From the Journal

A few reflections inspired by life with Cora and Robbie.

These essays explore the quiet lessons I've discovered through sharing my life with two rescued cows. Some are rooted in research, others in simple moments from the pasture, but all are written from a place of curiosity and wonder.

 

Why Time with Cows Can Feel So Different

If someone had told me years ago—when I was living in New York City, chasing dreams and imagining a very different future—that two rescued cows would become some of my greatest teachers, I would have smiled politely and thought they were crazy.

Like many people, I simply didn't know cows.

I had no idea what I was missing.

That changed the day Cora and Robbie came into my life.

Both arrived as fragile rescue calves after unimaginably difficult beginnings. Two compassionate women rescued them and lovingly nursed them through their earliest, most fragile months. Robbie was so weak he couldn't even stand for weeks. By the time he was finally strong enough to be on his feet, Cora and Robbie came to Heartstone Farm. Sharing life with them has changed the course of mine in ways I never could have imagined.

The more time I spent with them, the more I found myself wondering why so many of us—including me for most of my life—had underestimated cows.

As it turns out, there's growing interest in that very question.

Research into animal-assisted interventions suggests that spending time with calm animals may help reduce stress, encourage relaxation, and support emotional well-being. Some studies have found decreases in cortisol—the body's primary stress hormone—and improvements in measures associated with relaxation after positive interactions with gentle animals. While much of this research has focused on dogs and horses, people are beginning to discover what farmers, sanctuary workers, and those who live closely with cows have quietly known for a long time: cows are gentle, emotionally expressive animals whose calm presence can have a remarkable effect on us.

I've shared my life with dogs, cats, and horses, spending countless hours riding, caring for, and simply being around them. One horse in particular—my beloved Hooly—will always hold a special place in my heart. Every species offers something unique, and I would never compare one against another.

Cows, however, offer a different kind of experience.

Horses are wonderfully responsive partners. They communicate through movement, awareness, and cooperation, often inviting us into an active relationship. Dogs delight in play, affection, and enthusiastic companionship. Cows seem to ask something entirely different of us. They aren't looking for direction or activity. They invite us to slow down, to become quieter, and simply share space with them. Their unhurried rhythm, steady breathing, and remarkable comfort with stillness often create an atmosphere that feels deeply grounding. Rather than encouraging us to do more, cows gently remind us that sometimes it's enough just to be.

What makes cows especially interesting isn't that they "do" anything to us. They simply go about being cows. They move slowly. They pause often. They graze. They rest. They chew their cud with a steady rhythm. Their breathing is slow and deliberate, and they seem remarkably comfortable with stillness.

Without realizing it, many people begin to match that pace.

Standing beside an animal that weighs well over a thousand pounds has a way of drawing us into the present moment. We naturally become more aware of our own movements, our breathing, and the energy we bring into the interaction. Not because the cow demands it, but because their quiet presence seems to invite it. In a world filled with constant stimulation, that kind of focused attention has become surprisingly rare.

I've never once had to ask a visitor to lower their voice around Cora and Robbie. It simply happens. Conversations become quieter. Breathing slows. Even children often become gentler without being asked. I still find that remarkable.

Cows also experience the world differently than we do. As prey animals, they're naturally attentive to their surroundings and to subtle changes in body language. While they aren't judging us or analyzing us the way people often analyze one another, they do notice how we move and the energy we bring. Their sensitivity gently encourages us to become calmer, quieter, and more intentional without anyone ever asking us to do so.

I've watched this happen over and over again at Heartstone Farm. Visitors often arrive carrying the momentum of busy lives—thinking about work, family responsibilities, travel plans, or the next item on the day's agenda. Yet within a surprisingly short time, many begin to settle into the moment. Voices become softer. Conversations slow. Phones stay tucked away. People begin noticing the warmth of the sun, the breeze moving through the pasture, the rhythmic sound of chewing, the softness in Robbie's eyes, or Cora's unmistakable curiosity. Instead of rushing through an experience, they simply begin experiencing it.

One of the things I treasure most is that nothing is choreographed. Cora and Robbie aren't trained to perform or entertain. If they're curious, they'll wander over. If they'd rather continue grazing for a while, they will. We respect their choices because genuine connection can't be forced. Ironically, it's that freedom that often makes the moments of connection feel so meaningful.

Of course, every visit is different. No two people—and no two cows—are exactly alike. One guest may leave feeling deeply peaceful. Another may leave inspired. Someone else may simply find themselves smiling because Robbie rested nearby or Cora made them laugh with mischievous ways. There is no single "right" experience.

My hope is simply to offer people the opportunity to spend an hour in the company of two remarkable rescue cows who ask nothing of us except that, for a little while, we slow down enough to notice them.

And perhaps, in the process, notice something about ourselves as well.