For years, she stood on the ground at brandings. She worked. She helped. She did what needed doing. She and her husband custom grazed steers in central Alberta, and he taught ranch roping clinics for years. She was there for all of it — just not holding a rope.

Summary:

Ann Duce grew up believing that “cowgirl” meant something lesser — decorative, not serious — and that real legitimacy belonged to cowboys. In a community where identity felt inherited rather than earned, she was told you had to be born into it or marry into it. Becoming it on your own didn’t seem possible.

But Ann learned the work anyway. As the daughter her dad had, she stepped into the jobs that needed doing. A pivotal moment came when a local woman handed her a rope and told her there was space for women in the branding pen — even as others told her to sit in the truck.

Today, Ann owns and operates her own ranch. She can confidently do any job required, though she still sometimes questions whether she’s “earned” the title. Her story reinforces a powerful truth: being a cowgirl isn’t about skill level or status — it’s about capability, resilience, loyalty, and kindness.

It’s not a costume. It’s character.

Ally Taylor is a sixth-generation rancher from a small town in Wyoming who carries her heritage with intention. Raised in a family that has run cattle on the same land for generations, she now balances ranch work with her career as a veterinary technician — serving the same western way of life from two sides.

Her story is rooted in lineage, responsibility, and choice. She isn’t simply continuing tradition out of habit; she is consciously choosing to live it. At the heart of her message is a conviction that resonates deeply: femininity is not weakness. Wear it proudly.

Her life reflects what the Cowgirl Project stands for — honoring real women whose strength, loyalty, and devotion to land and family shape the communities around them.

When Kaleigh spoke about her daughters waking every two hours to feed an orphaned foal, I didn’t just see ranch kids—I saw devotion. I saw the kind of upbringing where horses aren’t a hobby, they’re a way of life.

There’s something powerful about realizing that cowgirl isn’t a role you lose when circumstances shift. It’s a way of moving through the world. It’s resilience. It’s tenderness. It’s getting back in the saddle — literally or metaphorically — because something in you refuses to be finished.

Her family homesteaded around the Big Muddy in southern Saskatchewan and imported one of the first Arabian stallions to the area. Horses weren’t ornamental. They were everything. That detail stopped me, because my own family immigrated to just outside Vermilion, Alberta and also brought with them a prized Arabian stallion. A good horse meant survival. It meant you could build something that lasted.

I felt connected to Tesa’s story because it reminds me that life will take us incredible places if we’re willing to say yes. She said yes to the rodeo world, yes to sacrifice, yes to rebuilding when everything shifted. And later, she said yes to something quieter and more aligned.