In today’s post, I want to share a story from more than a decade before I was born—one that shaped my childhood in a foundational way. It’s the story of how two farmers became friends, and how that friendship became part of the fabric of our family.
The Farmer on the Barn Roof
My dad, set to inherit the family farm, was working on my grandparents’ red barn roof. He had not yet met my mom and was about 25. My grandparents were laying the groundwork for the farm handover. They’d helped him buy the property next door (where I eventually grew up) and taught him farming from childhood (as was customary).
That day, he was up on their red barn. This wasn’t some tiny shed—it stretched about 60 feet long, with the roof starting roughly 25 feet off the ground and peaking even higher. In other words, working up there was no small task.
A Simple Act of Help Changes Everything
A local farmer, a couple years older than my dad, drove by and spotted him. He pulled in, climbed up to the roof, and offered a hand. My dad said yes, and the farmer sat on the peak for a couple minutes—gathering his nerve—before joining in the work. What my dad didn’t know at the time was that this farmer was afraid of heights. That detail makes the moment even more meaningful to me—he set his fear aside to help a neighbor.
From that afternoon on the barn roof, a friendship sparked that continues to this day.
A Farm Friendship That Shaped Decades—and My Childhood
They wove themselves into each other’s lives completely. They attended each other’s weddings (sharing not just the same first name, but wives with the same first name too). They sponsored each other’s kids and teamed up for big jobs like baling hay across large fields.
From the time I could lift bales, I pitched in during those haying days. As one large team with two small New Holland balers, we would bale 2,000 to 3,000 small bales in a day—enough to fill a haymow and feed the cattle for months. I’d finish covered in dust and sweat—I didn’t exactly love it then—but I look back on those memories fondly now.
Baling hay was always a big endeavor.
After the hard work wrapped up, we’d always share a big meal together. I didn’t realize it as a kid, but it felt like our own version of the old threshing bees, where neighbors gathered to help put away the feed, eat, and celebrate the harvest.
Before that day on the roof, they were just acquaintances. Afterward, they were like brothers. That one choice—to stop, help, and climb despite his fear—rippled through shared work, celebrations, tough seasons, and the community I grew up in.
And it all started with one farmer seeing another on a tall red barn and deciding not to drive on by.
Do you have a story of a neighbor or friend whose one small act changed the course of your farm or family?
If this story brought someone to mind—a neighbor, a friend, or a farmer you’re grateful for—would you pass it along to them or share it so others can be reminded how much small acts of help matter?
Hay season means long days, heavy decisions, and worries that don’t clock out when the sun gets low.
When most people picture a farmer, they imagine strong hands, early mornings, and a deep connection to the land. Those things are true. But what’s less visible is the mental and emotional weight that modern farmers carry—often in silence.
Over the last 40 years, farming has changed dramatically. We’ve seen consolidated farms, bigger machinery, larger herds, and new technology. Alongside those changes came something else: bigger debt, more uncertainty, and worries that don’t clock out when the day is done.
This piece isn’t about statistics. It’s about naming some of the pressures farmers feel, and why mental health deserves to be part of the conversation when we talk about agriculture.
From Many Small Farms to Fewer, Bigger Ones
A generation or two ago, it was common to see many small and mid-sized family farms clustered within a few miles of each other. They could lean on each other for basic help. My dad and a good farmer friend lived two miles apart and shared haymaking equipment and labor. We would spend a day baling hay at the friend’s place, and another day baling hay on our farm.
On a good day with lots of help, we could bale and put away 2,000–3,000 small square bales—enough to fill a hay mow from the floor to the rafters and keep a dairy herd fed for months. All the while, we had good conversations, got a solid workout, and ate a good meal afterward. There was a sense of satisfaction I didn’t fully appreciate at the time as I coughed up dust all night and well into the next day. We could rely on each other for reciprocal help that taught me what true community support looks like.
Over the past few decades:
Many small operations have closed or merged.
Land has consolidated into fewer, larger farms.
Surviving farms often feel pressure to “get bigger or get out.”
This shift means:
Less shared workload between neighbors.
More land, animals, and responsibilities on fewer shoulders.
A sense of loss—not just of businesses, but of communities and a way of life.
My dad and his friend both sold their cows around the same time. I remember the farm auction they jointly held when I was an early teenager. At the time, I was thrilled that we didn’t have the cows anymore. In adulthood, that relief turned into sadness, because it meant there were two fewer dairy farms in the area. Now, the farms with 100 or fewer cows are few and far between. My dad used to joke that FFA—“Future Farmers of America”—really stood for “Father Farming Alone.” He wasn’t wrong.
