One of the most formative experiences of my childhood was showing cattle in 4-H. Every fall, my siblings and I would pick out our steers (castrated male cattle) and start feeding them twice a day for about nine months. Once the steers were moved into stalls in our barn, the workload grew: washing and blow-drying them regularly, cleaning stalls and water troughs, walking them, letting them out in the sand pen, and more. It required us to be home consistently to keep up with the care. It was a lot of work, but it was also a lot of fun. Each August, we showed our steers at the county fair and sold them in the rotary auction. After the sale, we said goodbye, and the cycle began again the following fall.

Some of my best memories came from those years. What I loved most is that each steer and each year was different. Sometimes everything went right, like in 2014 when my brother and I won it all at the fair. Sometimes everything went wrong, like in 2016 when I gambled on an expensive steer to try to win again, only for it to backfire when my steer started having hip problems and went out of his way to make my life miserable by getting ringworm, lice, and kicking me at every opportunity (I hope you’re rotting in hell, Bill). But the year I learned the most from was 2018, when my sister and I had Milton and Bobo.

Hoping to redeem myself, I went back to the same producer who had sold me Bill. He was a family friend who sold “clubby” steers—crossbreds designed for the show ring with exaggerated muscle, bone, and hair. My sister, only in her third year of showing, decided to buy one too. We looked around and narrowed it down to a tan steer and a white-grey steer. Because I was the older sibling, I got the first pick. Both looked promising, and I looked at their potential carefully: how they’d grow, how they’d fill out things like that. I couldn’t decide until the white-grey steer walked over to my sister and started licking her. I had a flashback to Bill and realized I couldn’t let her go through that kind of misery. This one was a sweetheart, so I let her take him. She named him Bobo. I took the tan one and named him Milton.

That year began like the rest: stalls, feed, walking, grooming. But I was determined to win. I weighed Milton’s feed daily, walked him and made sure he got a lot of exercise to build muscle, washed and dried him constantly, practiced showing nearly every day, and monitored his health obsessively. His stall was spotless, he was always clipped and groomed, and after a couple months of leading, he worked well with me.

My sister, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less. Bobo was a sweetheart from the start. There was no halterbreaking needed and he was always friendly. You could walk to his still and he’d lick your hand and try to eat your clothes. Emma still did what I recommended. She fed him the ration I gave her, sometimes adding extra if she felt like he “deserved a treat.” And she walked him occasionally and cleaned his stall when necessary. But other things, like washing and drying, were optional. His white and grey coat was often dirty, which drove me crazy, so I sometimes washed him over the summer when I had time, but nothing like the strict schedule I had for Milton.

As the fair approached, things started to unravel for me. Milton’s hair grew brittle and dull, even falling out. He looked overfinished, so I cut back his feed and monitored him more closely. He grew restless when I practiced showing, constantly shifting around. On the other hand, Bobo went through a glow up: his hair shone, his frame filled out, and he looked better than ever. I was frustrated and confused.

Regardless though, we got to the fair in August and I was convinced it was my time to shine again. Milton weighed in at 1,300 pounds, right in the sweet spot of 1,250–1,400 for a champion. Bobo weighed 1,235. My sister won her class with him, but I thought he was too light. In my class, Milton and I entered the ring—and I got second place.

I was pissed. I had done everything right, but Milton had fallen apart. Then came the champion’s drive. My sister went in with Bobo, who looked like a fat, fluffy cloud with his white-grey coat, perfectly groomed that day after I had clipped and fitted him. The judge gave grand champion to a friend of mine and reserve grand champion (second overall) to Bobo. I was proud of my sister, but was so annoyed that the steer I had worked with beat mine. Everyone knew how much of Bobo’s care I had handled—so much so that my ag teacher and other parents congratulated me afterward, saying, “Congrats on the win, Colby.” It was great to see my sister have her moment, but I was frustrated that my year of hard work felt wasted.

Later, I realized what went wrong. It turned out that the reason Milton didn’t win his class, according to the judge, is because he was not finished enought, contrary to my thoughts that was too filled out. Milton’s hair was flat, brittle, and falling out because I was washing and shampooing him too much. He was moving around during confirmation and showmanship because I was so stressed out about getting everything perfect that he fed off my energy and kept moving around because of it. Meanwhile, Bobo came together and had his last minute glow up because I never told my sister to reduce his feed. His hair was perfect because I washed and shampooed it every few days like you’re supposed to, and my sister was so relaxed that Bobo didn’t move an inch when he didn’t need to because they both were so nonchalant. In other words, my overthinking resulted in me screwing myself over.

That lesson still gets brought up whenever my family reminisces about the fair. It’s a perfect example of my issues with control. I rationalized every action through anxiety, convinced that more control and harder work guaranteed success. I had a reputation for being one of the hardest workers with my animals, but that rarely translated to winning. It has taken YEARS to realize what that experience taught me.

First, there’s only so much you can control in life. You can worry endlessly—about weight, weather, work, relationships—only for things to fall apart anyway. Many times, my ambition and need for control backfired. There were previous times in leadership positions where I tried so hard to control what someone did for “the greater good” in the outcome that it only resulted in the opposite happening: rebellion and disinterest. I exhausted myself chasing outcomes I couldn’t dictate. It took a long time, through much trial and error, to realize that the only thing you truly can control is yourself: your actions, your effort, your response to setbacks. I couldn’t control how Milton responded, but I could control how I did, and what I learned from that year. My final year showing, the year after Milton, was my favorite—not because I won, but because I let myself enjoy it regardless of outcome.

Second, life is subjective. My mom had always said, “Who wins the fair depends on the judge’s opinion on a hot August day,” and she was right, as much I want to begrudgingly admit that. At the fair, one person’s opinion determined who won. Steers aren’t truly judged until after slaughter, when their meat is graded, so everything else is quite literally subjective. And yet, people will spend (quite literally) tens of thousands of dollars on animals to do the same thing at other livestock shows and fairs. And that goes beyond cattle. The same concept applies to games, interviews, and competitions. Winning doesn’t mean you’re inherently or intrinsically better; it means you met someone’s standards at that moment in time. If anything were different, a different judge or a different circumstances, who won that year could have been completely different.

Finally, I learned the importance of being present. I was so caught up in the moment about winning the county fair and making my steer look the best he could that I was not being present in the experience of showing and raising cattle. My siblings and I agree that those were some of the best experiences of our lives growing up. Not every moment was perfect, sure. But there were small, stupid running jokes that we had that made it so much fun and I had eight years that I look back with (mostly) joy, even if I didn’t get the ideal outcome in seven of those years. I don’t go to county fairs anymore, and I couldn’t tell the next time I will go to one, but I carry those lessons with me into law school—a place where standards are subjective and where control is limited. So I strive to be present, to enjoy the experience, and to pursue goals knowing that it will be okay if I fall short. The same applies to you. It’s okay if the outcome you get isn’t the one that you want. You will live and move on from it, I promise.

In hindsight, Milton didn’t give me a grand champion ribbon and a belt buckle, but he gave me perspective. That year showed me that you can do everything “right” and still come up short, because some things aren’t meant to be, or can be, controlled. What mattered wasn’t the banner or the buckle, but whether you walked away better than when you started. That’s what I carry with me now: the fond memories of that year, the harassment I get by my family of losing to my sister with the steer that I worked with, and the lesson that life is about growth, not guarantees.

– Colby