Yes! And…

It’s not that I have a problem saying no. It’s more that I have a problem saying yes and… like some improv comedy workshop student striving to be the best in the bunch. 

This became apparent six years ago when I was living in California and diagnosed with stage IV metastatic breast cancer in my 40s. “If there’s ever been anything you want to do with your life, now’s the time to do it,” my oncologist told me. I knew exactly what that was. 

I grew up as the 5th generation at my family’s ranch in Washington. My great-great grandfather Ignatius Colvin traveled across the country on the Oregon trail in 1849 and homesteaded here just outside of Tenino in 1854. Against practically all odds, Colvin Ranch today is the oldest cattle ranch in Washington state still run by descendants of the original founders.  

For the past 20 years, though, I had been in the San Francisco Bay Area living the typical life of a tech worker. I got my MBA, worked for big companies like PayPal and little startups my friends created before co-founding my own logistics software company with my husband Eric. We went to opening night at the San Francisco opera and wine tastings in Napa on the weekends. It was a good life. But as the years passed, the longing in my heart to be home at the ranch became an ache that never went away.

At this point, Eric and I were both working at the company that had acquired our business. We were nearing completion on a dream home we had been building for five years, and we had three kids in school - our youngest was in elementary school, and my two kids from my first marriage were in middle school and high school. 

But my diagnosis changed everything. In the last few months of his life, Ignatius traveled to San Francisco for cancer treatment, where he died. I knew two things: I was not going to die in San Francisco, and the ranch was not going to die with me. I was the only one who could carry it forward.

The question was - how were we going to make it work? The answer was simple. Give up everything. 

We would leave behind our friends, the unfinished house, the life we had built - those were all sacrifices that seemed reasonable. We’d move to the ranch and take over the business from my parents. But in order to make it a sustainable business that could support our family with a living wage and create opportunities for the 6th generation to continue the family legacy, we would need to make some big changes.

Yes, we would take over the ranch. And we would build the infrastructure we needed to become fully vertically integrated and control every aspect of our beef from pasture to plate, starting with a USDA meat processing facility. That was how we were going to make it work

But we were also going to have to leave behind my two oldest kids from my first marriage. And that, of course, would be impossible. It was grief and loss for the future I now knew I would never have with them - seeing them graduate from college, get married, fulfill their dreams - compounded upon more grief and loss for the time I would lose with them right now while they were kids. The only time I would have with them ever. 

I’ve walked with grief before, and I know that even if it never leaves, its grip on my heart will eventually lessen. We moved to the ranch.

I told very few people about my diagnosis, and dived into the local agriculture community. I was  the third Board Supervisor for the Thurston Conservation District in my family, and followed in my dad’s foodsteps as chair of the Agriculture Advisory Board. I started working with almost too many groups to count on agriculture viability and farmland conservation. Our son joined 4-H and learned archery. We saw the older kids on weekends, holidays, and school breaks. We had settled in.

For three years, we grew the business and lived the rhythms of ranch life - watching native wildflowers bloom in the spring, moving cattle to fresh pastures every day in the summer for the best grazing, and delivering grass-fed, grass-finished beef to local families, schools, food banks, and hospitals. 

In his typical fashion, Eric took my grand vision (the yes! and…) and expanded it to make it even better. Not only would we build a USDA meat processing facility, we would create the necessary infrastructure for the logistics and distribution that would support the viability of the beef industry in the region beyond Colvin Ranch. 

And then, of course, things changed. 

One evening on the way to a meeting I stopped at the hospital to pick up a prescription, and I started to lose my vision. I tried to text Eric but I suddenly couldn’t use my fingers. When I called him, he told me that I would not be going to the meeting and that I needed to walk into the ER immediately. By the time I got to the front desk, I was able to say to the receptionist “there is something really wrong with me and I need help.” It was the last sentence I was able to speak. 

In a worst-case scenario, I ended up being on the best side of the worst case. I recovered quickly from the seizure with no permanent damage. But I gained a new diagnosis - the cancer had spread to my brain. 

When you can count the remainder of your life in months rather than decades, however, things change. In the face of so much uncertainty, once again I was certain about what I wanted. And that was to walk down the old logging road to Scatter Creek in the soft light at sunset, and sit under the old Garry Oak tree in the prairie. I wanted to plant tomato seeds with my kids in anticipation of sweet cherry tomatoes on a hot summer afternoon. I wanted to breathe the cool night air while looking for shooting stars over the ranch with Eric. 

This time, though, I wouldn’t have to give up everything. I did step away from my day-to-day responsibilities at the ranch, which was only possible because Eric and I are so aligned with our values and vision for the future that it has been a practically seamless transition. Plus, our dedicated team has stepped up to take on new roles, learn new skills, and keep things running smoothly. I’m so grateful for this hard-working, smart, kind, and thoughtful group of people. 

I also stepped away from all of the boards, committees, and work groups I had been working with. But, I’m still here. I’m working with the top neurologists in the country, and I have confidence in my treatment plan. I still have a lot of opinions about things and you’re still going to hear about them. I like to think of this as my emeritus era. 

Yes, I’m going to live a little bit of a smaller life close to home. And I now know that I’m not the only one who can carry all of this forward. Now, I can make the best use of my time by doing the things that feed my soul, and I’ll be cheering on those who are here to continue the work that my family has been doing for 172 years to make this little corner of the world a better place. 

See you soon.