Creeping across the pasture land. Got dirt on
the boots and a working hand. From the milk house
home to the auction call. These are the folks
standing strong and tall. Yeah, this is... Welcome
back to the Bullvine Podcast, where we cut through
dairy industry noise to get you the insights
that actually matter for your operation. Today,
we're doing something a little different. We're
diving into a profile piece about a Minnesota
woman named Michelle Schroeder who sold her family's
dairy herd and found an unexpected and, frankly,
essential way to stay deeply embedded in the
industry. Her name is Michelle Schroeder, and
this story has just some deep layers that will
resonate with anyone who's ever faced that. brutal
question of what exactly comes after the cows
leave. It absolutely does. And I think we need
to set the emotional context right up front because
this is where the story, you know, it just hits
home for so many people listening. Yeah. When
we talk about a farm transition and specifically
one where the herd is sold and leaves the property,
it is never just a business decision made on
a balance sheet. Oh, not at all. It's an identity
crisis. It's rolled into profound loss, grief,
and often this This quiet resentment that you
don't even talk about. That identity struggle
is as real as the 4 a .m. alarm, isn't it? It
really is. I mean, farming isn't a job you clock
out of. It's the structure. It's the purpose.
And fundamentally, it's who you are. So when
that structure is yanked away or those gates
close for the last time, it leaves this huge
echoing cavern in that family's life. Michelle
Schroeder's journey matters right now because
she walked through that loss, that silence, and
found something that didn't just replace the
labor. But it actually amplified her value and
her knowledge within the industry. And her discovery
isn't happening in a vacuum. Her decision to
pivot into professional relief milking and her
subsequent success are framed by three massive
pressures facing dairy producers across North
America right now. For sure. First and foremost,
we're talking about the chronic labor crisis.
Exactly. The turnover rate in dairy labor is
just staggering. We consistently see reports
citing turnover near 40 % annually in many regions.
40 %? Think about that. You spend time training
three people and one of them is gone before you
can even finish the training cycle. That means
finding reliable, qualified, professional help
is not just difficult, it's often nearly impossible.
And when reliable labor vanishes, that leads
us directly to the second massive stake. The
mental health toll on the farm family. It has
to. When you can't find labor or you can't trust
the labor you find, guess who covers the 24 -7
workload? The farmer and their spouse every single
time. It leads to relentless chronic burnout
that jeopardizes health, relationships, and eventually
the viability of the whole farm. That's the critical
structural gap Michelle stepped into. She didn't
just find a side gig. She found an industry necessity.
Absolutely. So our mission today is to explore
Michelle's journey. From selling the family herd
and experiencing that deep loss to gaining a
critical new purpose as an indispensable relief
milker. Yeah, let's dig in. We're going to trace
her path from that quiet, early identity as a
4 -H kid to becoming this incredible industry
resource. And here's the kicker we need to preview
for you. This is the part I love. Her children,
Alex, Aiden, and April, are now winning major
dairy awards and building phenomenal agricultural
resumes. But they're doing this not through milking
their own cows daily, but through what we're
calling the unconventional classroom, learning
the ins and outs of dozens of different farms,
parlors, and management styles across the state.
That adaptability is the unexpected inheritance
we're going to unpack. It's a powerful lesson
in how to manage change. Okay, let's unpack this
by starting at the very beginning of her agricultural
identity. So Michelle Damon grew up west of the
Twin Cities in Minnesota on relatively small
40 -cow dairy. She was the oldest of four. And
interestingly, she described her younger self
as painfully shy. It's a common paradox we see
in farm life, isn't it? I mean, the barn, the
animals, the rhythmic routine. It can be the
most nurturing yet demanding environment for
a shy kid to find their confidence. Right. The
cows don't judge you, but they require absolute
attention and discipline. For Michelle, that
transformation started in fifth grade around
1988 when she joined 4 -H. And this detail is
important. She was a first generation 4 -H member.
Ah, okay. Her family hadn't been involved before,
so she didn't have that built -in foundation,
you know, that generational knowledge of how
to enter the show ring or complete the projects.
She had to build that initiative and discipline
entirely on her own. That takes a specific kind
of drive. So she starts showing a registered
Holstein fall calf, and the impact, as you said,
was just immediate and profound. It really was.
