Sometimes We Just Need Someone Who Gets It

 Over the years, as I have shared the story of my journey, one of the questions I am most frequently asked is, “How can I support someone who is struggling?”

I have always found that question difficult to answer. Perhaps I was so absorbed in my own challenges that I hadn't given it much thought. Or maybe I was unsure of how I could be the person lending a listening ear.

I believe there is something uniquely powerful about peer support. It can mean reaching out to someone who has walked a similar path, someone who understands the realities of farm life: the pressure, the uncertainty, the financial stress, and the feeling that everyone is counting on you.

But peer support is also about being that person for someone else. Sometimes we need someone to listen, and sometimes we need to be the person who notices that someone else is struggling and simply asks, “Are you okay?”

Counsellors provide knowledge, tools and professional guidance, and those things are incredibly important. But there is also something powerful about knowing that the person sitting across from you doesn't just understand mental health; they understand your world. Sometimes, that connection can be the first step toward feeling a little less alone.

I often share the following story because it reminds me just how powerful it can be when someone takes the time to listen.

Many years ago, not long after I was first diagnosed with anxiety and depression, I experienced a life event that pushed me to what felt like the edge of an abyss. I struggled to function. Even the simplest things seemed difficult, and I had very little enthusiasm for life. I remember telling a family member that I wasn't sure the sun would ever come up for me again. The future seemed bleak, and I was having a hard time seeing my way through it.

But life doesn't stop just because we're struggling. I still had a farm to look after, animals to care for, and responsibilities that weren't going to disappear simply because I was having difficulty coping. So, a few days after the event, I made my way to the farm.

Before I even had a chance to go into the barn, my neighbour showed up. I suspect he could see that something wasn't right. He didn't make any assumptions or offer any advice. He simply asked me how I was doing.

Now, we all know how that conversation usually goes. Someone asks how we're doing, and we automatically respond, “Fine.” Or “Just plugging along.” One of my favourites has always been, “Just another day in paradise!”

We say these things almost out of habit, regardless of what's actually happening inside our heads. For years, that's exactly how I responded. It was easier to say I was fine than to explain that I wasn't.

But for some reason, that morning was different. Instead of giving my usual answer, I began to talk. And talk. I poured out the thoughts, fears, frustrations and emotions that had been swirling around in my head. Things I had been carrying around, perhaps hoping that if I ignored them long enough, they might somehow go away.

For the next hour, my neighbour sat and listened. He didn't try to fix me. He didn't offer a list of solutions or tell me what I should do. He didn't minimize what I was experiencing or suggest that I simply needed to look on the bright side.

Instead, he allowed me to talk. He helped me recognize that my reactions were understandable and that what I was experiencing wasn't something I had to be ashamed of. He made me feel heard.

That conversation brought me relief. I finally had an opportunity to release some of the emotions I had been carrying around. I felt comfortable sharing things I had been reluctant to discuss, particularly with those closest to me, because I didn't want to burden them.

My neighbour didn't solve my problems that morning. But by listening without judgment, he helped me feel less alone. And that conversation encouraged me to reach out for additional help and support.

That, to me, is the essence of peer support.

I think we sometimes fall into the trap of believing we need to have all the answers. We worry about saying the wrong thing or not knowing how to respond. And because of that uncertainty, we hesitate to help.

The good news is that we can learn how to become better at supporting others. We don't need to be counsellors, and we certainly don't need to have all the answers. But we can develop the skills and confidence to listen, recognize when someone may be struggling, and help them find the support they need.

The Manitoba Farmer Wellness Program in partnership with The Stigma Free Mental Health Society, is offering Peer Support training in Brandon on November 14 and 15.

Whether you're looking to support a neighbour, a friend, a family member or someone else in the agricultural community, this training is an opportunity to learn how to make a difference when someone needs it most.

If you're interested in attending or would like more information, visit www.ruralmindsmatter.com.

I'm planning on attending to learn more. Hope to see you there!

Love It, Hate It, or Both?

 Many years ago, when our kids were growing up, we spent a fair bit of time camping at Spruce Woods Provincial Park. It was less than half an hour from the home which made it quick to get to. But it was also close enough to the farm in case something went wrong.

I often ask: when a farmer goes away, are they really away? I know I wasn’t. There was always that little part of my brain wondering what was happening back at the farm. Was everything running properly? Was there a problem with the livestock? Was someone going to call? Did I remember to leave instructions for everything? I might have been sitting around a campfire, but mentally, I was never more than 30 minutes from the farm.

