We're by your side in silence and in conversation

Counseling for Farmers, Ranchers, and Ag Families in Rural Colorado

You've handled everything. That's the whole problem.

You've buried stock you raised from nothing. You've watched hail flatten a year's work in twenty minutes. You've made payroll when there was nothing to make it with, pulled calves at 3am in a blizzard, carried the place through droughts and price crashes and the kind of years that ran good men off the land. You cowboyed up. Every time. It's what you do.

And it worked, right up until it didn't.

Grit has a load rating

Every chain, every strap, every cable in your shop has a working load limit stamped on it. Not because the steel is weak. Because everything has a point where it lets go, and a smart man knows the number before he hangs a load on it.

Grit's the same. Yours is real. It's carried you through things that would've folded most people clean in half, and nobody's taking that away from you. But it's a tool, and tools have limits, and if you've hit yours, that's not you being weak. That's you finding the spec on the strongest tool you own. You didn't fail. You found the number.

The trouble is nobody stamps the number on a man. So you keep hanging more weight on, because more weight has always been the answer, and you can't figure out why the thing that never broke is breaking now.

The part nobody says out loud

Here's the one nobody talks about, and we're going to, because pretending it's not real is how it gets people.

There are mornings the barn looks different than it used to. When "cowboy up" doesn't make the rope in the loft look any less tempting. When you've done the math on what the place is worth more than what you're worth to it, and the math scares you.

If that's where you are, hear this plain: you are not the first good rancher to stand in that loft, and the ones who came back down are glad they did, and there is not one thing wrong with you for being there. It means the load finally outran the tool. That's fixable. Dying is the one problem on this whole outfit you can't fix in the morning.

If today's one of those days, call or text 988 right now. Not later. It's free, it's private, and the person on the other end isn't going to lecture you. Then come talk to us when you're steady.

Why a man like you doesn't call, and why that's costing you

We know why you haven't. Let's just say it.

Talking feels like weakness, and weakness feels like the one thing you can't afford. It's a small town and everybody knows everybody, and the last thing you need is the feed store finding out you're seeing a shrink. You've got a name and a reputation you spent your whole life earning, and your father earned before you, and you're not about to be the one who cracked. And you figure no counselor in some office understands the first thing about your actual life, the debt, the weather, the animals that don't care that you're tired, the weight of being the one who can't be the one who loses the place.

Fair. Most of that's fair. So here's how this actually works.

It's telehealth. That means you talk to us from your truck, your kitchen, the shop, wherever, on a phone or a computer. Nobody in town sees your rig parked outside a counselor's office. Nobody has to know a thing. It's private, it's legal, and it stays between us.

We take Medicaid and most insurance, and if money's tight, we've got a sliding scale and somebody who'll help you sort out coverage. This doesn't have to cost you what you don't have.

And you don't have to "open up" or cry or any of that. You talk. We listen. We're not going to hand you a worksheet or tell you to breathe. We're going to help you figure out where the load's coming from and how to get out from under it, same as you'd troubleshoot anything else that quit working.

What we actually help with

The stuff that comes with the life. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix. Drinking a little more than you used to, or a lot more, because it's the only thing that turns your head off. The temper that's gotten shorter with your wife and your kids than you want it to be. The nights you don't sleep and the mornings you can't get going. The dread. The debt that sits on your chest. The grief you never had time to deal with because there's always another chore. And that quiet voice that says everyone'd be better off, which is a liar, but a convincing one.

We work with farmers, ranchers, farmhands, and the people who love them and are worried about them, across the Western Slope, the eastern plains, and every other piece of rural Colorado where the nearest decent counselor is a two-hour drive you're not going to make.

Frequently asked

Is this really private? It's a small town.
Yes. It's telehealth, so there's no office in town to be seen walking into. It's confidential by law. What you say stays with your counselor, with the same narrow exceptions any counselor has, which we'll tell you straight up front.

I'm not much of a talker.
Don't need to be. You don't have to be good at this. You just have to show up and be honest, and we do the rest of the work of making it useful.

I don't have time. There's always something.
It's a phone call from wherever you are. No drive, no waiting room. A lot of guys do it from the truck between jobs. It fits where an office visit never could.

Can I afford it?
We take Medicaid and most insurance, and there's a sliding scale if you're paying out of pocket. We've got someone who'll help you figure out coverage. Tight money is not a reason to stay stuck.

Do you actually get it, or is this a city thing?
We're in Greeley, which is ag country, and we've spent a lot of hours with guys who do exactly what you do. We're not going to pretend we've bucked every bale, but we're not strangers to your life, and we're not going to talk down to you.