It wasn't just a slight change. She went from
being quiet and reserved to outgoing, focused,
and dedicating herself entirely to agriculture.
That shift from painful shyness to public confidence
is a testament to the structure that showing
and responsibility provide. And that focus solidified
rapidly through her involvement in FFA, the Minnesota
Junior Holstein Association. And it led her directly
into higher education, culminating in a dairy
science degree from the University of Minnesota
Twin Cities. A great program. And this is where
we see the validation of her expertise. To make
the highly competitive 1997 U of M dairy judging
team, that is a serious, serious achievement.
It is. It means you don't just know how to milk
a cow. You possess the knowledge, the eye for
confirmation, the genetic understanding, and
the ability to articulate your reasoning under
pressure to a panel of experts. That's professional
validation at the highest level. That judgment
training, the ability to walk into any barn,
quickly assess the cattle, and determine their
value, we need to file that away because it's
going to be so crucial to her current success.
She was a professional long before she was an
owner. And she had already dipped her toe into
relief work years before, even while she was
still figuring out her formal path. Right, she
started relief milking way back in 1992, the
summer between her first and second years of
high school. Think about the era, 1992. No cell
phones, no instant communication, no GPS. Just
pure trust. Just a landline and a promise. Exactly.
A farmer had to hand a high school kid the keys,
explain the routine, and just trust that she
would show up in the dark, manage potentially
volatile animals, and get the job done right.
That reliance speaks volumes about the early
trust and responsibility she earned and maintained.
She also points out that she loved routine, the
rhythm, and the twice -daily check on every single
animal. But she also notes a key practical benefit
that shows her professional mindset. She treated
these relief jobs as, like, professional development.
She was already thinking that way. She said,
and I'm paraphrasing, I was part of the dairy
industry. That's critical. She wasn't just filling
a labor slot for minimum wage. She was gathering
knowledge from multiple operations. Every new
barn was a case study in efficiency, genetics,
and management style. That early adaptability
and appetite for diverse knowledge is precisely
why she can perform her current jobs so well.
She was trained by the industry, not just by
one family farm. That adaptability, however,
was put on the back burner. she married Jason
Schroeder. And this is where the weight of legacy
truly comes into focus. Jason had spent three
decades, 30 years, milking in the family barn.
That's a multi -generational history. And when
you marry into that, you take on that weight
of expectation and routine. It's an overwhelming
inheritance. So Michelle naturally stopped the
relief milking to focus entirely on building
their operation and raising their three children,
Alex, Aiden, and April. And the reality of the
modern farm economy set in quickly. Even with
that generational foundation, they needed off
-farm income. Michelle worked as a rural property
appraiser from 2011 up until 2021. And that off
-farm hustle, combined with the on -farm commitment,
created that classic, exhausting farm juggle.
I mean, she'd leave her appraisal job at 5 p
.m. sharp to pick up the kids while Jason was
still finishing the evening milking, often not
wrapping up until 7 .15 p .m. That schedule is
the definition of passing ships in the night.
It's just they're both dedicated to the farm
and the family, but they're constantly running
a relay race where one parent is always absent
from the dinner table or the bedtime routine.
Because they're either at the off -farm job or
trapped in the barn routine. It's emotionally
and physically exhausting just tracking that
timeline. Absolutely. And you realize that schedule
is unsustainable, especially when the economics
of dairy start to put the squeeze on. The question
isn't if something will break, but when. And
that squeeze, combined with aging infrastructure,
eventually led to the toughest decision. So by
2017, Michelle and Jason were trying to navigate
this impossible situation. Milk prices were at
rock bottom, and they knew they couldn't continue
the status quo without making a serious strategic
shift. What's important here is that they didn't
immediately surrender. They tried to pivot strategically.
Their initial plan was actually quite insightful.
What was it? They planned to build a 3 ,000 headhog
finishing barn that would provide a crucial steady
income stream to offset the brutal volatility
of dairy prices. Okay. And they would keep just
25 milk cows, a small manageable herd, specifically
to teach the kids the heritage and the daily
routine. That sounds like a brilliant balanced
compromise. It stabilizes the finances with a
guaranteed market in the hog operation, and it
honors the dairy legacy by maintaining the educational
component for the next generation. It was a perfect
plan. It was a perfect hybrid model for survival.
