When the Dust Settles, Part IV: Two Years Later, and I Still Remember the Dirt
He’s my why.
This week, my son turned thirteen.
He’s taller now. His voice is starting to change. He’s learning how to fly a plane. He’s taking care of his puppy, doing his own laundry, going to movies and escape rooms with his friends. He’s not the small boy on the other end of a FaceTime call anymore—grinning in the glow of a rodeo anthem, unaware that he was part of something sacred.
But I still remember that dirt.
Because the truth is, that rodeo story wasn’t just about footage. It wasn’t just about reporting. And it wasn’t even just about rodeo.
It was about truth.
About grit. Family. Faith. And a kind of perseverance that isn’t performative—it’s primal. Cellular. The kind you don’t explain to editors because they wouldn’t understand unless they’d lived it.
That story was mine. Entirely, unapologetically mine.
And I would not let it go.
Not because I was territorial. Not because I didn’t want to share. But because that weekend—that exact weekend—was my son’s eleventh birthday. I had just achieved my bachelor degree. A collision of milestones. A convergence of motherhood and mission. Of calling and commitment.
It wasn’t coincidence. It was appointment.
So when they tried to reassign the story—after all my planning, after all the miles, the heart, the history—I said no. Not out of defiance. But because it wasn’t negotiable. Because sometimes, when God gives you a story to carry, He doesn’t ask you to pass it off. He asks you to stand in it.
And I did. Knee-deep in the dust, shoulder to shoulder with the legacy I was born into.
I covered that rodeo not just because I wanted to—but because I had to.
Because after everything I’d already survived, I wasn’t about to be erased from my own story. I went to 5 different high schools. I don’t know if I really have a ‘hometown’. But the rodeo, and horsemanship, that’s my hometown.
There are parts of my past I still don’t talk about. Not fully. Not yet.
Things that make my chest tighten just thinking about them.
I suffered betrayal. Deep. Ugly. The kind that leaves scars where no one sees.
And while I’m not ready to put every detail on the page, I will say this:
One day, when I do speak, every word of it will be the truth.
But even in the silence, God has always been my witness.
He was there in the dirt of that rodeo arena.
He was there in the newsroom, when silence said more than words ever could.
He was there in the dignity I held when credit never came.
And He was there—especially there—the moment I lifted my phone, holding back tears, and watched my son’s face light up as the anthem began.
That wasn’t just a sentimental moment. That was holy.
Because in that instant, it wasn’t about airtime or applause. It was about being fully present at the intersection of faith, motherhood, and calling—where I had fought to stand.
And the people who tried to take that story from me?
They underestimated me.
They thought I was just another name on a call sheet. But what they didn’t know was that I had already been knocked breathless by a green-broke mare at age eleven—and got back up. That I had chased cattle through broken fences. That I had survived not just physical pain—but soul-deep injustice.
So when I stood in Carney that day, camera in hand and purpose in my spine, I wasn’t just telling a story.
I was claiming it.
In this teenage bull rider’s grip on the rope, I saw what it might look like to hold on loosely—and love my son as he learns to fly.
I was testifying.
And even though they tried to cut my airtime, they couldn’t cut my truth.
Even when they overlooked me, they couldn’t override the call.
Because that kind of story—the one God places in your hands—you don’t let it go.
Two years later, I still remember the dust clinging to my boots. I still remember my son’s little face on screen, glowing with pride as the anthem swelled. And I remember the way our hearts bowed in prayer, thirteen hundred miles apart, tethered not just by a call—but by something eternal.
That moment wasn’t stolen. It was sealed.
Because while they tried to keep me small, God made sure my son saw me standing tall—in the middle of the arena, in the middle of my faith.
But this year? Two years later?
He called me on the phone, just after Sunday Mass. The line clicked, and I heard his voice—deeper now, but still soft. Still kind. I asked him how his flying lesson went.
“It was really fun,” he said.
We didn’t talk long this time, but it was enough to put me at ease—I was headed to brunch, he was already making plans to go to a carnival with his friends. I reminded him to be safe, to pay attention, to really learn what the pilot was teaching him. He said, “I know.”
He told me he liked my new voicemail—the one his cousins recorded. It made him laugh. And oh, how I love that laugh. Still boyish, still free.
He says he’ll be up to the Upper Peninsula in early July.
I told him I can’t wait to see him.
We said our I love yous.
Our I miss yous.
Our goodbyes.
And then I hung up, the ache in my heart wrapped in peace. Because he is growing. But he is still good. Still grounded. Still innocent. Still mine.
And I know he saw me—two years ago, in that sacred moment. And I believe he still sees me now.
So no—this was never just about rodeo.
It was about return.
About reckoning.
About reclaiming what no one else had the right to take.
And now?
I work for people who see me. Who value truth over title. Who lead with wisdom, not ego. And while the ache of being underestimated still echoes, it no longer defines me.
Because I didn’t just survive the erasure.
I refused it.
And today, I carry that dust with reverence. Not as a mark of shame, but as a sign of sanctification.
Because that dirt?
That day?
That story?
It was mine.
And the God who gave it to me made sure I didn’t let go.
So yes—two years later, I still remember the dirt.
And I always will.
For now, I’ll leave you with the dust, and a photo of a rainbow on the range. Proof the storm passed, and beauty stayed.
Skies like sermons, soil like scripture. And a Colorado rainbow to remind you.
