When Doing Good Feels Heavy

When I first started working with mustangs, there was a program that offered incentives for training them to help find them homes.

The goal was simple—gentle them, get them adoptable, and move them on.

And for a lot of people, that works.

But I found myself drawn to a different group.

The ones that came in with injuries from the wild.
The ones that had clearly struggled on the range—poor condition, health issues, bodies that had already taken more wear than they should have.
The ones that weren’t going to be the easy success stories.

Over time, it became clear that not all of them were going to fit neatly into that system.

Some needed more time.
Some needed ongoing care.
And some… weren’t going to have the kind of future most people are looking for when they adopt a horse.

So I made a choice.

Instead of pushing them through a process they didn’t fit into, I kept them.

Not because it was easy.
Not because it made financial sense.
But because they deserved somewhere safe to land.

Because the reality is—without that, many mustangs don’t end up in good situations. Some end up being passed around. Some fall through the cracks. And some are sold for meat.

That didn’t sit right with me.

So what started as training and placement slowly became something else.

It became long-term responsibility.

It became sanctuary.

And whether people understand that choice or not—that’s where all of this began.

The Side of Rescue No One Talks About

There’s a version of animal rescue people like to see—the happy endings, the before-and-afters, the lives saved.

And those moments are real. They matter. They’re the reason I started.

But there’s another side to this life that doesn’t get talked about nearly enough.

The side where the bills don’t stop coming, even when donations do.
The side where you spend hours working on products, posts, and ideas to support the animals—only to be met with silence. No sales. No interest.
The side where animals come in sick or broken, and you carry the weight of trying to fix what you didn’t cause.

And maybe the hardest part… the lack of support.

Flyers get torn down. Posts get removed. People make assumptions, criticisms, even false claims—without ever stepping foot here or seeing what actually goes into this.

It’s exhausting.

There are days it feels like no matter how much you give, it’s never enough.

What Commitment Actually Looks Like

This past week, our property flooded.

Not a little water here and there—enough mud and standing water that getting a trailer in was impossible. Deliveries weren’t an option. There was no easy solution.

So I did what needed to be done.

Every day, I drove out to get hay—just enough for that day. A bale per horse. Loaded it into the back of the truck, brought it home, and then carried it—by hand—through mud and water to get it over the fence to them.

Every. Single. Day.

It cost more this way.
It took more time.
It took more out of me physically than I want to admit.

But they still had to eat.

There wasn’t a choice.

And what’s hard isn’t just doing it—it’s doing all of that and knowing no one sees it.

No one sees the extra trips.
No one sees the weight of those bales in wet, heavy air.
No one sees the time, the effort, the problem-solving just to make sure they’re okay.

What people do seem to see is everything they think I’m doing wrong.

That’s the part that wears on you.

Because when you’re already stretched thin, already pushing through things most people wouldn’t choose to deal with… the last thing you expect is to be met with negativity instead of even the smallest amount of understanding.

I’m not sharing this for praise.

I’m sharing it because this is what commitment actually looks like.

It’s not pretty.
It’s not convenient.
And most of the time—it’s not recognized.

But it still matters.

Why Don't You Just Sell Them?

There’s a conversation that keeps coming up in different forms.

“Why don’t you just sell them?”
“Why keep animals that aren’t worth anything?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to walk away?”

On paper, maybe it would be.

But these aren’t numbers on a spreadsheet.

These are animals I raised—some since they were barely more than babies. Some are mothers and their offspring, still side by side years later. They’ve grown up together. They’ve stayed together.

They’re not disposable just because they’re older.
They’re not failures because they’ve been injured.
And their value isn’t measured by what someone would pay for them.

I think people assume this is about stubbornness.

It’s not.

It’s about commitment.

It’s about understanding that when you choose to take responsibility for a life, especially long-term, that responsibility doesn’t expire when things get inconvenient… or expensive… or hard.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

There are days I question everything. Days where the pressure from every direction makes me wonder if people are right—if I should just let it all go.

But then I look at them.

And I know I couldn’t live with myself if I treated them like they were replaceable.

Because they’re not.

Is This Selfish?

It’s a question I’ve heard more than once—and if I’m being honest, one I’ve asked myself on the harder days.

Is it selfish to keep them?
To hold onto animals that aren’t “worth anything” by most standards?
To continue choosing this life when it would be easier to let it go?

From the outside, I can see how it might look that way.

But this was never about convenience.

When I first started, my life looked very different.

I was single.
I wasn’t thinking about marriage.
I wasn’t planning a family.

I had the time, the space, and the ability to take something like this on without it affecting anyone else.

Life doesn’t stay the same.

And mine didn’t.

Now things are different.

There’s more to balance.
More responsibility.
More people in my life than just me.

And that changes things, but it doesn't change my commitment to them.

These are animals I committed to—some I’ve had since they were just a year or two old. I’ve watched them grow, recover, bond, and settle into a life where they are safe. Some of them have never known anything else.

