02/26/2026
When Leadership Becomes a Threat
There’s a difference between losing a position…
and being systematically removed.
This wasn’t a bad vote.
It wasn’t a disagreement over philosophy.
It was a coordinated outcome.
And that distinction matters.
Last year, I didn’t attend one livestock committee meeting.
Not because I didn’t care.
Not because I was checked out.
I didn’t show up because I had just had a crown replaced in my mouth, it was put in wrong, I couldn’t close my jaw, and I was in a level of pain that made simply existing miserable. I made the call to stay home.
That night, while I was dealing with that, Alivia was voted in.
Shortly after, I received a call from Julia Miller—not about goats, not about kids, not about the program—but about a post in a Facebook group called Stand Up Starke County. A group I had never heard of, was not a member of, and absolutely did not post in. I told her the truth: I couldn’t take something down that I didn’t write and didn’t have access to.
During that same call, I told her plainly:
If Alivia needs help, guidance, support—anything—I will gladly help her. For the kids. For the program.
I was told it would probably be best if I kept my distance and didn’t get involved.
That hurt.
But I respected it.
At the last meeting, I was told by Clint Learch that I was the reason the goat program had become “a laughing stock.” That the show and auction were “a circus.”
Let’s talk about what was actually happening.
In my final years, I was intentionally stepping back—not because I was disengaged—but because the program had grown so large and complex that the only way forward was distributed leadership.
Alivia ran the dairy goat show. Completely.
She also handled as much of the meat goat class setup as she could, with me reviewing and finishing—by design.
Brittany ran the pygmy goat program entirely on her own. And if you know pygmy goats, you know there are few people anywhere more qualified than her.
Makayla ran the Mini 4-H goat program.
Each species had its own leader.
Each leader had ownership.
Each show had space to grow.
My role shifted to what experienced leadership should be: support, coordination, problem-solving, rule enforcement when needed, and handling the hard conversations so younger leaders didn’t have to carry that burden alone.
I told every single one of them the same thing:
“This is your show. You run it how you want. If you need me, I’m here. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
That’s not chaos.
That’s trust.
That’s how programs scale without burning people out.
What some people call chaos is often just leadership they don’t control.
Here’s an example of why experience matters:
At one check-in, goats arrived with runny noses. Every leader agreed they should be sent home. A younger version of me would have agreed too. But I knew—because I’ve seen it year after year—that stress from transport often causes this. I had them rest in the trailer, eat, drink, and we took temperatures.
They were completely fine.
If I hadn’t stepped in, that 4-H kid would have been sent home for nothing.
That’s not bending rules—that’s knowing when to apply them with judgment.
When Alivia ran check-in, she asked me to handle tagging and crowd control.
When she ran the dairy goat show, she asked me to sit back and handle problems if they came up.
After the first class, she asked me to run the arena so she could focus elsewhere.
That’s teamwork.
Over my last years, I intentionally let go of tasks so I wouldn’t become stuck in “the old way,” so new ideas could happen, and so I could spend more time with kids—actually teaching, answering questions, mentoring, protecting them when things got hard.
Each species became better organized.
Each leader had less stress.
Each show grew.
And yes—the goat program is large. It’s complex. Each species is unique with very little overlap. That’s why they had separate show days. That’s why they needed independence. That’s why it worked.
I didn’t do this for power.
I didn’t do this for recognition.
I did it because those kids are my kids.
And because when I was a 4-H’er, I needed someone in my corner—and didn’t always have one.
So I became that person.
You can call that a circus if you want.
But the kids call it a place where they learned, belonged, and were protected.
And that’s what leadership actually looks like.
And yet somehow, I’m told the goat program is better off with me not there.
So much so that I wasn’t just voted out—I wasn’t even given one single nomination.
Not because of the livestock committee.
Not because of the kids.
But because Fair Board members felt it was important enough to show up en masse to a livestock committee meeting to make sure I was not selected as goat leader.
In 17 years, I’ve only ever seen that happen twice.
Once last year—during my dental emergency—when I physically couldn’t attend.
And again this year.
Both times, the reason was the same: to ensure I was not put back in charge.
That alone should tell anyone paying attention exactly what this was about.
There is supposed to be a clear separation between Purdue 4-H volunteers—who run the educational program—and the Fair Board—who are stewards of the fairgrounds, equipment, and facilities that we rent for the 4-H fair. That separation exists for a reason: fairness, integrity, and protection of volunteers and kids.
Now, some Fair Board members—and even their spouses—have signed up to sit on the livestock committee.
Not to help.
Not to serve kids.
But for control.
And that’s the part that should concern everyone.
Because when governance becomes personal, when leadership decisions are driven by who someone wants out instead of what’s best for the kids, the program doesn’t get better—it just gets quieter.
This didn’t start with me.
It won’t end with me.
But it should alarm anyone who cares about the future of the program.
Because when removing one person requires this much coordination, pressure, and rule-bending, it stops being about leadership and starts being about fear.
I wasn’t removed because I failed the kids.
I was removed because I wouldn’t fail them for someone else’s comfort.
And here’s the part that doesn’t get said out loud—but should:
I still got s**t done in spite of you.
When leadership is removed by force instead of failure, the problem isn’t the leader—it’s the system that was afraid of him.
