Erikalovesdogs

In the early light, Erika stepped out, her boots crunching through the dew-specked grass, her eyes bright with the promise of the day ahead. She was eighteen, just beginning to discover the way the world could feel wide open and yet tenderly simple all at once. She had grown up close to the earth, in a place where chores began before the first rooster crowed and didn’t quite end until the stars blinked out at night. The fields, stretching to the edges of her family’s land, knew her as well as she knew herself—each line in the soil, each stretch of fence she helped mend, each animal she’d nursed with a gentleness that was hers alone.

Her Instagram profile was a gallery of these small moments. Not carefully posed or heavily filtered but snapshots that carried the rawness and warmth of her days. In one post, you’d see her leaning against the old barn door, her denim overalls loose and patched in places, her hair a tumble of soft curls she’d barely tamed that morning. She had a knack for finding the sweet spots in her world: her golden retriever nestled at her feet, the first bloom of the season tucked into her pocket, the twilight casting a quiet glow over the fields behind her. Her captions were simple, often one-liners or a handful of emojis, but they held a kind of honesty that was magnetic in its simplicity.

She was, in the truest sense, a farmer’s daughter—no romanticized vision, no overdone mystique. Erika was the real thing. Her hands knew the callous of hard work, the sting of cold mornings, the heft of buckets, the ache of shoulders from lifting and hauling. And yet, she possessed a sweetness, an innocence that felt untouched, as if her spirit remained like an unbroken patch of wildflowers along the roadside, resilient and untouched by the rush of passing cars.

It would be easy, perhaps, to write off Erika as just a girl from a farm, but a second look would tell you she was much more than that. She had an ease about her, an earthy beauty that didn’t need gloss or glamour to shine. Her skin had the faintest tan from days under the sun, her cheeks often flushed from the breeze, and her laughter, though infrequent, had a light, musical quality that made you want to hear it again. Erika was a girl who hadn’t yet been pulled into the fray of the world’s noise; she kept herself wrapped in her own rhythm, one beat slower than the usual rush.

When she wasn’t working, she was usually with her dogs—several of them, all rescues, each with its own quirks and histories, and each loved by Erika as if they were pieces of herself. Her photos with them were among the most liked on her page. There she’d be, crouched down with a mutt who looked part hound, part who-knows-what, or lying on her back in the grass, dogs nestled into her arms, the warmth of them mingling with hers. There was something almost reverent in how she spoke of them, as if each creature had a story only she could understand.

She’d never had a boyfriend, never felt quite the right pull or push, though she could blush as red as the ripest tomato at the mention of boys. Her friends teased her lightly about it, calling her their “innocent farm girl,” but Erika would just laugh and shrug it off. There was no rush in her world, no need to grow up any faster than the seasons demanded. She’d seen calves birthed and loved them in their stumbling, fragile first steps; she’d watched seeds sprout and break through the soil, a small miracle every time. In her heart, she knew that life had a rhythm all its own, and that one day, when it was meant to be, the right things would find her.

The cows knew her by sight, her soft voice, her scent, and the gentle weight of her palm when she stroked their sides. Erika had a special fondness for the old brown cow, Daisy, who always lingered near the gate and gave milk with a patience that Erika found comforting. She’d sit with Daisy sometimes in the afternoons, leaning back against her, feeling the animal’s warmth seep through her, and it was as if they both understood something about each other that didn’t need words.

When the harvest season came, Erika’s Instagram took on the colors of fall. Pumpkins she’d grown herself, their ridged skins vivid under the sun, piled high on the back of her dad’s truck; baskets of apples she’d picked from the nearby orchard, lined up like bright jewels ready to be made into pies and preserves. Her followers seemed to love these glimpses, this reminder of a world that held onto slower, quieter things. She never tried to brand herself as anything other than what she was—a young woman in the middle of her family’s fields, taking the day as it came, grateful for each sunrise and sunset.

And yet, in that unassuming way, she had gathered quite a following. City kids who’d never set foot on a farm, older folks who reminisced about their own childhoods, people looking for a moment of peace amid their bustling lives—all of them seemed drawn to Erika’s posts, her photos and words like a balm for restless minds. She never posted with any agenda, and maybe that’s what made her page feel like a breath of fresh air. Each photo, each caption, was just a piece of her life she was sharing, like setting out a slice of homemade pie for someone at the kitchen table.

Erika didn’t care much for fancy things or big plans. She imagined she’d stay right here on the farm, maybe take it over one day, keep the fields growing and the animals cared for. She had dreams, sure, little daydreams about traveling, maybe seeing mountains taller than anything she’d ever known, or oceans stretching farther than her eyes could follow. But those were dreams for some far-off day. For now, she was content with the good soil under her feet, the familiar roads that took her home, and the sweet faces of her dogs waiting for her at the door.

In her own quiet way, Erika was a piece of something timeless. Not in the sense of a throwback or a novelty, but in the way that some people hold onto a pureness that life can’t quite touch. She didn’t set out to be different, didn’t try to stand out; she simply was. And perhaps that was what made her so magnetic, what drew people to her. She was the kind of person who reminded you that there was beauty in the simple things, in living close to the earth, in caring deeply for the creatures around you, and in letting life unfold at its own gentle pace.