Letting them go now wouldn’t feel like freedom.

It would feel like walking away. It would feel like abandonment. I believe breaking them up—separating bonds that have been there for years, sending them into uncertain situations—that would be the selfish choice.

Walking away might make things easier for me.

But it wouldn’t be better for them.

I know I’m not the only one who has had life change in ways I didn’t expect.

And I understand that for some people, those changes mean letting things go—even animals they once cared deeply about.

Every situation is different.

But for me, I couldn’t reconcile that.

I couldn’t look at the lives I’ve been responsible for and decide they were only mine to keep when it was convenient.

So instead of walking away when life shifted… I’ve had to learn how to carry it differently.

And I’ve had to be honest with myself too.

There’s a difference between being committed… and being careless with what you can realistically carry.

Choosing Responsibility, Not Just More

That’s why I’ve made changes. Stepping back from taking in more rescues. Asking for help when I need it. Trying to make better, more sustainable decisions—not just for me, but for the animals who depend on me. And doing work on the side to bring in more funds for their support.

Because this isn’t about proving something.

It’s about being responsible for what I’ve already said yes to.

People will always have opinions about what they think I should do.

But at the end of the day, I have to be able to live with my choices.

And I couldn’t live with treating these animals like they were disposable just because things got hard.

So no—I don’t believe this is selfish.

But I do believe it’s something I have to carry wisely. And it is something I bring to God daily.

"Please God let me do right by them and my family. Please help to guide me. Please help provide for us."

And choosing that responsibility also means knowing my limits.

It means stepping back from taking in more rescues at this time—even when it’s hard to say no.

It means making decisions based on what I can actually sustain, not just what I wish I could do.

Even this week, the choices I made were intentional.

The one little duck we took in didn’t change our feed situation—but it mattered for that animal.

I asked for help with getting a path cleared so we can access the pasture differently. So hay can be delivered again. So this doesn’t keep happening the same way.

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much…” — Luke 16:10

This isn’t about doing everything.

It’s about doing what’s right with what I have.

It Takes a Community

And even in the middle of all of this, I want to acknowledge something important.

There were people who showed up.

My friend Julia, who stepped in when things were hard.
My husband—despite everything he’s been dealing with—still helping where he could.
Our plow guy, Justin, who came out and pulled us out of the mud and is helping us work toward a better path forward.
And my aunt, who sent a donation at a time when it truly mattered.

It may not be a crowd.

But it’s enough to remind me that not everyone is against what I’m doing.

There are still people who see it.
People who care.
People who choose to help in the ways they can.

And that matters more than I probably say out loud.

When You Are Weary of Doing Good

I think everyone carries something.

Some of it is chosen. Some of it isn’t.

But there are certain things in life we take on willingly—knowing they’ll cost us. Knowing they’ll stretch us. Knowing they won’t always make sense to anyone else.

For me, that’s this life.

It’s the animals. The ones that stayed. The ones that grew up here. The ones that aren’t “worth anything” to anyone looking at them from the outside—but mean everything to me.

It’s the long days, the unexpected setbacks, the weeks like this one where the ground turns to mud and there’s no easy way forward—just the decision to keep going anyway.

And in the middle of all of this, I find myself coming back to something I’ve read many times before, but understand differently now:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

Some days, that feels easier to read than to live.

Because there are moments where I am weary. Moments where doing good feels costly, unseen, and questioned from every direction.

But I come back to it anyway.

Not because I have it all figured out—but because I believe there is still value in showing up, in staying committed, and in caring for what’s been placed in front of me… even when it’s hard.

This life, this responsibility, this calling—it isn’t easy.

But it’s mine.

And with His help, I’m not putting it down.

The Cross I Chose to Carry

And I think that’s what it comes down to.

Not whether it’s easy.
Not whether it’s understood.
Not whether anyone else would make the same choice.

But whether I’m willing to keep showing up for what I’ve been given.

Because this isn’t something I carry once and then move on from.

It’s something I choose again—every day.

In the small things.
In the hard moments.
In the days where I feel stretched thin and unsure if I’m getting it right.

It’s choosing to keep caring.
To keep providing.
To keep standing in the middle of something that doesn’t always feel steady.

Not perfectly.
Not without doubt.
But with intention.

And with faith.

Because I know I can’t do this on my own.

There are too many unknowns.
Too many moments where I don’t have a clear answer.
Too many times where I have to make the best decision I can and trust that it’s enough.

So I keep bringing it back to God.

In the quiet moments.
In the tired ones.
In the ones where I don’t have the words except to ask for guidance, for provision, for the ability to keep going.

And somehow, that’s where I find the strength to take the next step.

Not the whole path.

Just the next step.

I don’t know what everything ahead looks like.

I don’t have it all figured out.

But I do know this—

I will keep showing up for what I’ve been entrusted with.

I will keep trying to do right by them.
And by my family.
And by the life I’ve been given.

One day at a time.

Trusting that what I’m carrying has purpose… even when it’s heavy.