When I started farming, it was supposed to be temporary.

Just a summer job after college while I figured out my “real” career. Something outdoors and physical to do before I became whatever I imagined adulthood looked like.

Then I liked it too much.

I liked being tired in a way that made sense. I liked finishing a day with something tangible to show for it. I liked that plants generally tell you the truth. If something is wrong, they don’t passive aggressively hint at it in a meeting.

But what surprised me most was this:

Farming was the first job — and really the first environment — where I felt treated first and foremost as a person instead of a woman.

That was a relief I didn’t know I had been waiting for.

There were women everywhere in organic vegetable farming. Not in a “wow look, a woman farmer!” kind of way. Just… there. Running farms. Managing crews. Fixing irrigation. Making decisions. Growing beautiful food and moving on with their day.

It mattered to me to work for a woman. Then I worked for another woman. And now I’m helping carry forward a farm built by a woman.

Somewhere along the way, I also got parts of myself back I didn’t realize I missed.

Dirty.

Capable.

Useful.

I got to lift my own boxes again. Open my own gates. Figure things out. Use tools. Get stronger.

It felt good to stop waiting for help I didn’t really want in the first place.

And getting covered in dirt helped too.

As a kid, I spent most of my time outside. Climbing trees, wandering creeks, coming home filthy. I have a twin brother, so I got a front row seat to how differently boys and girls get shaped. We started in more or less the same place, but at some point the expectations quietly diverged. Taylor got to keep being rough-and-tumble. I got the quieter message to become smaller, cleaner, more agreeable. Less physical. Less loud. Less competent in ways that challenge people’s assumptions.

Farming let me shrug some of that off.

There are still phone calls where someone hears a woman’s voice and starts explaining things from the beginning. There are still supply counters where people glance past you for the man who must surely be in charge.

At places like Nolt’s, nobody ever lets me lift my own boxes.

Which is kind.

But also deeply annoying.

Then I load the Prius and drive home.

And yes, I do enjoy pulling into a farm supplier parking lot surrounded by giant lifted trucks knowing it took some of them five times the fuel to get there.

Mostly, though, I just feel lucky.

Lucky that the thing I thought would be temporary became a life. Lucky that, for most of my day, I get to stop thinking so much about being a woman and just get on with being a person.

There are still moments that remind me most workplaces don’t work this way yet.

But then the tomatoes need trellising. The cabbage needs scouted for pests. Something always needs harvesting.

Real work has a way of interrupting overthinking.

And honestly, I think that’s part of why I stayed.