The Buzz About Teamwork: Lessons from the Hive

 Last weekend, I had the privilege of speaking to a group of Manitoba beekeepers. Like all areas of farming, their industry faces significant challenges, making the conversation around mental well-being especially relevant.

Bees—especially honeybees—are fascinating creatures, and if you ever have the chance to learn about them, I highly recommend it. Their world is full of intricate behaviors and remarkable teamwork. While I could go on about their many incredible traits, I want to focus on one key lesson we can take from them: the power of collaboration.

In a beehive, every bee has a job. Some gather nectar, others tend to the queen, and some guard the entrance. No one bee does it all, but together, they create a thriving, productive hive. In life and work, the same principle applies. Recognizing our strengths—and the strengths of others—makes for stronger teams and better outcomes.

Bees don’t just work side by side; they communicate constantly. Through dances, pheromones, and vibrations, they share information about food sources, threats, and hive health. Without this, chaos would ensue. Whether in business, family, or friendships, clear and open communication keeps things running smoothly and prevents unnecessary misunderstandings.

One bee alone doesn’t make much honey, but thousands working together create enough to sustain the hive and beyond. It’s a reminder that small, consistent efforts—especially when done collaboratively—lead to meaningful results. Whether it’s building a business, tackling a community project, or simply supporting each other, teamwork amplifies our impact.

Bees instinctively defend their hive because they know their strength lies in the colony, not in individual survival. They work together to fight off threats, maintain their home, and ensure the survival of the next generation. In life, protecting our communities—whether family, workplace, or social networks—creates resilience and long-term success.

Of course, collaboration isn’t always smooth. Just like working with others, sometimes you get stung—by disagreements, frustrations, or setbacks. Anyone who has spent time around bees knows that stings are just part of the process. But rather than avoid the hive altogether, beekeepers learn to respect boundaries, stay calm, and keep working toward the greater good. The same applies in life: setbacks and conflicts are inevitable, but they don’t have to derail us. Instead, they can serve as reminders to communicate better, be patient, and stay focused on the bigger picture.

Bees may be hard workers, but they also know the importance of rest. They rotate tasks, take breaks, and work in harmony with nature’s cycles. Burnout doesn’t exist in a well-functioning hive. This is a valuable lesson for us: rest is not a luxury, it’s essential for productivity and well-being.

The end result of all this teamwork? Honey—one of nature’s most perfect and enduring foods. It’s proof that when individuals come together with a shared purpose, they create something far greater than the sum of their parts. Whether on the farm, in the workplace, or in our personal lives, the best things are rarely accomplished alone.

Next time you see a bee buzzing by, take a moment to appreciate the wisdom of the hive. They remind us that true success isn’t about going it alone—it’s about working together, learning from the stings, and building something that lasts.

The Rock That Changed Everything

 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 saved us from something much worse. I won’t give away the whole story here (you’ll have to read the book for that), but let’s just say it taught me a lesson I didn’t see coming: sometimes what trips us up is actually what saves us.

Life, whether on the farm or beyond it, has a way of throwing these unexpected rocks in our path. 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 but failure, loss, or frustration.

Setbacks hit in different ways. Physically, there’s the exhaustion, the tension in your shoulders, the gut-punch of things not going as planned. Mentally, it’s even heavier. Doubt creeps in. The mind replays every wrong turn. You start questioning if you’ll ever get up again, or if it’s even worth trying.

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 good could come from the mess.

I have also sometimes heard people say, "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger." I’ve never fully agreed with that. Sometimes, what doesn’t kill you just leaves you exhausted, broken, or questioning everything. I talk about this in The Recovering Farmer—because the truth is, not every struggle makes us stronger. Some just change us. And maybe that’s the real lesson: strength isn’t about never falling. It’s about figuring out how to stand again, even when you’re not the same as before.

There’s an old saying: When the barn burns down, you can see the sky. I used to think that was just some poetic nonsense. When you're standing in the ashes of what was, it doesn’t feel like a blessing—it feels like loss. But over time, I’ve learned that loss clears space. It forces us to rebuild, to reimagine, to see possibilities we never noticed before.

Every fall I’ve taken—every setback, every so-called failure—has shaped me in ways I never expected. They’ve pushed me toward growth, toward understanding, toward the work I do now. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. And maybe that’s the real lesson: falling isn’t the end. It’s just part of the process.

If you’re feeling like you’ve hit the ground hard, I won’t give you some false promise that everything will magically work out overnight. Getting up takes time. Sometimes it takes help. But I can tell you this—just because you’re down doesn’t mean you’re done.

So take a breath. Look around. And when you’re ready, start looking for the sky.