But the reality of 2018 just crushed it. The
market wouldn't cooperate. And milk prices stayed
miserably low. The futures look absolutely bleak.
And critical farm infrastructure was crying out
for major unaffordable investment. That's always
the tipping point. What were the specific infrastructure
issues? Because that's so often the final blow.
Michelle specifically cited two things that needed
immediate attention. The bulk tank needed to
be replaced, a huge capital expenditure that
is non -negotiable for a dairy operation, and
at least one silo needed to be fixed or replaced.
When you run the numbers on those critical repairs
against the backdrop of sustained low prices,
that capital expenditure just becomes the straw
that breaks the camel's back. That is the silent
killer of so many small to medium -sized operations.
You can grit your teeth and survive low commodity
prices for a few years if your equipment holds
up. For a while, yeah. But when a necessary piece
of equipment fails or reaches end of life like
a bulk tank or a silo and the market shows no
sign of recovery, that loan payment is simply
too big to justify. And as Michelle put it, the
writing was on the wall. Once you acknowledge
that writing, you start the grueling, quiet process
of the emotional exit. This happened in November
of 2018. And the sources paint such a vivid,
almost unbearable picture of the final days.
The cows left in stages. Initially, eight went
onto a cattle jockey's trailer destined for who
knows where. Then the main herd, requiring two
gooseneck loads on consecutive brisk, quiet days,
was shipped off to a registered Holstein operation
in South Dakota. Bypassing the local market.
trying to ensure they went to a place where they
would still be valued. For nearly two weeks leading
up to the end, they only milked the final ten
cows, and she recalls the barn feeling profoundly
wrong, too quiet, the routine suddenly halting.
And the night before the very last cows left,
the entire family, Michelle, Jason, Alex, Aiden,
and April, gathered in the barn and milked together
for the final time. That is just an immensely
powerful image of an ending ritual. The weight
of that moment is incredible. Michelle admitted
there were tears, some of us more than others.
And she had this insightful, almost paradoxical
observation about why they were crying. I want
us to linger on this quote because it captures
the true emotional contradiction of farming.
It really does, she said. Who would have thought
that years of working every day without a break,
the stress of paying bills, dealing with bitter
cold and extreme heat day in and day out would
result in tears at the end. Funny, but it did.
Man, that hits me hard. That single line perfectly
encapsulates the unspoken emotional toll. You
spend years wishing for a day off, wishing for
the stress to end, focusing entirely on the grind.
Yeah. And when the stress finally lifts, the
loss of the routine, the loss of the purpose,
and the loss of that animal connection is so
overwhelming it brings you to tears. It's the
grief of losing the life you fought so desperately
to keep, even if that life was literally killing
you with exhaustion. It's a complex, shared grief,
and the children felt it deeply, too. Alex, who
was nine at the time, took it the hardest. He
had grown up fully immersed in the herd. And
April, who was just five, still had that profound
sense of ritual. She insisted on having one last
picture taken with the cows before she went to
school that morning. Wow. Then Jason walked through
the newly empty barn. He described it as eerie
cold. Only the cats, confused by the sudden silence
and lack of activity, remained. You realize you've
been living in a constant state of warmth, animal
noise, and purposeful routine, and when that
silence hits, it is deafening. It is. It's a
moment that validates the experience of every
farmer listening who has had to make a similar
choice, or who is currently lying awake at night
struggling with the decision to sell. We frame
this entire story as validation for that struggle.
Michelle's experience validates the pain, the
regret, and the tears. But what makes her story
so instructive is what she did next, proving
that the knowledge, the passion, and the discipline
don't just vanish when the milk truck stops coming.
The transition from despair to purpose begins
just a few months later, and it starts with a
simple invitation. The turning point happened
in April 2019, just five months after the cows
left. Michelle was attending the Holstein's dispersal
sale. So she's standing there watching another
family go through the dismantling of their life's
work, another scene of genetics scattering across
the region. And I think standing there watching
that process, it must have solidified her sense
of identity as a dairy professional, even if
she wasn't an owner anymore. Right. She's still
connected, still grieving with the community.
And that's when Jackie Rickerman approached her
and asked a simple question. Would Michelle cover
their milking that July? They needed a break.
