From Combat Boots to Barn Boots: How Goats Taught Me a New Kind of Strength

When I left the Marine Corps, I thought I had already passed every test of resilience I would ever face. As a female combat veteran, I had fought hard for my place in uniform— pushing through pain, fear, and doubt, and leading with grit when it mattered most. But no one told me that the toughest battles wouldn’t end on the battlefield. They would follow me home, into civilian life, in my relationships, and the noise of my military experience would linger.

I didn’t find healing in city jobs. I found it in dirt. In blood & sweat. In goat poop, quite frankly.

It started when my uncle brought home 5 Boer goats. I didn’t know a thing about livestock, I remember visiting my grandparents ranch in Mexico when I was young & somehow my brother ended up with a goat in our Dallas backyard once, but I had no idea what I was doing. Yet, something about their stubborn, hardy, curious eyes spoke to me. I figured if I could wrangle working in platoon of Marines, I could handle a few goats.

I was wrong. At least in the beginning.

Those first few months on the ranch were a mess. Literally. Goats are escape artists with hooves. They’ll climb, chew, head butt, and test every fence line just because they can. I found myself knee-deep in mud, chasing them through pastures, patching fences with string, wire, duct tape and googling things like “can goats eat zip ties?” (Answer: they’ll try.) But each frustrating day reminded me of something I had forgotten since taking off my uniform: I am resilient.

Raising goats isn’t glamorous. It’s early mornings, surprise births, vet bills, and losses that hit harder than you expect. But it’s also life at its most honest. Animals don’t care about your past. They don’t tiptoe around trauma. They require your full presence, your strength, your softness, your attention. And in that space, I started to reclaim parts of myself I thought I had lost.

There’s a rhythm to this life that’s not unlike the Corps. You wake up before the sun. You work with your hands. You rely on structure, teamwork (sometimes alone), and constant adaptation. But there’s a gentler side too—one the military didn’t exactly nurture. When a baby goat (a kid) is born and takes its first wobbly steps under your watch, it reminds you that the world still makes room for innocence. When a scared rescue finally lets you touch him, you remember that trust is earned, not demanded.

And then there’s the land. Wide open beautiful skies. Fields that change with the seasons. The sound of goats bleating as I pull into the driveway for feeding time —it’s not silence, but it’s peace. That’s something I didn’t know I needed until I found it.

Being a woman in the Marine Corps meant I had to prove myself over and over. On the ranch, I prove myself in different ways: by showing up every day, by protecting my herd, by healing through responsibility instead of running from it. And I’ve built a life here that blends the toughness of my past with the tenderness of my present.

People ask me now if I miss the Corps. Parts of it, sure. The camaraderie. The purpose. The fire. But I’ve found new versions of those things in unexpected places—like in the shared laughs with other rural women who raise animals, or the quiet pride of fixing a broken fence line with my own two hands.

Goats didn’t just give me a hobby. They gave me a mission. They forced me to show up when I didn’t want to, to care when I felt numb, to fight in a new way—one that doesn’t require weapons, just love and grit.

This ranch, these animals—they saved me in a way the military never could. And in return, I give them all I’ve got. Because resilience isn’t just surviving. It’s rebuilding. It’s choosing to live, fully and fiercely.

The Marines taught me how to endure. Ranch life taught me how to grow.