The last guy I liked ghosted me after I mentioned I raise chickens. I’m thirty-six, run 160 acres solo—corn, soybeans, Angus, bees—and my love life isn’t great. I want someone who doesn’t flinch at manure or my independence.
Last month, after a magazine feature, I got a message from Dimas, an Iowa farm guy. “Your story made me smile,” he wrote. No mention of my land—just that I made him happy. We started chatting, then video calling, then talking for hours in the cab of my truck. Eventually, I invited him over. He brought his dog, tools, and tamales. He measured fences, fixed a coop, walked the land with me. No romance—just rhythm and ease.
Then I noticed his probing about my acreage, his cousin joking about “snagging the jackpot.” My gut warned me. I checked my documents; all solid. I realized I’d been hoping someone wanted me, without asking what I wanted in return.
I told Dimas I wanted a partner, not a passenger. He admitted he’d lost his job, was weighing stability, but reached out because he saw strength in me—not to be rescued. We paused. I focused on myself: farm work, mentoring young women in ag, hosting meetups.
Dimas moved on. I met Haruto, quiet, kind, unafraid of my calluses. We take it slow.
I learned: the right person isn’t intimidated by your strength or drawn by your assets—they just see you, and stay.