For the farmers who remain, this consolidation can bring a mix of gratitude (for still being here) and grief (for those who aren’t).
“Land Rich,” Cash Poor
Another layer in all of this is what people sometimes call being “land rich.”
Many farmers:
Own or are paying on hundreds of acres of land.
Have barns, sheds, and equipment worth significant money on paper.
From the outside, it can look like wealth. But the reality is often:
Most of that value is tied up in land and buildings that can’t be easily sold without dismantling the farm.
Day-to-day cash flow can be tight, especially when prices are low or inputs are high.
The same land that represents security also represents responsibility, taxes, and debt.
Being “land rich and cash poor” is its own kind of mental strain. Farmers can feel:
Trapped between the desire to keep the farm going and the weight of the bills.
Guilty for even considering selling something that generations built.
Misunderstood by people who only see acreage and assume comfort, not stress.
When the balance sheet says “asset,” but the checking account says “barely,” it adds another quiet layer of pressure.
Bigger Equipment, Bigger Debt
With larger farms comes larger equipment:
Bigger tractors, combines, balers, and harvesters.
More sophisticated technology—GPS, monitors, sensors, and software.
These tools can boost efficiency, but they come at a cost:
High purchase prices, ongoing payments, and subscription fees.
Expensive parts and repairs when something breaks (usually at the worst possible time).
The constant knowledge that a breakdown—or a bad year—could put the whole operation at risk.
Carrying that level of debt isn’t just a line item in a budget. It’s a weight in the back of a farmer’s mind, especially at night. Farming has always been stressful, but when you add costs that are ten or a hundred times higher than they used to be, the stress compounds right along with it.
Mutating Diseases, New Pests, and Biosecurity Worries
The last few decades have also brought:
New or mutating livestock diseases.
Crop diseases and pests that adapt quickly.
Rising biosecurity concerns, especially with larger, more concentrated herds.
This adds another layer of stress:
One outbreak can threaten years of hard work.
Farmers must constantly update protocols, vaccinations, and preventative care.
There’s a nagging worry: “What if something slips through? What if we miss something?”
The responsibility of caring for animals and crops isn’t just physical; it’s emotional. When animals get sick or crops fail, it can feel like a personal failure—even when it isn’t.
I recently heard the sad story of a local strawberry farm that lost much of its crop to a disease that thrives in wet soil after a particularly rainy spring. I’ve also watched them rebound in a way that is truly inspiring—launching a strawberry-scented skincare line made from the berries they could salvage and using their platform to educate the public about soil health. Even in resilience, you can feel the weight of what was lost and the effort it took for them to pivot.
Markets That Feel Like a Roller Coaster
Farmers today live with:
Fluctuating commodity prices.
Sudden changes in demand, trade policies, and global events.
Input costs (fuel, fertilizer, feed, repairs) that don’t always match what they’re paid.
That means:
It’s harder to plan even one year ahead, let alone several.
A good production year doesn’t always mean a good financial year.
Farmers carry the constant question: “Will this be the year we can’t make it work?”
Uncertainty isn’t just a math problem. It’s a mental burden—especially when an entire family’s livelihood, legacy, and identity are tied to the farm.
More Worries, Less Margin for Error
Put all of that together, and you get a heavy load:
Bigger farms and fewer people to share the work.
Bigger machines and bigger debts.
Disease, pests, and biosecurity concerns that never truly go away.
Markets that can swing wildly from one season to the next.
Land that looks like wealth on paper, but doesn’t always translate into financial breathing room.
And yet, despite all this, many farmers still:
Get up before sunrise.
Work long days in all kinds of weather.
Care deeply about their animals, crops, and customers.
Try to show up at community events and be good neighbors.
They do it not because it’s an easy business decision, but because farming is a calling—a way of life they care about too deeply to walk away from lightly.
From the outside, it’s easy to see just the toughness. From the inside, farmers know: toughness doesn’t make you immune to stress, anxiety, or depression. It just makes you more likely to keep quiet about it.
The Quiet Strain on Farmer Mental Health
Some common mental health pressures on farmers include:
Chronic stress. There is always something to worry about—weather, prices, animals, equipment, finances.
Isolation. Many farms are rural and remote, with fewer opportunities to socialize or talk openly about struggles. The isolation has only increased as farms have consolidated and neighbors have sold out.
Identity and legacy. The farm often isn’t “just a job.” It’s a family identity and a multi-generation story. The fear of being “the one who couldn’t keep it going” runs deep.
Stigma. In many farm communities, there’s an unspoken rule: you work hard, keep your head down, and don’t complain. Asking for help can feel like weakness, even when it’s actually courage.
