I left the ranch with dust on my boots and tradition in my bones, stepping into a world that felt like another language. California greeted me with warm ocean air, palm trees swaying overhead, and a rhythm that moved faster and brighter than anything I’d known. I lived with Uncle John and my little cousins, nannying while quietly learning who I was becoming. He was the one who showed me the coastline—long drives up Highway 1, the cliffs of Big Sur, the quiet beauty of Montere

Here’s a photo of me from 1984—cowboy hat tilted just right, sash across my chest, and a quiet kind of pride in my eyes. I rode only one year, but that moment with Ajax, my white horse, still echoes. He carried me through more than a competition. I found other ways to lead. More ribbons came later—earned with my dog, Shiloh and rabbits with markings as unique as their spirits. Those years taught me how to listen, how to guide, and how to show up with quiet strength. I learn

My story begins in Colorado, where my dad Buck was already known for his rodeo days and his gift with horses. By the time I was born, he had retired from rodeo, but his name carried weight in Westcliffe, where he grew up ranching and riding. There’s a photo of me as a toddler on the back of one of his freshly trained horses. Buck believed every horse he broke should be safe enough for his own baby to ride. That’s how my life began: in the saddle, held by the hands of a man w