It Starts With Us

I want to talk about something that for far too long has been a secret.

There are real emotional costs to farming. And sometimes, our ‘tough it out’ attitude makes things worse.

There, I said it.

People don’t like to talk about thoughts and feelings. Farmers especially don’t like to say it. But we all need to hear it. Tough it out works – until it doesn’t. And when it stops working, or makes things worse, we often don’t know what to do. There are too many farmers and people in rural communities who suffer in silence.

And silence can be deadly.

I’ve seen it up close in my own farming family. We lost a brother to an on-farm suicide. So for me, the story is personal. He tried to tough it out and lost.

My husband and I farm in the Canadian province of Saskatchewan. We grow wheat, canola, and lentils in rotation. We live in the prairie town of Biggar, where the motto is: “New York is big, but this is Biggar.”

And like all farming communities, we also have seen the emotional impact of farm stress: burnout, anxiety, disconnection, fear, and shame. Judgment lines the roads: “they are good farmers” is high praise. And if your farm is struggling, chances are everyone knows. Business is slow. Money is tight. Emotions are high. Things are on edge.

Yet, we haven’t always known what to do, which is why I’ve devoted myself to helping people find their way. We didn’t learn about mental health growing up. That was private, secret – and hidden. And often, a source of shame and fear.

I’m the Executive Director of The Do More Agriculture Foundation, which focuses on the mental wellbeing of those who live in rural agricultural communities. We must “do more” when it comes to mental health.

The most important lesson I’ve learned is that people are hungry for change. So many are working every day to tackle the stigma that discourages us from discussing our mental health challenges. That stigma makes us scared of what family and friends will say, and how they might change what they think of us.

Farmers are famous for our hard work, resourcefulness, and productivity. We find meaning and purpose in what we do, so much so that our identity (who we are) is what we do. And we have deep connections to the land.

These characteristics can be sources of strength and resilience. Ironically, they are also our weak spots, the places where we can break.

Farming is full of risk and responsibility. We farmers feel the stress of every setback and failure. A poor harvest can strike at the heart of identity. It can threaten how we think about ourselves and how others will think about us. That ‘good farmer’ identity is always on display, and up for public discussion. From a seeding miss or a flush of weeds to a farm bankruptcy, what we do is who we are – and tough times are personal.

What stops many from getting help is fear. Fear of not being seen as tough and strong, and fearing the label of ‘mentally ill’. Anyone can suffer from mental illness, of course. Illness involves the mysteries of genetics and brain chemistry, the experiences of fear and trauma, and more. It strikes in many forms, such as anxiety, burnout, and grief that doesn’t go away. It can deepen into depression, mood disorders, and even suicide.

Illness can happen anywhere and at any time—none of us are immune. An illness, be it physical or mental, puts enormous strain on a farm. When we live in a rural community, we bear a special burden. We tend not to want to talk about mental illness and we may live among neighbors who don’t want to hear about it, or who hold views rooted in fear and shame.

Let me offer an example. Imagine two farmers with major health problems. One is bedridden from heart surgery. The other battles treatment-resistant depression.

Where do the casseroles go?

The meal train for the farmer in recovery from heart surgery is usually long and abundant. For the farmer with depression, it may never leave the station.

The difference is not necessarily because people don’t care. Most often they simply don’t know what to do. So they say, “I’m not qualified” or “they need privacy” and stay distant.

They also may not know. Before neighbors can act, they need to know that there is an illness and that help would be appreciated. Yet many with mental illness don’t speak up. We worry that others will see us as weak and undeserving. We tend to hide our challenges, which then worsen.

A big part of the reason why some hide our challenges is because many people don’t understand mental illness. Many believe we should handle our problems in private. Some even assume that those who suffer have brought their pain upon themselves. This attitude is usually borne from culture, not cruelty, but it takes a toll.

The solution is action for awareness. One thing we can each do today is improve our knowledge of mental illness. I don’t need to become a clinical expert. If I do have a friend, family member or neighbor who is facing adversity, there is lots I can do to help. I can learn more about their illness, so that I show understanding.

I can simply be there. I can send a text, give them a call, take their kids to ball practice. I can treat them the same that I would if they broke a leg or were having cancer treatment. I can give my support.

And one more thing, I can learn how to connect people who are struggling with resources that can help. I can learn what resources exist, how to access them, and share that information. I can be part of the circle of care.

It starts with us. I know that people are facing challenges, right now, in our own communities and perhaps even in our own homes. The best thing I can do is respond with compassion, grace and support.

When we build a culture that immediately offers care and comfort, more people will step forward, speak up, ask for help, and help others.

There are doctors and therapies and suicide hotlines that weren’t there a generation ago. This is welcome news.

Yet, one piece is missing: us. We can, each of us, do more.

It starts with us.

Let’s talk about it.