I Used To Milk Cows

What I Learned About Work, Identity, and Waking Up Before the Sun Came Up

I rolled over and looked at the digital clock. My room was still dark - the sun hadn’t started to rise yet. The clock read 5:57 a.m. I closed my eyes for a brief second, savoring my bed and the way my body was fully at ease.

It was 2012, and I was juggling high school, soccer, and life on a farm

I moved around my room mechanically, not bothering to turn the light on. I knew my clothes were in a pile on the floor. Occasionally, I’d walk outside with my shirt on inside out, but my early morning company never seemed to notice.

I stepped outside into the muggy morning, and almost instantly I could feel my hairline begin to frizz. I held two stainless steel milking buckets in my hands. The birds and insects had already begun their morning symphony. I scanned the fields, squinting through the fog that hadn’t yet lifted.

I’d learned that flashlights actually made early morning and late night vision harder - and besides, they were tough to carry when my hands were already full. Through the mist, I saw two shadows take form. I placed the buckets down and walked toward the electric fence.

Mornings were always the worst. The dew made the rubber fence handle slick, and it always sent an ever-so-slight shock through my hand. Knowing it was coming never made me flinch less. I could feel my heart thump in anticipation. I moved fast - accepting there was no avoiding it - and let the cows through. They walked slowly, unhurried. Always.

I put feed in their buckets, dipped some paper towels in warm water from my pail, and cleaned both cows. Then I settled into a low squat and began the repetitious task of milking. I was still half-asleep, but my body worked on autopilot.

My mind, on the other hand, wandered.

Some mornings, I imagined being the hero in a wild, made-up disaster. Other days, I dreamed about meeting the love of my life and living happily ever after. And sometimes - I imagined myself scoring a goal in the World Cup.
It really just depended on the day and my mood.

This morning in particular, I was grumpy. I was tired. The morning air was already thick, the kind that sticks to your skin. The flies took it as a personal challenge to see how many of them could land on me at once. Maggie, our cow, had already slapped me across the face with her tail three times. I let it happen - she was trying to keep the flies off both of us - even though her tail was wet and left a very unpleasant smell smeared across my cheek.

I was lost in a daze and missed the cues. A horsefly had landed on Maggie. She kicked. I was just fast enough to move my face out of the way - but not fast enough to save my pail of milk. Her dirty hoof landed straight in it, then sent it flying across the floor in a splatter of white.

I pressed my eyelids shut. Took a deep breath. I was already past the point of finding calm.

I finished milking Maggie, salvaging maybe a sixth of what I usually collected, and moved on to Sandy.

From walking outside to being completely done with milking and cleaning took about an hour. To say I was a moody teenager before 7 a.m. would be an understatement.

In high school, that was how I started every morning. And how I ended every day. The number of cows fluctuated - sometimes one, sometimes three - but it always took between 45 minutes and an hour and a half.

There were no off days. No “it’s too cold” or “it’s raining too hard.”
It had to be done. Every. Single. Day.

It’s funny to me now - those mornings and nights that felt like they’d never end.
How I shifted from farm girl in the morning to athlete in the afternoon.
The shock on people’s faces when they found out I grew up milking cows.

I could probably write an entire series on the wild things that happened on the farm - and the lessons they taught me.

When I reflect on my soccer career, it’s hard to pin down just one reason why I had the journey I did. I believe it was a combination of all the little moments that built something big.

And naturally, the farm taught me a lot.

I was building discipline, sure.
But more than that - I was learning how to show up.
How to keep showing up.

For things that didn’t clap for me.
For things no one saw.
For things that smelled like cow shit and required more patience than glamour.

Looking back, I realize the things I dreaded most - the ones that felt like a burden - were the things that shaped me the most.

The truth is, some of the biggest moments in my life started in those quiet, unseen places. When I eventually found myself on a different kind of field—under much brighter lights - I didn’t realize how much of that early-morning farm girl I was still carrying with me.

The lessons from Maggie and Sandy, from spilled milk and stifling fog, were the same ones I’d lean on when the pressure was high and the crowd was loud.

There’s hardly any technical overlap between milking a cow and playing soccer. But during college, I remember walking out for a 6 a.m. fitness session. It was preseason, and I was exhausted. The fog hung low over the field, and the air was thick—so heavy it felt like you had to move through it.

And something in me clicked.
A hum in my chest.
A wiring I recognized.

I’d been here before. Not this exact place, not this exact task—but the feeling. The early hour. The heaviness. The resistance.

And still - my body knew what to do.
Because I’d spent years waking up before the sun, doing hard things without applause.

Maybe it was self-belief.
Maybe it was just muscle memory.
But there was a quiet fortitude in me that I couldn’t ignore.

Maybe that’s what the farm gave me.
Not strength in the obvious sense. But the kind that builds quietly - through fog, through fatigue, through repetition.

You think strength is built in the gym.
But mine was built in the dark, in the stillness, long before anyone was watching.

The consistency.
The discomfort.
The chores.

Maybe that’s the real magic of the mundane: it’s quietly preparing you for the extraordinary.

So if you’re in one of those seasons now - of slogging through early mornings, doing something that feels small, unseen, or like it’s leading nowhere - I just want to say: don’t underestimate it. Don’t resent it too quickly.

What feels like a chore today might just be the reason you can stand tall tomorrow.

Because somewhere between milking cows and swatting flies, I started dreaming.

And while my fantasies of becoming some superhuman hero haven’t quite come true - yet - some of the dreams I had as a tired, moody teenager somehow did.

Because I can promise you: if someone had told that girl, squatting in a field, getting slapped in the face by a cow’s tail, that she would one day play in a World Cup… she would’ve laughed out loud.

But that’s a story for next week.