And this wasn't an easy commitment. The Rickerman's
farm was a 45 -minute drive away. Michelle immediately
agreed, but logistics were complicated. Her husband,
Jason, was going to be away for a work trip,
so she had to negotiate staying at the Rickerman's
house and bringing her three children with her.
That's the definition of dedication. Driving
45 minutes to work someone else's shift, bringing
your kids, sleeping in a strange bed all, to
milk someone else's cows. Jackie Rickerman later
expressed surprise. Questioning why Michelle,
a former farm owner who just got out of the daily
grind, would travel 45 minutes to milk someone
else's herd. That question highlights how unusual
this level of commitment was. It wasn't about
convenience or the easiest paycheck. It was about
loving the work, wanting to stay connected, and,
most importantly, demonstrating an unparalleled
level of reliability that the industry desperately
needed. And that July job at the Rickerman farm
was a full -on baptism by fire. She jumps back
into relief milking, and the farm is in high
gear. Right. She noted a new calf was born almost
every day she was there, including a set of twins
on the final day of her shift. It was intense,
busy, and demanding. Imagine stepping into that
situation cold. But this is where the kid's unconventional
education starts instantly. Alex, who was 10,
was immediately learning skills that many kids
don't master until they're teens. What was he
doing? He was tasked with drawing up and administering
oxytocin injections right there in the milk vein.
At 10 years old? At 10. And Aiden, who was six
and a half, was helping move the fresh kais into
position. They weren't just observing, they were
a working crew. And Michelle shared one fantastic
piece of comic relief from that week. Alex saw
watering the flowers at the Rickomen farm meant
watering about five flower pots. I love this
part. He was apparently very surprised by the
extensive flower watering required for the farmstead.
It breaks the tension, but also shows their immediate
immersion into every aspect of farm management.
Beyond just the cows. Okay, let's zoom out now
and analyze this from an industry perspective.
Because Michelle is not just a dedicated mother
finding side work, she is filling a critical
structural void. The labor crisis is multifaceted.
Beyond the sheer shortage of bodies, there is
a profound lack of trusted, qualified coverage.
That's the key word. Trust it. Relief milking
fills that essential void where farmers desperately
need professional help to take a break, attend
vital family events like a daughter's wedding,
or manage true emergencies like illness, injury,
or harvest overload. But why does Michelle's
professional service succeed where, say, calling
a neighbor often fails? It comes down to professionalism
and breadth of experience. A neighbor might help
in a pinch, but they often don't have the time,
the diverse knowledge of multiple parlor systems,
or the sustained commitment to quality control
that Michelle brings. So she's selling reliability
and expertise. That's it. And the trust factor
here cannot be overstated. When a farmer hands
over their barn keys, they are handing over their
livelihood. They are trusting this individual
with their genetics, their financial stability,
the health of their animals. Everything. Everything.
The Shell's entire business model is built entirely
on earning and maintaining that trust across
multiple clients. And let's not ignore the very
real practical economic motivation. She was very
open about using the money earned to support
her family's transition and personal goals. Right.
For example, she milked nearly every Friday and
Saturday night during their kitchen remodel in
the fall of 2020. That paid for the kitchen remodel,
a family project that created a sense of permanence
and moving forward after the sale. And she also
used the money to buy Jason a father's ring for
Christmas. It was more than just pocket money.
It was converting her deep, specialized expertise
into immediate, practical results for her family's
future and emotional well -being. Yeah, turning
a professional skill into a family resource.
But here's the most powerful anecdote about the
true human impact of her work. The shit and cost
of no breaks. She shared a story about a neighbor
whose father was dying of pancreatic cancer.
This is where relief milking transitions from
labor coverage to profound human necessity. Michelle
was covering milking shifts, allowing the family
to continue with harvest and manage the daily
chores. But she didn't know the reason why the
coverage was so critically important at the time.
She only learned the true, devastating context
at the funeral. So she realized her presence,
her reliability in the barn, allowed that family
to spend precious, uninterrupted time with their
dying father without the stress of abandoning
the farm during harvest. They didn't have to
choose between their father's final days and
their livelihood. That is an impact that goes
so far beyond the milk check or the per cow rate.
It underscores the vital role of this service
in providing essential human space during a crisis.