It’s not unusual for farmers to feel:
Overwhelmed
Guilty for feeling overwhelmed
Unsure where to turn or what resources exist
Naming these realities doesn’t mean farmers are broken. It means they’re human.
What Farmers Need to Hear
If you’re a farmer, or married to one, or raising farm kids, you may need to hear that:
Feeling stressed or anxious doesn’t mean you’re failing.
Being exhausted by the weight of decisions and responsibilities is understandable.
You are not the only one who lies awake at night worrying about the bank, the herd, the crops, the land, the next generation.
Talking to someone—a friend, pastor, counselor, doctor—is not a sign of weakness. It’s one more way of caring for your farm and family, because you are part of both.
What the Rest of Us Can Do
For those who aren’t farming but care about farmers, there are small but meaningful ways to help:
Acknowledge the weight. Simply saying, “I know things are tough right now, and I appreciate what you do,” can matter more than you realize.
Listen without minimizing. Resist the urge to say “It’ll all work out” or “At least you get to live in the country.” Instead try: “That sounds really hard. Do you want to talk about it?”
Support local when you can. Buying from local farms and small businesses helps, even if it’s not a complete solution.
Share resources. If you hear about mental health hotlines, local support groups, or farm stress programs, pass them along without pressure: “I saw this and thought it might be useful if you ever wanted it.”
Check in after hard news. A bad storm, a price crash, a big equipment breakdown—these are good times to send a message or stop by.
A Small Invitation
Over the past 40 years, farms have gotten bigger, equipment has gotten bigger, and the to-do lists and worries have grown right alongside them. What hasn’t grown at the same pace is our willingness to talk honestly about what all of that does to a farmer’s mind and heart.
For many farmers, this work is more than a career. It’s a calling they’ve been born into, chosen, or both—and that’s part of why the weight can feel so heavy.
I don’t pretend to speak for every farmer or every situation, but these are some of the patterns I’ve seen and lived.
We can’t solve everything in one conversation or one blog post. But we can:
Start naming the pressures.
Make it normal to talk about stress and mental health in farm communities.
Remind farmers that their worth is not measured only in bushels, pounds, acres, or how many acres they “own” on paper.
If you’re a farmer, or you love one, I hope this gives you language for some of what you’re feeling—or seeing.
And if you’re reading this from town or city, maybe the next time you pass a tractor on the road, pour a glass of milk, have a steak, or drive by a field, you’ll remember: behind that scene is a person carrying more than just a workload.
If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear: what’s one thing you wish people understood about the mental load farmers carry—or one small way you think we could better support them?
If this post helped put words to what you’ve seen or felt, would you share it with someone who cares about farmers—or save it to revisit later? Your stories matter too. I’d be honored if you shared a small piece of your experience or tagged a farmer who deserves a quiet “thank you.”
For a long time, that sentence felt like something I needed to tuck away, not lead with. In high school, I carefully sidestepped anything that might mark me as “too farm kid.” I avoided FFA and agriculture classes, choosing instead to spend time with the choir crowd—some of the kindest people you’ll ever meet (and, let’s be honest, who doesn’t love friends who can sing?).
On the surface, I was doing what a lot of teenagers do: trying to blend in. Underneath, I was quietly distancing myself from a way of life that had shaped me more than I realized.
Trying to Tuck My Farm Roots Away
Looking back, I can see how much effort I put into not looking “too farm.”
I did the bare minimum caring for the steers assigned to me.
I half-heartedly tended the garden that had been so generously entrusted to my “care.”
I laughed off my farm chores as “no big deal,” even when they meant missing events or coming to school smelling faintly of silage.
I share more about the steers here, but the short version is this: I wanted the values of my upbringing (work ethic, responsibility, resourcefulness) without the label that came with them. I thought being “the farm kid” made me less interesting, less sophisticated, less…something.
Even in college, I was hesitant to share details about my rural background. I listened to friends talk about their favorite coffee shops and city neighborhoods, and I stayed quiet about gravel roads, hay balers, and cleaning cow yards.
The Homesteading Bug That Never Quite Left
And yet, there was always a part of me that genuinely enjoyed homesteading.
The summer after my freshman year of college, I found myself slipping back into familiar rhythms:
I spent days blanching and freezing green beans.
I asked my dad to teach me how to make sauerkraut.
It was as if my hands remembered what my pride wanted to forget. I loved the feeling of putting food by, the satisfaction of seeing freezer bags full of vegetables, and the simple rhythm of working alongside my parents.
At the time, I still didn’t connect this with identity. It just felt like “what we do in the summer”—use what we have, store what we can, waste as little as possible.