Laughing Through the Mess

 In my presentations I often emphasize the importance of laughter. And as I experienced, farming, like life, is full of moments that can either break you or make you laugh. Sometimes it does both at the same time. Anyone who has worked in agriculture knows that if you don’t develop a sense of humor, you might not make it through. But humor isn’t just about cracking jokes and swapping stories at the coffee shop—it’s a survival tool, a coping mechanism, and sometimes, a mask for things we don’t always want to talk about.

Anyone who has spent time on a farm has a story that sounds ridiculous to outsiders but makes perfect sense to those who have lived it. The day you get chased by an angry cow, being up to your elbows in something unpleasant (and it’s never just once), or watch your carefully stacked hay bales come crashing down—those are the moments that test your patience and fuel the best stories later on.

Humor takes the sting out of those frustrating, exhausting, and downright absurd moments. Instead of crying over a broken-down tractor in the middle of harvest, you shake your head and say, “Of course it happens now.” Instead of losing your mind when your livestock stage a great escape, you laugh about how they outsmarted you—again. Farming is unpredictable, and if you don’t learn to laugh at the mess, you’ll spend too much time drowning in it.

As much as humor helps lighten the load, it can also be a convenient way to avoid talking about deeper struggles. It’s easier to tell a funny story about how a pig knocked you over than to admit you’re exhausted and running on empty. It’s easier to joke about how “farmers don’t get vacations” than to acknowledge the toll of never taking a break.

In agriculture, there’s an unspoken rule about toughness—keep going, don’t complain, don’t show weakness. And sometimes, humor becomes a way to deflect, to make sure no one asks too many questions. But the truth is, farming can be isolating. The long hours, financial pressures, and unpredictability add up. Laughter can keep us going, but it shouldn’t be the only tool in the box.

There’s power in humor, but there’s also power in honesty. It’s okay to laugh at the absurdities of farming, to trade stories about the disasters that somehow turned out okay. But it’s also okay to admit when the weight of it all feels too much.

If you’re using humor to cope, great—just make sure you’re not using it to cover up something that needs attention. The best thing about farming is the community, the people who understand exactly what you’re going through. And while a joke can bring people together, so can an honest conversation.

Laughter is a gift. It gets us through the toughest days, reminds us not to take everything too seriously, and gives us stories that last a lifetime. But it’s important to remember that humor isn’t a replacement for real conversations. Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is not just laugh about the mess but talk about it too.

So keep laughing—just don’t be afraid to talk when you need to. Because in farming, as in life, we’re all in this together.

A Super Power

 I've been told that my mental illness has given me a superpower. At first, that felt strange. How could something that brought so much struggle, doubt, and darkness be seen as a gift, let alone a superpower? But over time, I've come to realize that there’s truth in that statement.

Living with mental illness isn’t easy. It’s a battle that often takes place behind closed doors, hidden from the world. The stigma, the fear of judgment, and the weight of societal expectations can make it feel isolating. But somewhere along my journey, I made a choice: to talk about it. To be open. To share the parts of my story that I once felt compelled to hide. And that’s where the superpower comes in.

Openness is transformative. When I wrote The Recovering Farmer, I didn’t set out to be a hero. I simply wanted to tell my story, to put words to experiences that had shaped me in ways both painful and profound. But what I discovered is that vulnerability has a ripple effect. When you speak your truth, you create space for others to do the same. People began reaching out, saying, "I thought I was the only one," or "Your story helped me find the courage to talk about my own struggles." That connection—that shared humanity—is powerful.

Mental illness has given me a deeper sense of empathy. I don’t just hear people’s struggles; I feel them. I understand the language of pain, the weight of invisible burdens, and the courage it takes to simply get through the day. This empathy allows me to connect with others in authentic, meaningful ways. It helps me show up, not with pity, but with genuine understanding and support.

Resilience is another part of this superpower. Living with mental health challenges means facing obstacles that can feel insurmountable. But each time I navigate those dark moments, I discover a strength I didn’t know I had. It’s not the absence of struggle that defines resilience; it’s the decision to keep going, to keep showing up, even when it’s hard.

There’s also a clarity that comes from facing your own mental health head-on. It strips away the superficial and forces you to confront what truly matters. It has taught me to value authenticity over perfection, connection over image, and compassion over judgment. It’s helped me become a better listener, a more present friend, and a more compassionate human being.

In sharing my story, I’ve learned that what feels like weakness can actually be a source of strength. The very thing I once wanted to hide has become the bridge that connects me to others. It’s not about being fearless; it’s about acknowledging the fear and speaking out anyway.

So, yes, my mental illness has given me a superpower. Not because it makes me invincible, but because it has made me real. My perception has shifted. In the past, I might have questioned "why me?" or found myself slipping closer to the abyss. Now, I see my illness as having given me a perspective that brings me a sense of comfort and strength. It taught me the power of vulnerability, the strength in sharing, and the beauty of authentic connection.

If you’re struggling, know this: your story matters. Your voice matters. And sometimes, what feels like your greatest struggle can also be the very thing that helps someone else find their strength.