It absolutely does. And it underscores Michelle's
deep insistence that farmers need breaks for
their mental health. When you hear a story like
that, it just drives that point home. Let's talk
about Jason's perspective on mental health post
-dairy. Michelle mentioned that one of the things
that helped Jason immensely was when he joined
the township board. He needed that mental break
from the relentless daily stress of dairy farming.
The routine of milking twice a day for 30 years
means the stress doesn't just vanish when the
last cow leaves. Having a separate outlet, A
non -cow related purpose like civic engagement
is crucial for recovery. So the role Michelle
plays isn't just about labor efficiency, it's
about life efficiency for the community. It's
a crucial safety net. She's the ultimate resource.
And what's truly fascinating is how she's leveraged
this service model into a completely new, incredibly
effective model for educating the next generation
of dairy professionals. Okay, here's where it
gets really interesting and analytically rich.
Michelle took the closure of their own farm and
turned it into arguably the most comprehensive,
diverse, practical dairy education imaginable
for her children. No single farm, no matter how
good, could have provided this breadth of experience.
It's the ultimate multi -farm education model.
They aren't just learning one set of equipment
or one specific routine. They're learning how
to adapt instantly. And she breaks down exactly
what they learn in each different setting, and
it's brilliant. Yeah. She says they learn that
tie stalls, for example, require intense patience
and attention to individual animal needs. You
can't rush the routine there. Then they switch
to a herringbone parlor. and suddenly they have
to master rhythm, efficiency, and consistency
across a line of cows. And then maybe they jump
to a modern parallel parlor, and that requires
speed, rapid indexing, and total control over
a quick routine. Or they might work in a 200
-cow operation, where they are learning efficiency
and scale management. Why is that diversity so
crucial? from a farmer's perspective. Because
a kid who grows up only in a parallel parlor
might never appreciate the discipline and patience
required in a ties -full barn or vice versa.
Michelle's kids get it all. So they learn that
there isn't just one right way to milk a cow.
Exactly. There are dozens of right ways, and
the best dairy professionals can move seamlessly
between them. That adaptability is the currency
of the future in agriculture. And while she's
managing these different systems, she's keeping
herself and her children grounded in the broader
industry context. She makes a point of noting
that she listens to KNUJ AM 860 Farm News and
Markets from New Ulm while she's milking. Headphones
on 95 % of the time. That's more than background
noise. Oh, for sure. She's physically doing the
work in someone else's barn. But mentally, she's
still analyzing commodity markets, understanding
the milk futures and connecting the daily grind
to the economic forces shaping the industry.
She's modeling for her kids that a true dairy
professional is always learning, always analyzing,
not just executing the physical task. And the
lessons learned are profoundly practical, often
demanding initiative and high -level problem
solving. We have this great anecdote about Alex.
The scraper story. Yes. At one job, Alex noticed
that the alley scraper hadn't broken for months.
It was a chronic problem the farm had just learned
to live with. And Alex didn't ask permission,
didn't wait for someone else? Nope. He just grabbed
a welder and fixed it himself. That is pure professional
initiative. This is not just relief milking.
This is recognizing a longstanding business deficiency
and applying a specific high -level trade skill
welding to solve a problem that impacts efficiency
and hygiene. Right. And we hear about Alex, even
before he was licensed, driving the tractor to
a relief job. That shows a level of confidence
and responsibility that is often only built when
you realize that someone else's operation depends
entirely on you showing up and solving problems.
The unexpected lessons are always the most memorable.
I love this story about Aiden in the parlor.
Me too. He was six and a half, helping prep cows,
and he spots a bull in the parlor. And he asks
his mother, with total seriousness, what's that
pink thing that keeps coming out under his stomach?
And Michelle, without skipping a beat, gave him
the correct anatomical term straight. No sugarcoating,
no awkward parent explanation. And he just paused.
His eyes probably widened. And then he went right
back to prepping cows. That's the real unvarnished
farm kid education right there. They learn differently
because the classroom doesn't allow for ambiguity
or embarrassment. It demands knowledge. And that
confidence and knowledge gained from varied experience
doesn't stay confined to the relief barn. No,
Aiden actually took that initiative and taught
his friend Jackson how to prep cows in Jackson's
own family parlor. Wait, in his friend's barn?