The Cucumber Story That Started to Change My Perspective
I remember clearly when my perspective started to shift.
Shortly before my junior year of college, our garden produced a glut of cucumbers. In a moment of practicality, I posted on Facebook asking if anyone wanted some. Several college friends responded enthusiastically.
I didn’t believe they were serious.
To me, cucumbers were just…there. They showed up in the garden, we ate what we wanted, and the rest sometimes ended up in the compost if we couldn’t keep up. I assumed everyone had access to as many fresh vegetables as they wanted, if they just “put in the effort.”
So I left the cucumbers at home.
When I saw my friends later, their disappointed faces told me I’d made a mistake. They had genuinely looked forward to those garden-fresh cucumbers. In that moment, it hit me: my experience of having plentiful fresh vegetables was not typical. What I saw as ordinary was, to many others, special.
That simple misunderstanding planted a metaphorical seed. Maybe my farm background wasn’t something to hide. Maybe it was something to share.
Realizing My Background Was an Asset, Not a Liability
Later, at my post-college job, that seed grew.
Coworkers would ask the usual small-talk questions: “Where did you grow up?” “What did your parents do?” When I mentioned my agricultural background—dairy cows, hay fields, chores before school—I was surprised by their reactions.
They were impressed.
They asked follow-up questions. They wanted to know what milking was like, how long haying days really were, what it meant to care for animals every single day. They didn’t hear “small town, limited experience.” They heard “work ethic,” “responsibility,” and “a perspective I don’t have.”
Slowly, I began to see that the very things I had once tried to downplay were the things that made my story unique and valuable.
What Farm Life Actually Gave Me
When I think about my farm childhood now, I don’t just see early mornings and missed parties. I see the deeper gifts standing behind them:
A strong work ethic. You show up even when you’re tired, because the animals still need care.
Follow-through. You don’t quit halfway through cleaning the yard or milking a herd.
Resourcefulness. You learn to fix things, make do, and find ways to stretch what you have.
Respect for land and animals. You see firsthand that your choices affect living creatures and the soil under your feet.
Community awareness. You understand that your work feeds people you know by name.
Those values follow me into parenting, into how I manage our small homestead now, and into how I show up in my community.
Sharing the “Confession” with Pride
Today, I share my “confession”—that I grew up on a farm—not as something to gloss over, but as something I’m proud of.
I’m proud of:
My parents, who modeled consistency and care when no one was watching.
My extended family, who have been (and still are) stewards of the land.
The countless farmers who live out the same story in their own quiet, steadfast way.
I’m also grateful for the friends and coworkers who helped me see my background differently—those who wanted the cucumbers I thought were nothing special, and those who lit up when I shared stories about dairy cows and hay fields.
A Note of Thanks for June Dairy Month
So, in the spirit of June Dairy Month, consider this post a small thank-you:
To the farmers who are up before dawn, again.
To the families who build their lives around the needs of animals and land.
To the kids who might someday feel tempted to hide their farm roots, just like I did.
If you’re one of those kids, I hope you’ll come to see what I finally did: your story matters, and your background is a strength—not something to be smoothed over.
Happy June Dairy Month—to all the hardworking farmers out there, and especially to the friends and family who keep showing up, season after season.
If this story resonated with you—or reminded you of your own farm kid days—would you share it with a friend or save it for later?
I’d also love to hear from you: did you grow up on a farm, or are you just now learning where your food comes from? Your perspective matters too.
The baler rattles across the field, kicking up dust in its wake. Each stroke of the plunger on our old New Holland baler strikes a rhythm I’ve known for as long as I can remember, growing up on a hay farm. To most, it’s just an old machine grinding through another hay crop. To me, it’s the steady heartbeat of family history.
My grandfather was born in 1911 and grew up working with horses in the field. He didn’t fully retire the horses until after World War II. In 1951, he bought his own farm, and in 1977 he purchased the farm next door—the place where I would grow up, and the one I hope to someday manage.
Somewhere in the middle of all that change, he bought this New Holland baler new in 1964. Sixty-two years later, under my father’s care, it’s still knotting twine and spitting out hay bales—stubborn as ever.
A tool that old doesn’t survive by luck. It lasts because hands refuse to let it quit.
I think of frantic shear pin replacements in the field before storms, grease-slicked wrenches, evenings spent tightening chains or swapping bearings as clouds pushed in.
Each repair was more than maintenance; it was a promise that the baler would see another hay harvest. Its clatter is proof of care passed from one set of hands to the next.
