox’s stick in my parents’ car. As I slid them in, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast:

Mine: old, well-used, covered in imperfections.
Knox’s: brand new, never touched a ring.

It was just a show stick. But somehow, in that moment, it was so much more.

Even the sound of it—when the tip hit the floor, it made a tinny little echo, a sound I hadn’t heard in years but that was still as familiar as the Louisville organ.

Show Day

The morning of the open Shorthorn show arrived, and my best friend texted me: “How do you feel? Are you nervous?”

I thought about it for a second. No. Not nervous. If anything, I was just excited.

I hesitate to share this sometimes because I never want to be someone who uses religion as a marketing plan—but I truly believe that God put this dream in my heart. And because of that, I had no nerves. Just excitement. Just gratitude.

The only thing that rattled me that morning had nothing to do with showing—it was the fact that we lost track of time. The judge was moving fast. I had expected to show around 11 or 12, but suddenly, I realized I was going in around 10. And so, for a brief moment, everything felt chaotic—getting myself ready, getting Margie ready, making sure everyone was where they needed to be.

But then, it all settled.

The biggest difference between this and Knox’s show day? I was calm. Excited, yes. But not nervous. Not like I was for him. Being a show parent is an entirely different kind of pressure. It’s a thousand times worse than being an exhibitor. When Knox walked into the ring, I felt every ounce of nerves for him. But now, standing in the chute area while they fitted Margie, I was just excited. I was ready for this next stage.

Soon, it was time. The last step before heading to the ring was for the showman to take the heifer out of the chute, walk her around, and let the fitters make their final adjustments. I was excited to grab the halter and take Margie for a spin.

The first thing I realized? Margie’s head is exceptionally heavy. I had been telling Knox over and over that he needed to do a better job getting her head up. Now, suddenly, I understood just how hard that was!

The second thing? The muscle memory. As I stopped and set her up, it was as if no time had passed at all. The years melted away. The last time I was in the ring felt like yesterday.

Back in the Ring

I won’t bore you with every little detail of showing Margie, but I will tell you this—when I walked out of the class, I was hyper-aware of one thing: my heart was pounding. Not from nerves. Not from the physical exertion of showing. It was adrenaline. Pure, undeniable adrenaline. I actually made a mental note of it—the way my heart was racing, the way I could feel the moment pulsing through me.

We won the class, went back in for division, and Margie was named Reserve Division Champion. Then, as a reserve division winner, I had to go back in for the Grand Champion Drive.

And honestly? If I had to sum the whole experience up in one word, it would be this: fun.

Down in the makeup ring, getting ready to walk in, I kept passing people I’ve known for years. A few of them stopped, did a double take, and said things like, “Oh my, you’re showing?” or “It’s so good to see you back in the ring!”

Their kindness and excitement meant so much. It felt good to be remembered. It felt good to be among people who knew this version of me.

There are moments in life where you can feel something come full circle.

This was one of them.

Blake Shelton has a song called “I Lived It” that I’ve loved since it came out. There’s a line in it that says:

“You wouldn’t know to love it like I love it unless you lived it.”

And man… I lived it.

It felt wonderful to be back. 

A Moment for My Parents

One of my most vivid memories of showing cattle is a simple one: looking up to find my parents. They always sat in the same place at every show—right across from where the first-place animal would be lined up after the initial pull. It was instinct. As soon as I got my heifer set up, I would glance their way, searching for the little hand signal we had perfected over the years. The “okay” sign.

But this time, when I looked up, they weren’t giving me the okay sign.

Instead, they had their phones out, recording.

At first, I felt a flicker of annoyance. That’s not what I needed from them in that moment. But then, it hit me — they were recording because this moment meant something to them, too.

And it wasn’t just them.

Sitting next to them, watching just as intently, were Mr. and Mrs. Buchholz — our lifelong friends and mentors. The very people who helped us get started in Shorthorns. They had come to watch me show, just like they had all those years ago.

Just like I had felt all those emotions watching Knox step into the ring, my parents were feeling something similar. I was still their kid. Still the daughter they had raised in the show barn. Still the girl who had spent her childhood carrying the banner for V8 Shorthorns.

For just a moment, it wasn’t 2025. It was years ago, when showing cattle together was all we knew.

And on some level, just as I was stepping back into who I once was, I think my parents got to experience a part of who they used to be, too.

And that was special.

Later, after the show, my parents sent me one of the many videos they had taken. As I watched, I noticed something.

Even though my parents weren’t giving me the “okay” sign—someone was.

Knox. [View Video]

Standing ringside, watching his mom in the ring, he had his little hands held up, giving me that same signal I had always looked for.

The Best Seat in the House

I spent the rest of the day standing ringside with Luke, watching the Shorthorn show. It was absolutely wonderful.

Every day, my phone pulls up random featured photos—little daily surprises from the past. While we were at Cattlemen’s Congress, the photo of the day was a selfie Luke and I had taken in November 2023. In the picture, we’re sitting at the ranch in Boling, Texas, watching the live stream of the Louisville Shorthorn Show on Luke’s computer.

For years, we religiously watched Shorthorn shows online, trying to keep even a small foothold in a world we missed. At the time, it felt like we were standing on the outside, peering in.

What a difference a year can make.

Now, we weren’t just watching—we were ringside. Right in the thick of it.

After I showed Margie, I had to wait for the Grand Drive, since she would need to go back in. But in the meantime, I got to watch the classes of the day—the ones that would decide the outcome of the show. The older war horse heifers, the ones to beat. And for the first time in a decade, I was “with it” enough in the Shorthorn breed to know exactly who they were. That was a thrill all its own.

Luke and I stood down in the makeup ring, taking it all in. We watched every class. We stood next to a new friend, Mr. McGrew from Pennsylvania, and talked about the show. We celebrated the fact that we had collected two Reserve Division wins—one in the junior show and one in the open show. His family had picked up a few banners as well.

I told him that after ten years away, I wasn’t overly focused on the results. I was just thankful to be here—win, lose, or draw.

And I hope I always maintain that attitude. Grateful, simply, to be part of something this special.

Finding Our Way Back

For years, I’ve loved the movie Seabiscuit and particularly, the ending scene.

Seabiscuit’s jockey, Red Pollard, says, “You know, everybody thinks we found this broken-down horse and fixed him, but we didn’t. He fixed us. Every one of us. And I guess, in a way, we kinda fixed each other too.”

Our time away from the breed was not without challenges—life-altering moments that divide us into the before and after. But somehow, in a way that’s hard to explain, a little red Shorthorn heifer—who may never win another blue ribbon in her lifetime—and the Shorthorn family, who has always met us where we are, helped put the pieces back together.

To our Shorthorn family — thank you.

Thank you for welcoming us back with open arms. Thank you for meeting us where we are now, not based on who we used to be. For seeing us as we are today and for making space for us to find our way back.

And the best part?

We’re just getting started.

Here’s to what’s ahead.