Yes. He was emphasizing that a son should know
how to do chores on his own farm, demonstrating
a sense of ownership over the skills he had acquired.
This is where we have to fundamentally challenge
the assumption that a child must grow up exclusively
on their family farm to succeed in agriculture.
The awards are the hard proof of this unconventional
classroom success. Both Alex and Aiden have won
the Nicollet County Holstein Association Outstanding
Junior Boy Award. Winning that award is a massive
achievement for any child in a prominent farming
family, showing leadership, commitment, and skill.
But to win it when you don't milk your own cows
daily, that absolutely defies tradition. It proves
that the quality of education, the exposure,
the professional responsibility, the constant
handling of many different types of cattle trumps,
the quantity of time spent in a single family
-owned barn. They have built exceptional diversified
resumes using borrowed infrastructure and their
mother's network. And this commitment leads to
incredibly stressful yet illustrative moments.
Think about World Dairy Expo in 2025. Alex is
competing in Madison 300 miles away, showing
his air shirt cow. And Michelle, however, is
relief, milking in a stranger's barn, unable
to attend. The image of the modern dairy mom.
Standing in the living room of her client's farmhouse,
watching the live stream of the show, balancing
the milking schedule with her son's high -stakes
competition. And she couldn't help but coach
him from afar. Standing on the coffee table yelling
at the TV, she recounts screaming, stop overworking
her. I can just picture it. That is the perfect
visceral image of a dairy mom. Even when she's
not physically present, she's emotionally, analytically,
and physically invested in that moment. And when
Alex placed 12th, competing against the eventual
grand champion, Michelle's reaction was classic
farmer relief. I'm glad I wasn't there. It was
done. I didn't have a long drive back home, and
I saw what I needed to see. She got the satisfaction
of the competitive outcome without the high stress
of the travel and the intense show ring atmosphere.
Yeah. And we should note the scope of their ownership.
The three children collectively own 15 animals,
plus Alex's independent three -in -one partnership.
The family operation may have sold, but the passion
and the genetics are being kept alive. Their
classroom may be unconventional, their barn may
be temporary, but the results are undeniable.
Their learning discipline, initiative, advanced
animal science, and business management all wrapped
into one traveling education. That adaptability
is the ultimate legacy. This brings us to the
evolution of the farmer role itself. Michelle
Schroeder embodies a new, critical figure in
modern agriculture, the professional, non -milking
dairy farmer. She is selling time and expertise,
not a commodity. She's there for the ordinary
emergencies, as she calls them. The daughter's
wedding, the late harvest, the funerals, the
mental health breaks. She proves that sometimes
the most important figures supporting the dairy
community are the ones who provide the essential,
highly specialized service that keeps the cow
owners afloat and sane. And we need to look at
Jason's parallel transition. After 30 years in
the family barn, grinding away at the routine,
He was ready to be done when the last cow left.
And while Michelle jumped back in via relief
work, Jason needed a clean break from the daily
labor. That's a common and completely understandable
reaction for a family that's endured that three
-decade grind of ownership and responsibility.
He channeled his deep practical experience not
into physical labor, but into pedagogy. Right.
He became a farm business management instructor
at South Central College. So the knowledge is
still being passed on, but through a different
institutional channel. He is now teaching the
next generation how to run the numbers, how to
pivot, and how to survive the economic realities
that ultimately forced their own hand. It's a
fantastic way to honor his experience without
returning to the 7 .15 p .m. finish time. And
the family legacy is adapting rather than ending.
They are still tied deeply to the land. They're
planning the sesquicentennial celebration of
their farm set for around 2030. That's 150 years
since the land entered the family. Yes. They're
even planning a breakfast on the farm celebration.
That is a profound commitment to heritage and
community identity. It proves that legacy isn't
strictly defined by the contents of the bulk
tank, but by the connection to the land and the
community that sustained them. Exactly. They
can celebrate 150 years of family farming, even
if the cows left a few years shy of that milestone.
And the kids are looking forward with incredible
clarity about their professional dreams. April
dreams of veterinary medicine. Alex is talking
about starting a cattle boarding business, utilizing
that diversity of barn experience he's gained.
And Aiden, smartly, watches his options carefully.
