The day was still warm when I heard the sound of tyres on gravel.

René was coming back from the cattle yards, the trailer rattling behind the ute.

I remember walking out to meet him, the sun low, the air thick with dust and that familiar mix of hay and diesel.

We’d bought a few calves to raise on our property, twenty-one acres of green paddocks, gum trees swaying, the sound of magpies in the distance.

It felt like freedom, our little slice of country life.

But when the trailer stopped, I noticed one calf wasn’t moving.

At first, I thought maybe it was just tired from the trip.

Then I saw its chest still.

No breath.

I climbed up and saw its body, small and still, lying awkwardly against the side.

And the moment hit me like a wave.

The smell of metal, manure, and dust.

The quiet hum of insects.

And this deep ache that rose up from somewhere ancient inside me.

I cried, like a wounded animal, gut wrenching kind of cry, the kind that comes from the core of your belly, your bones, your soul.

It was raw and animal and human all at once.

I didn’t even know this calf.

Had never touched it before that day.

But I felt this overwhelming compassion, for its fear, for its pain, for the way it died alone on a journey it never asked to take.

And then came the realisation that cracked me open:

we were breeding these calves for beef.

We were going to feed them, name them, care for them, and then sell them to the market for the best price.

They were going to die anyway.

I remember thinking, how can I feel so much love and sadness right now, and still believe this is okay?

I used to tell myself it was “ethical.” That we’d make sure it was “humane.”

But that day, kneeling beside that calf, I couldn’t unsee the truth.

I couldn’t unknow what my body already knew.

It was one of many moments with our animals on the farm that left me questioning everything.

There was always this quiet guilt underneath, this whisper that said, if I didn’t have to do this, I wouldn’t.

And it took me nearly fifty years to finally realise, I didn’t have to.

Now when I think back, I remember our grandkids running through the paddock, laughing.

They loved the animals.

They’d help collect the eggs from the coop we built together, complete with tiny swings for the hens to play on.

Their laughter filled the orchard while the chickens wandered beneath the trees.

We were teaching them kindness.

We were teaching them care.

But at the dinner table, we were serving death.

And that contradiction activated something in me.

Because we can’t teach compassion while modelling disconnection.

We can’t claim love while funding suffering.

And maybe that’s why I feel so activated now, when I hear words like grass-fed gelatin, ethical tallow, or humane slaughter.

Because they sound beautiful.

They sound like care.

But they’re comfort words, soft veils over a hard truth.

We call it “wellness.”

We call it “sustainable.”

But comfort doesn’t make it conscious.

And convenience doesn’t make it kind.

This isn’t about judgement, it’s about awareness.

It’s about waking up to what our words are hiding.

So this is what I woke up with this morning,

a truth stirring again in my chest, asking to be shared.

Are we really living in alignment with our values?

Or are we just rebranding disconnection so it feels digestible?

Peace isn’t found in pretending.

Peace is found in truth,

and truth, even when it hurts, is the highest form of love.

Blessings & Alignment

Sonya Maree
Your Glow-Up Map Mentor + Holistic Freedom Creator

If this story touched something in you, come connect with me on Instagram @sonyamareekokofficial or join the Holistic Freedom Hub where I share reflections, soulful living reminders, and practical ways to align your wellness, mission & wealth with your soul’s truth.