When the Dust Settles, Part II: Dust in My Teeth, A Story Worth the Fight

Written by Aimée Doyle

For three days straight, I worked the rodeo not like an outsider with a lens, but like someone who’d already spent a lifetime in the saddle.

Because I had.

I knew how the arena felt when it vibrated with hooves. I knew what it meant when a bronc rider sat too loose, when a team roper missed his mark by an inch. I’ve held the reins of million-dollar horses — Dutch Warmbloods and Percherons, Fjords and Friesians, Mustangs and Quarter Horses. I’ve galloped futurity champions before dawn, hands trembling with exhaustion, praying under my breath that both of us would make it back in one piece. I trained on a descendant of Seattle Slew — a volatile, explosive athlete — legs like lightning, trust like a lockbox.

He’s my why. Photo taken by me. June 4th, 2012.

To survive that world, you had to learn how to steady a storm. To show reverence to something that could crush you. That kind of grit rewires your instincts — and I carried it with me into Carney.

So no, I wasn’t just covering the rodeo.

I was inside it.

I crouched behind the announcer’s booth, camera rattling with each round of pounding hooves, practically swallowing the dust. I filmed riders like 15-year-old Mason Peltin — a young bull rider with fire in his eyes and dust in his lungs. He held on. He muscled through the full ride. And when the buzzer rang, he dismounted with a kind of earned humility that only comes from living the hard version of a dream.

Afterward, he smiled shyly and gave the kind of honesty you don’t often hear in front of a crowd:
“Don’t try bull riding. It hurts. You will get injured.”

But Mason wasn’t chasing adrenaline. He was chasing manhood. Honor. Identity. The kind of self-respect that lives in your bones after doing something dangerous, and walking away steady. And then — he raked barrels. He helped reset the arena. No bragging. Just belonging.

That’s what I aimed to show. That’s what I wanted my son to see.

Not just the spectacle.
But the soul.

The quiet strength. The generational pride that echoes in every gate latch and boot stomp. The sacred work of doing something hard and doing it well.

No one else was going to tell it that way.
They couldn’t.
Because they hadn’t lived it.

And the only way I could be sure my son would see me — not just a reporter on screen, but a woman of courage, doing meaningful work — was to give everything I had, again and again. For one more chance to stand in the story. For one more second where he might catch a glimpse of me, doing something brave.

That became my rhythm.
I did it for Carney.
For the Millie Hill Enduro mountain bike race.
For the ski jump competition in the biting cold.

Seven days a week, no overtime, no support staff, no guaranteed airtime. Just the relentless hope that he might see me and know, That’s my mom. She’s still standing.

But even after Carney — even after every shot, every interview, every moment poured out from the deepest well of who I am — the executive producer still cut me out. My words too bright. My message too clear. My presence too undeniable.

I thought maybe — just maybe — this story would be the one that changed things.

It wasn’t.

But something better happened.

That moment.
The anthem started. The crowd rose.
And I lifted my phone.

My son’s face lit up across the screen — 1,300 miles away, still the center of my universe. While the flags waved and the announcer’s voice cracked with reverence, we bowed our heads — together.

It wasn’t just a FaceTime call.
It was a holy pause carved from the chaos of ambition and exhaustion.
Where my work and my motherhood collided with something higher.
Something sacred.

And I felt God there.

In the dust.
In the roar of the crowd.
In the silence of my son’s eyes, watching me.

That was the reward no newsroom could give and no producer could take. That was the blessing. The sacrament.

In that moment, God whispered: “I see you.”
Just like He did with the little jewelry box I once won by accident — a box that carried more dignity than a dozen performance reviews ever had. That moment at the rodeo was a blessing in motion — a sign that even when others strip you of credit, Christ restores your worth.

My faith wasn’t separate from my reporting. It was woven into every shot I framed, every word I wrote, every story I pursued. While others saw the rodeo as just another assignment, I saw it as a battlefield for the sacred. And I fought for it with everything I had.

Because sometimes faith doesn’t look like stillness.
Sometimes it looks like grit.
Like standing your ground.
Like saying, “No. This one’s mine.”

And then telling the story in a way no one else could — because God gave it to you.

I left that weekend tired — but not empty.
Because my son had seen me.
Because my Father had seen me.
Because I had stood in the middle of the dust, with prayer in my bones and purpose in my chest, and I had not backed down.

I was never just reporting.

I was testifying.

And that — that was worth every mile.

I have felt that whisper before — in the moments when no one else cared to look. In the newsroom where I was undermined, edited out, and set up to fail. In the hard days of single motherhood, when I cried behind closed doors because there was no one to tag in.

But I never cried for myself.

I cried for the people who hurt me.
For the women who abused their leadership.
For the ones who made cruelty look like competence, and power out of pettiness.
For the people who only felt tall when they made others feel small.

And then I let the water flow.
Because sometimes, when there are too many snakes in the garden, you need a healing rain.

That cry didn’t break me.

It baptized me.

Because now?

I’m not in the arena trying to earn my place.

I’ve walked out of it — tall, whole, and held by grace.

Today, I work for a company where I am seen.
Where I am valued.
Where two extraordinary women of faith — leaders at the Northwestern Mutual Gingras Agency — welcomed me not just as a colleague, but as a teammate. A sister. A whole person.

During my 60-day review, they asked me if anything had been sugar-coated. I told them the truth: I expected to cry. I knew there’d be a day I’d need to step into the bathroom and pull myself together. And there was.

But this time?

No one hoped I’d fall apart.

This time, I knew I could wipe my tears and walk back out with dignity — because I was safe. I was supported. I was loved.

This wasn’t weakness.
It was healing.

They told me I could be honest.
I told them I already had been.
Because when you’ve worked in places that tried to dim your light, finding a workplace that protects it is nothing short of holy.

Now, I work alongside brilliant women and a deeply rooted team of coworkers, helping families build financial peace. I help create plans grounded in stewardship, legacy, and hope — the same values I’ve been fighting for all along.

This isn’t just a job.

It’s restoration.

It’s a new mission — one that lets me serve without shrinking. One that lets me show up fully as a mother, a professional, and a woman of faith.

I still write.
I still sing.
I still carry blessed medals in my bag and stories in my heart.

And now, I’m surrounded by people who want me to succeed.

I’m still building — a home, a future, a legacy.
I’m still praying.
Still showing up.
Still wiping tears — and walking forward.

But this time?

I’m not alone in the arena.

I’m surrounded by people who see the fight I’ve already fought — and believe in the future I’m still chasing.

I’m still dusty.

But I’m whole.

And the dust?

It’s holy now.

Because this time, it’s not just a story worth the fight.

It’s a future worth the faith.

To watch my past story on the Carney Roundup Rodeo, click here.