Michelle's conviction about their future is powerful.
The sky's the limit for these kids. She believes
this because they started building their professional
resumes early, working both on their home farm
and critically on dozens of others. They are
not waiting for college to define them. They
are actively preparing for dynamic, specialized
agricultural careers that require broad knowledge.
But as with Michelle's life, change is constant.
In February 2025, she actually accepted a significant
new part -time position as the district outreach
representative for Congressman Brad Finstadt.
That's a huge pivot again, demonstrating that
her core skill set, her ability to connect with
farmers, her reliability, and her deep, intimate
knowledge of the agricultural community's struggles
is transferable directly into the political and
policy sphere. She knows the pressure points
of the dairy industry because she lives them
every time she steps into a client's barn. So
we have to wonder how this new role influences
her availability. It definitely forces limitations.
She's had to limit her availability for new relief
milking clients, so she's wisely keeping those
relationships strong with her longtime clients.
She knows where her roots are. And that her professional
credibility rests on maintaining those vital
connections to the people she represents. It's
a perfect symbiosis. Her policy work informs
her milking. Her milking informs her policy work.
Before we move to our final takeaways, we have
to share Michelle's final wisdom for those facing
the exact path she just walked, the family that
just sold their herd and feels utterly lost.
She has two incredibly important pieces of advice.
The first one is pure heart, and it's often ignored
by those in transition. Oops, sorry. She says,
take some time to reconnect with your spouse
and family. You've just spent years milking cows
twice a day, every single day. The cows are gone,
but the people who stood by you are still there.
There's no better way to thank them than the
gift of your time. That is such crucial advice.
When you sell, the last thing you want is for
the farm closure to turn into a family crisis
because you're still running on that high -stress
treadmill. emotionally unavailable you need to
reset the clock and then she gives the harder
more practical truth which shows her forward
thinking professional mindset have a plan right
saying i'm resting after selling the cows can
only be done for so long everyone needs something
to do in life a purpose an activity a plan you
can't replace the 4 50 a .m alarm the cows and
the 7 15 p .m finish time with nothing that void
will consume you you need structure and purpose
and michelle found hers in serving the very industry
she thought she had left she truly embodies the
evolution of the dedicated dairy professional
she's there often in capris old tennis shoes
and a heart rock cafe visor in the dark hours
of the morning keeping other people's dreams
alive that is the definition of quiet essential
impact on the modern farm landscape. All right,
so someone's listening to this on their way to
evening milking. Maybe they're feeling that exhaustion
deep in their bones or they're struggling with
the pressure of a tough decision. What should
stick with them immediately from Michelle's incredible
story? My first takeaway is an immediate reflection
point, and it relates directly to mental health
and the future of your operation. When's the
last time you took a real guilt -free break?
Not an hour, not a single morning, but a genuine
48 or 72 hour period of rest. If you don't have
an answer, you need to stop viewing relief milking
as an extravagant luxury and recognize it as
a core necessity for the sustainability of your
farm and your family's mental health. It's a
necessity, not a luxury. That's excellent. My
second takeaway is for anyone who has already
transitioned out or is considering it, the medium
term lesson. If you're a former dairy farmer,
or transitioning out of ownership, could your
deep specialized skills fill a vital labor gap
like Michelle's in your local community? Yeah.
That expertise in animal care, milking protocol,
and diverse parlor systems is incredibly valuable.
It doesn't die when you sell the cows. Exactly.
Yeah. You are uniquely positioned to professionalize
this service and solve the labor crisis for your
neighbors while finding purpose after the herd
is gone. Absolutely. And the long -term lesson
for those raising the next generation is about
preparation and the unconventional class. Adeptibility
is the key word. Michelle Schroeder's life is
a masterclass in adaptation, showing us that
the end of one chapter is simply the beginning
of a far more essential one. Her story proves
there's life after dairy cows, and sometimes
it keeps you closer to the industry than you'd
expect. This has been another Bullvine Podcast.
For the full feature article with photos of the
Schroeder family in action, including Alex on
the show floor and Aiden helping prep cows, head
to www .thebullvine .com. Subscribe wherever
you get podcasts. We're out with new deep dives
regularly. Until next time, take care of those
cows, and most importantly, take care of yourselves.