What I value most isn’t only its reliability, but the story etched into every dent and weld. Farming has changed in ways my grandfather never could have imagined—mammoth tractors, bigger bales, GPS-guided rows—but this old New Holland baler remains, a bridge tying his summers to mine. Each bale it drops is more than forage; it’s a small monument to persistence, tangible proof that his investment still pays forward.
There’s a quiet pride in watching it work—steady, unassuming, framed by sun and dust. I sometimes imagine my grandfather and father standing beside me, hearing that same hum carry across the field, nodding at the machine they once trusted with a season’s livelihood.
And as long as the chute spits out hay beneath the summer sky, their legacy endures. Someday, when I hand the lines to the next set of hands, I hope they’ll listen closely. If they do, they won’t just hear an old clatter in the field. They’ll hear the rhythm of persistence, the echo of care, the sound of a haying legacy worth continuing.
I’d also love to hear from you: is there a piece of equipment, a tool, or a sound that instantly takes you back to your own family’s farm story?
If this little glimpse into our haying history resonated with you, would you share it with someone who loves old equipment or grew up on a farm?
Growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, my days were shaped by the rhythm of the cows and the turning of the seasons. Each morning began before sunrise, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth as my family and I made our way to the barn. The gentle lowing of the cows was our alarm clock, their needs dictating every hour. Summers meant long days baling hay and tending fields; winters brought the challenge of breaking ice in water troughs and cleaning icy yards. Even now, years after leaving the farm, that heritage remains woven into who I am. The values of hard work, responsibility, and respect for the land and animals continue to guide me, especially as June Dairy Month arrives each year.
June Dairy Month always brings a sense of pride and community across Wisconsin. As families gather for breakfasts on the farm and other celebrations, I’m reminded of the camaraderie that comes from being part of such a vital tradition. It’s a time to reflect on my roots, appreciate the dedication of today’s dairy farmers, and feel connected to the land and lifestyle that shaped my upbringing.
As a child, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of June Dairy Month. I simply felt the special energy it brought: early mornings in the barn, the mingled scents of fresh hay and silage, the gentle clatter of milk pails, and the creamy taste of fresh milk. My parents stressed that cows don’t wait, and chores don’t take vacations. I learned this during many summer afternoons as I missed parties and other gatherings to clean the cow yard. The cows needed tending, indifferent to my disappointment and frustration. In those moments, responsibility became more than a lesson but a way of life.
Looking back, I see how my family’s story is part of a much larger one. Wisconsin’s identity as “America’s Dairyland” began with a dramatic transformation in the late 19th century, when wheat fields gave way to pastures and dairy barns. Innovations like the refrigerated rail car and the Babcock butterfat tester, along with support from the University of Wisconsin, helped turn the state into a national leader in milk and cheese production. June Dairy Month, which began in 1937, celebrates the contributions of dairy farmers to our nutrition, agriculture, and economy.
What stands out most from those years is the sense of community. Our work mattered, not just to us, but to neighbors and friends who relied on us for fresh dairy, and to the local businesses that depended financially on our success. June Dairy Month specifically meant hearty breakfasts on the farm, farm tours, and the joy of sharing what we produced. These traditions instilled in me a deep appreciation for collaboration and generosity.
Though I no longer live on a dairy farm, those values guide how I raise my own family. We keep a small garden and some poultry, and I make sure my kids know where their food is sourced. Every June, we attend the local Breakfast on the Farm, reconnecting with my roots and supporting our neighbors. We make homemade ice cream and talk about the farmers who make it possible. These experiences help my family feel connected not only to our food, but to the people who produce it.
Today’s dairy farmers face unprecedented challenges: rising costs, unpredictable weather, ever-evolving pests and diseases, emotional strain, and the pressures of a global market, among many other worries. The long hours and physical demands deter many from continuing the legacy. And yet, every day, dairy farmers rise before dawn, meeting each obstacle with grit and creativity. Their perseverance sustains not only their families, but our communities and traditions.
Recently, I attended a June Dairy Breakfast with my parents and children. The aroma of fresh pancakes mingled with the scent of blooming lilacs, and my kids’ eyes lit up at the sights and sounds. Watching my kids and my parents interacting together on the farm, I felt the invisible threads of community and legacy binding us together, a living tapestry woven from shared labor and respect.
The future of farming—and especially of family dairy farms—depends on all of us: supporting local farms, honoring the land, and teaching the next generation about where food is sourced. In every glass of milk, every slice of cheese, and every community breakfast, the story of perseverance and pride continues. It’s up to us to ensure this heritage thrives for generations to come.
Do you celebrate June Dairy Month? Share your thoughts below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.