Eventually, the kids got older, and we stopped camping altogether. Nobody talked about camping for years. And I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

Then the grandkids came along, and my wife started dropping hints about how great it would be to take the kids camping. I resisted. The thought of hot campers, mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds and trying to keep everyone organized wasn’t exactly appealing.

A few years ago, my daughter sent a text to the family. They had booked a group campsite at Spruce Woods and wanted to know if anyone wanted to join them. My wife was at work. I was sitting in my office thinking about it. I knew how much she'd enjoy being with the kids and grandkids. Maybe I needed to make an effort. So I borrowed a pop-up camper, and off we went.

Something happened that I didn't expect. I enjoyed it. More importantly, I felt good. There was something about getting away from home, sitting around a campfire, spending time with family that seemed to do something for me.

When we got home, I told my wife that I thought the weekend had been good for my mental health. Her response surprised me. She said she could tell. Apparently, I seemed more relaxed and happier. So we have got back into camping.

Which brings me to a question I sometimes ask myself. Why do we do this?

We have a perfectly comfortable house. A comfortable bed. A kitchen. Running water. Air conditioning. No mosquitoes inside. Yet every summer, we spend days packing, organizing, checking, loading and hooking everything up. Then we arrive and the work begins again, just in reverse. And eventually, after all that work, we sit down. And that's when I remember why we do it. Camping slows me down.

At home there’s always another email, another phone call or another job on the list. Camping changes that. Breakfast takes longer. Coffee takes longer. Conversations take longer. We might sit around a campfire for hours without accomplishing anything whatsoever. And somehow, that feels like an accomplishment.  

There is something about sitting around a fire that is difficult to explain. Conversations wander. Someone tells a story. Someone remembers something from years ago. There is laughing, teasing and occasionally a conversation that gets a little deeper than anyone expected. And sometimes we don't talk at all. We just watch the fire.

The grandkids have probably played a bigger role in this than they realize. Give them some trees, a stick, a ball, a bike, a fire and a little freedom, and they can create an entire day out of it. They explore. They get dirty. They argue. They laugh. They come back hungry. And then they do it all over again.

Maybe adults could learn something from that. Our brains don't get much quiet anymore. Notifications, news, emails, social media, work and our own problems keep them running even when we are sitting still.

Camping gives my brain permission to stop. It's not necessarily because I slept better. Some nights I don't. It's not because I ate better. I probably didn't. And it's certainly not because I was more comfortable.

I think I come home feeling better because, for a few days, I’m not worrying so much about what needs to be done next.

We often think taking care of ourselves means doing more: exercising, eating better or accomplishing something. But maybe sometimes it means doing less. Sitting in a lawn chair with a coffee. Watching the grandkids run around. Staring into a fire for no particular reason.

Camping has reminded me that I don't always have to be productive. I don't always have to solve something. I don't always have to think about what's next. Sometimes I can just be where I am.

Camping wasn't therapy. It wasn't a treatment plan. I didn't start doing it because I thought it would improve my mental health. I went because my family wanted to go.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered that getting away from the things I thought I needed to be doing was actually good for me. It reminded me that spending time with people we love isn't time wasted, and that being present can be more important than being productive.

So, do I love camping? Do I hate it? Honestly, probably both. I still don't love the packing, unpacking, mosquitoes, weather, sand and general inconvenience. But I definitely love what it does for me.

Sometimes the thing we resist most is exactly what we need.

When Gratitude Finally Found Me

 Let me start with an admission.

Since New Year’s, I have been dealing with a lot of anxiety. I have found it puzzling and incredibly frustrating because, on the surface, life has been good. Work has been busy, but it is work I enjoy. My days have purpose. There was no obvious reason why I was waking up with that familiar feeling of anxiety. And that was the part that bothered me the most.

Let me digress for a minute.

Over the years, as I suspect many of you have, I have heard that gratitude is a tool that can help when dealing with anxiety or depression. I always struggled with that idea. I would try to think of all the things I should be grateful for. And there were some. I am not convinced that my mind was always ready to go there.

And as soon as I stopped thinking about that list, the anxiety would return. Sometimes with a vengeance. The things I was worried about seemed to have more power than the things I was grateful for.

A lot of gratitude advice can feel like someone is handing you a band-aid when you are dealing with a wound. When anxiety is connected to real pain, being told to “just be grateful” can feel dismissive.

So back to my own anxiety. As difficult as the winter was, I kept telling myself things would get better. Spring was coming. The warmer weather would help. I was looking forward to golf season. I knew getting outside, being active, and doing something I loved would make a difference.

But it didn’t happen the way I expected. Every morning I would wake up with anxiety. I often did not feel like getting out of bed, even though I knew staying there would not help. I forced myself to get on my golf cart and head out, because I knew that once I stepped onto the first tee box, things would improve.

