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.

The Joys of Flying

 This winter has found me travelling more than usual. For the most part, that is a good thing. I enjoy the work, and it helps the long winter days go by a little faster. There is something energizing about being on the move, meeting people, and having purpose beyond watching the thermometer hover well below zero.

That said, travel is rarely without its challenges.

I was scheduled to leave for Newfoundland on Sunday morning at 8:00. On Friday afternoon, just as I was wrapping up the week, a text popped up from the airline. My flight had been cancelled, and I had been rebooked, automatically, for Monday evening. Panic kicked in almost immediately. That simply wasn’t going to work, if I was going to make it to Gander in time for my event.

Originally, the itinerary had me flying from Winnipeg to Montreal, then on to Halifax, and finally into Gander. After the airline made their changes, my new plan was to fly from Winnipeg to Toronto on Monday evening, sit in Toronto overnight, then catch a Tuesday morning flight to Halifax. So far, so good. The problem was that they had somehow kept my Halifax-to-Gander flight scheduled for Monday. Confused yet? I certainly was.

The truly humorous part was that the itinerary showed the total duration of my trip as minus 35 minutes. According to the airline, I wasn’t just travelling east, I was travelling through time. I was going to arrive before I left.

But I digress.

As soon as I got the notice on Friday, I started calling the airline. Unfortunately, due to widespread cancellations, I couldn’t get through. The website showed other possible flight options, but I needed to speak with an actual human being to make any changes. After hours of trying and getting nowhere, I finally gave up late that evening and went to bed, frustrated and more than a little anxious.

Early Saturday morning, I was back on the phone. This time, it didn’t take long before I reached an agent. He also got a kick out of my time-travel itinerary, which was reassuring in its own odd way. More importantly, he was genuinely helpful. The challenge, though, was that many of the flights that still had open seats the day before were now fully booked. Options were slim, except for one.

If I was willing to fly that very evening, we could make it work. Needless to say, I was willing.

The reason for all the cancellations, it turned out, was a major storm system moving into and across eastern Canada. That part was entirely legitimate. Weather was about to wreak havoc on travel plans across multiple provinces.

And here’s where I learned, or perhaps was reminded of, an important lesson. Sometimes when things don’t work out the way I want them to, there seems to be a reason. If I had managed to connect with an agent on Friday, I likely would have rebooked for Sunday later in the day. Based on the forecast, that would almost certainly have left me stuck in either Toronto or Halifax, both of which were bracing for massive snowfall. Because I couldn’t get through and had to wait, my revised travel plans now had me staying just ahead of the storm.

I’ve written about this before. In my book, I tell a story about a rock in the road, an obstacle that caused real hardship in the moment but ultimately saved me from a potential disaster. This experience felt much the same. I was frustrated. I experienced significant anxiety. But at the end of the day, things worked out far better than I could have hoped for.

Sometimes the delay isn’t the problem. Sometimes it’s the thing that quietly keeps you out of trouble, even when it doesn’t feel that way at the time. In the moment, all I could see was the inconvenience, the uncertainty, and the rising anxiety of not knowing how, or if, I’d get where I needed to be. But with a little distance, it became clear that the delay forced a different set of choices, ones that likely spared me from being stranded, exhausted, and frustrated somewhere along the way. It was a reminder that not every obstacle is a roadblock. Some are detours that protect us, even when we don’t recognize their value until we’re well past them.

It was a reminder that my first reaction isn’t always my wisest one, and that anxiety, while loud, isn’t always accurate. Sometimes what feels like a setback is simply a pause, one that gives me space to notice my patterns, loosen my grip on control, and trust that the path forward doesn’t always reveal itself on my timeline. Recovery, I’ve learned, isn’t about eliminating uncertainty, but about learning how to live with it a little more gently.

Allow Yourself Some Happiness

 Wow. Here we are again. Is it just me, or does time feel like it’s moving faster every year? It seems like only yesterday I was sitting in this same spot, thinking many of the same thoughts.

