A few years ago I called nearly all the shots on the farm. I was tougher, harder, and more industrious than almost everyone else I knew, and I dragged my family along with me to get things done. And it worked, because being hard often does work – we got the farm, we created our flock and our herd of cattle, and I worked through the nights to write two bestselling books. But something changed in me in the past decade: I lost interest in being that kind of patriarch. In fact, I began to actively dislike such men when I met them.

A record-breaking bull showed that my eighteen-year-old is ready to start taking my place.