And, as I usually do, I analyzed what was happening. That is what I do. I try to figure things out. I look for the cause. I search for the solution. But this time, I came up empty.

There was no obvious reason. I couldn’t rationalize it. I couldn’t make sense of it. And the more I tried to solve it, the more frustrated I became. It even started affecting golf. Something I had always enjoyed was becoming another source of frustration. At one point, I wondered if I should just give it up.

Then earlier this week, as I pulled out of the yard, something changed. I started noticing what was around me. The lush green grass. The trees full of leaves. The beauty of the morning.

And then I started thinking about my life. I thought about the good things. The people in my life. The opportunities I have. The work I get to do. The simple privilege of being able to go play golf on a beautiful morning. I found myself feeling grateful.

And the more I focused on it, the more gratitude I felt. Until eventually, I felt a sense of peace.

The strange part?

Gratitude had never worked for me before. Maybe the difference was that before, I was using gratitude as a tool to try to get rid of a feeling. I was trying to fight anxiety with a list of positives.

This time was different. I wasn’t trying to make the anxiety disappear. I was simply noticing reality. The anxiety did not need to be solved before I could recognize the good things in my life.

I came to realize that my life contained more good than my anxious mind was allowing me to see.

And that realization created a shift. I noticed it in my golf swing. I noticed a healthier attitude toward my work. I found myself more present in my relationships. I became more productive. Nothing around me had changed. But the way I was seeing it had.

Maybe that is what gratitude really is. It is not about looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. It is about taking off the blinders that anxiety sometimes puts on us. The problems may still be there, but so are the blessings. And sometimes we don’t need to change our life to find gratitude. Sometimes we just need to notice the life we already have.

Looking For the Sky

 There’s a story in The Recovering Farmer about a hidden rock in the road, one that created significant issues. But as it turned out, that rock also saved us from something much worse. I won’t give away the full story here (you’ll have to read the book for that), but it left me with a lesson I didn’t expect. Sometimes what trips us up is actually what protects us.

Life, whether on the farm or beyond, has a way of placing those unexpected rocks in our path. Everyone has them. Some are small stumbles. Others feel like full-scale disasters. And in the moment, when you’re flat on your back or face-first in the mud, it’s hard to see anything beyond failure, loss, or frustration. And sometimes, it takes a much bigger loss before we can see anything clearly at all.

There’s an old saying: When the barn burns down, you can see the sky. When I first heard that, I questioned it. But I’ve come to understand it in the same way as that hidden rock. Some experiences don’t just trip us up, they remove what we thought was solid ground entirely. And when that happens, it doesn’t feel right. It feels like loss. Only later do we sometimes realize that both the rock and the fire were forcing us to see things differently.

Setbacks land in more than one way. Physically, there’s exhaustion, tension in the shoulders, that gut-punch feeling when nothing goes right. Mentally, it’s heavier still. Doubt creeps in. You replay every wrong turn. You start wondering if you’ll ever get up again, or if it’s even worth trying.

No one is immune to this. Most people I’ve met have their stories about such experiences. I’ve been there more times than I care to count. Farming, finances, family, mental health, life has knocked me down in ways I never saw coming. And in those moments, it felt impossible to believe that anything meaningful could come from the mess.

I’ve also heard the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’ve never fully agreed with that. Sometimes what doesn’t kill you just leaves you tired, shaken, or questioning everything. Because not every struggle makes us stronger. Some simply change us. But strength isn’t about never failing. It’s about finding a way to stand again, even when you’re not the same as before.

Recently I found myself reflecting again on what recovery really looks like. I keep referring to my life as a journey. And if I’m honest, I still question it at times. I still wonder whether I’m making progress, or whether what I’m doing truly makes a difference.

I’ve come to understand something that I wrote about in my book. Had it not been for my life experiences as a farmer, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing today. Had I not experienced the challenges, struggled with addiction, or found myself in a world of anxiety and depression, I couldn’t do this work. Understanding that is one thing. Accepting it is another.

But the more I sit with it, the more I see it for what it is. I have stood in the ashes. And I’ve also seen the sky again. From that place, I am rebuilding, slowly and imperfectly. Every fall I’ve taken has shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. They’ve pushed me towards growth, towards understanding, and towards who I am today. Without them, I wouldn’t be here.

Because in many ways, we don’t just experience one rock or one fire. Life has a way of repeating these moments in different forms. And each one asks something of us, sometimes patience, sometimes help, sometimes simply the willingness to keep going when we don’t feel ready.