Christmas has a way of inviting reflection. For some, that’s comforting. For others, it carries a quiet sadness. I’ve often puzzled over the melancholy that can settle over me like a blanket during the Christmas season, even in the middle of all the festivities.

I’ve shared this story before, but it still resonates. As a kid, I remember being at family gatherings with uncles, aunts, and cousins. Singing carols was always part of the day. During those songs, I noticed one particular uncle who often had tears in his eyes. I didn’t understand it then. I do now.

I don’t spend much time singing carols these days, but even a song on the radio can trigger the same response in me. It’s been said that music creates a pathway to reflection. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s the shorter days. Or memories of loved ones who are no longer with us. Or the hype and heightened expectations of the season. Or the loneliness that can feel sharper when everyone around us seems especially joyful.

I suppose I could just say “Bah humbug” and leave it at that. But that’s not my intent. This is simply an acknowledgement that certain times of year stir nostalgia and sadness in many of us.

The good news is that there are also things that bring comfort and joy. I think there’s a song about that.

The following poem is one I like to share at this time of year. Maybe I’m drawn to it because it touches on three areas I work with often: stress management, conflict, and family relationships.

Enjoy. And make it a good one.

Put your problems on probation
Run your troubles off the track,
Throw your worries out the window
Get the monkeys off your back.
Silence all your inner critics
With your conscience make amends,
And allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!

Call a truce with those who bother you
Let all the fighting cease,
Give your differences a breather
And declare a time of peace,
Don't let angry feelings taint
The precious time you have to spend,
And allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!

Like some cool refreshing water
Or a gentle summer breeze,
Like a fresh bouquet of flowers
Or the smell of autumn leaves,
It's a banquet for the spirit
Filled with family, food and friends,
So allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!
                                Bob Lazzar-Atwood

Just One More Week

 I suspect that title caught your attention. It sounds a bit like I’m counting down the days to something wonderful. Like I’m waiting with bated breath for a big event. Maybe even Christmas. And for a moment, some of you might be thinking, Well good for him — a little holiday cheer.

But if you know me at all, you might already be questioning that assumption. This time of year tends to land heavy for me. And I know I’m not alone in that. The days are cold. Snow settles in and doesn’t seem to leave. The trees are bare. The daylight shrinks a little more each day. Some days it feels like it disappears altogether. Sunshine becomes more of a rumour than a reality. If Vitamin D were a crop, we’d be reporting a total failure.

George Harrison seemed to understand that feeling when he wrote Here Comes the Sun. Life had been wearing on him. Things weren’t as simple as they used to be. In his autobiography he wrote, “It seems as if winter in England goes on forever; by the time spring comes you really deserve it.” No, I haven’t read the book. Chatgpt is a wonderful thing.

So what is it about this season that brings so much gloom along with the snow? We blame the weather. We blame the darkness. We complain about winter dragging on forever even though, technically, it has barely begun. More than a few of us, myself included, would happily fast-forward through December if that were an option.

And then there are the expectations. The so-called festive season arrives with a long to-do list: buying gifts, attending parties, putting up decorations, preparing meals, hosting gatherings, making sure everything feels “special.” We have to do this. We have to go there. We have to make it magical, especially for the kids. Somewhere along the way, what we’d like to do quietly slips to the bottom of the list. It gets exhausting.

The lights go up. The music plays. Commercials promise magic, if only we’d spend a hundred dollars here, or a thousand there. Put up the tree. Hang the lights. Turn up the volume. Surely the feeling will follow.

Which brings us back to the contradiction of the title. You probably thought I was building toward some excitement about Christmas. And then I grumbled my way through it. So what on earth could I possibly be excited about a week from now?

The winter solstice. The days start getting longer. That’s it. That’s the big event.

I have a system for surviving winter, and it comes in three basic blocks. First, the solstice, proof that the darkness has peaked and we’re heading in the right direction. Next, the end of January, when daytime temperatures usually start to inch upward. And finally, March, when you can see the end and almost feel spring in the air.

So yes, just one more week. I can do this. Now to work on my Christmas spirit.

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