And maybe that’s the real lesson: the things that stop us aren’t always the end of the road. Sometimes they are the reason we finally see it differently.

If you’re feeling like you’ve hit the ground hard, I won’t offer a quick fix or empty reassurance. Getting up takes time. Sometimes it takes help. But I can tell you this, being down is not the same as being done.

So take a breath. Look around. And when you’re ready, start looking for the sky. Remember, sometimes the only way to see the sky is to lose what was blocking the view.

Come Together: The Power of Connection in Mental Health

 May 4th to 10th is Mental Health Week, led by the Canadian Mental Health Association. This year’s theme, Come Together Canada, focuses on two things that sit at the very heart of mental health: connection and isolation.

This is one of those topics that keeps showing up for me, because it runs through almost everything we talk about in mental health.

I’ve said it before, and I still believe it deeply: isolation breeds illness.

We are often described as the loneliest society in history. At the same time, we’re seeing rising rates of anxiety, depression, suicide, and accidental overdose. The connection between those realities is hard to ignore.

What makes it even more ironic is that we live in a time when we are more “connected” than ever. We can text someone across the country in seconds, join meetings from our kitchen tables, and scroll through updates from hundreds of people every day. And yet, many people would say they feel less connected than they ever have.

Because real connection isn’t about access. It’s about meaning.

A text, a like, or a quick online exchange can keep us in touch, but it doesn’t always give us what we truly need. What we’re missing is the deeper experience of being understood, of sharing space with someone who genuinely sees us, and of feeling that we are not alone in what we carry.

Connection is one of our most basic human needs. It shows up in conversations where we can be honest. In moments of shared laughter. In simply sitting with someone who gets it. And when life becomes stressful, which it inevitably does, we often do the opposite. We pull back. We isolate. We hide what we’re going through.

The challenge is that isolation doesn’t just keep people away, it keeps us stuck inside our own thinking. And over time, that can shrink our world.

But something shifts when we reconnect. When we talk things out. When we reach out instead of pulling away. When we let ourselves be part of other people’s lives again. The world doesn’t necessarily change, but our experience of it does. It opens up. It softens. It becomes less heavy.

We start to see possibilities again. We feel a bit more like ourselves. And often, we rediscover a sense of purpose that had gone quiet in the background.

Connection matters at every level. Connection with ourselves, with family, friends, neighbours, and community. Even small moments of contact can reduce stress and improve how we cope with life.

There is also something happening inside us when we connect that we don’t always think about. Our brains respond to safe, supportive connection with chemicals that help us feel calmer, more grounded, and more trusting. Sometimes people call this the “feel-good” or “bonding” response. It’s not about one single hormone, it’s about how our system responds when we feel safe with others.

A handshake, a hug, a meaningful conversation, or even a moment of eye contact can all play a role in shifting how we feel. These moments don’t remove stress from life, but they help us carry it differently. They remind us that we’re not carrying it alone.

So this Mental Health Week, the invitation is simple: come together.

Reach out. Have the conversation you’ve been putting off. Sit with someone a little longer than usual. Check in on someone who comes to mind. And allow yourself to receive connection as much as you offer it.

And maybe the most important part, don’t let it stop here. Let this be something we carry forward, long after the week is over.

Because connection isn’t just a theme for one week in May.

It’s part of what keeps us well.

Not Everything Needs an Answer

 Over the years, as I’ve presented and shared my story with different groups, I’ve often challenged people to stay aware of the stressors in their lives, to notice when anxiety or depression start to show up and things feel “off.” From personal experience, and from working with many others, I know these issues don’t just stay in the background. They can and do affect our personal lives, our relationships, and even the decisions we make in our businesses.

As I’ve talked about before, I have a deep curiosity about my own mental health. I’m always trying to understand it, always looking for answers. Sometimes I think that curiosity serves me well. Other times, I’m not so sure it does.

Last week one night, something happened that felt out of the ordinary, and it’s had me thinking. Let me give a bit of context.

For many years, both during my farming years and for some time after, I would wake up at night with significant anxiety. The kind where my stomach would churn, my heart would race, and my head would feel like it was pounding. Over time, I learned how to manage it in my own way. I would go to what I call my “happy place”, often picturing a golf course and playing it hole by hole in my mind. It was surprisingly effective and would usually settle me enough to fall back asleep.

Over the last few years, that night-time anxiety has, for the most part, not been an issue. I’ve often said how grateful I am that I sleep as well as I do, because I know many people aren’t that fortunate. For them, anxiety and depression can keep them up night after night.

But that night was different.

I got up in the night to use the washroom, nothing unusual there, especially at my age. What was unusual was what happened when I got back into bed. I experienced what I would describe as a panic attack. It came on suddenly, felt overwhelming, and for a minute or two I felt genuinely terrified. It was different from the anxiety I had experienced in the past. And then, just as quickly, it passed.

The following morning, my curiosity kicked in. I started looking into it, analyzing it, trying to make sense of it. And before long, I found myself worrying that I might now have a new issue to deal with. Ironically, I was experiencing anxiety about the anxiety, which was probably worse than the original moment itself.

But then I paused.

I wondered if my curiosity was getting the better of me again. I asked myself what it would be like to simply experience something like that without trying to figure it out or attach meaning to it. And honestly, I’m not sure I have a good answer to that yet.

What I do know is that I need to be more intentional about boundaries. If something like that happens again, I need to be able to set it aside. To say, “That’s interesting, but it’s not something I need to solve right now.” I don’t think this is about shutting my mind off, I think it’s about training it. About redirecting it toward something more helpful when it starts going down unproductive paths.

Self-awareness can heal us, but it can also keep us stuck if we don’t loosen our grip on it a bit.

And maybe the work I still need to do is learning that not everything needs an answer. Some things don’t need to be chased down. They just need to be allowed to pass.

The Joys of Flying, Chapter 2

 I suspect that anyone who travels with any regularity would have anticipated a Chapter 2 after reading the last piece. Travel stories, like farm stories, can be quite unpredictable.

Going into January, I’d already experienced a fair amount of anxiety about my schedule, largely because it involved far more travel than I normally enjoy. To cope with that, I did what any reasonable person does when faced with uncertainty: I tried to convince myself it was an adventure. That may have been optimism. It may have been denial. It may have simply been my brain doing whatever it needed to do to keep the anxiety at bay. Call it what you will, but “adventure” sounded far better than “logistical nightmare.”

Picking up where I left off last time, we did in fact make it to Gander, Newfoundland. Because we arrived a day early, we found ourselves with time to kill before the conference started. On Monday, a bright, sunny day, we rented a car and went exploring. Even in winter, the scenery was stunning. And it beat the heck out of sitting in a hotel room pretending to enjoy cable news.

The Newfoundland and Labrador Federation of Agriculture put on a great conference. I met a lot of new people, had meaningful conversations about mental wellbeing, and even sold a few books. All in all, it reminded me why I say yes to these events in the first place.

Then Friday morning arrived, and we headed back to the Gander airport. The plan was to spend a couple of days in Halifax before my next event in Toronto early the following week. That’s when the airline sent me an email helpfully suggesting that my flights might be impacted by an approaching snowstorm. I remember thinking, Well of course they might. I checked the forecast and, on paper at least, it looked like we could slip out just ahead of the storm.

As we waited at the Gander airport, the notifications started rolling in. Delay. Another delay. And then, three hours after our scheduled departure, the flight was cancelled. Back to the hotel we went, carrying our bags and a growing list of unanswered questions about what came next.

We did manage to leave the following day, though our Halifax plans were officially toast. Still, we were able to get out of Halifax just ahead of the next storm, which by this point felt less like good planning and more like accidental luck.

We did eventually arrive in Toronto, got to our destination, and spent time with the Canadian Nursery and Landscape Association. It was a different crowd than I usually speak to, though still very much my people, just with more trees and fewer livestock. The conversations were familiar: tight timelines, unpredictable conditions, financial pressures, and the constant feeling of trying to stay one step ahead. Different industries, same stress. As I often say, stress has an uncanny ability to find us, regardless of what business we’re in.

Then, finally, it was off to the airport for our last destination: home. Looking back on the previous twelve days, I can honestly say it was an adventure—just not the kind I originally had in mind. We took six different flights, spent roughly twenty-five hours waiting in airports, and devoted a truly impressive amount of mental energy to worrying about things that never actually happened. And yet, despite my best efforts to catastrophize, we made it home safely. As I had been telling myself from the start, this was going to be an adventure. Turns out the only real turbulence was happening in my own head.

Looking back, the real lesson had very little to do with weather systems, flight schedules, or how many hours a person can reasonably be expected to sit in an airport chair without questioning their life choices. It had everything to do with anxiety, control, and the stories we tell ourselves when plans begin to unravel. Calling the trip an “adventure” was my way of managing the unease that came with a packed schedule and so much uncertainty, a small attempt to feel like I was still in charge of something. In reality, any illusion of control disappeared with the first cancelled flight. What remained was choice: how much energy I gave to frustration, how loudly I let anxiety speak, and what meaning I attached to the experience. The travel chaos didn’t change, but my response to it did. And sometimes, that’s the only part of the journey we actually get to steer.