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.

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.

Want to stay connected? Visit my website here: https://www.gerryfriesen.ca/

The Limitations We Place on Others (and Ourselves)

 Yesterday, while aimlessly scrolling through social media, I came across a quote that stopped me in my tracks: "People will try to put the same limitations on you that they put on themselves."

I read it, scrolled on, but then something made me pause. There’s truth in it, but it felt a little judgmental. The wording suggested blame, as if someone was deliberately projecting their limitations onto you. So I reversed it in my head: “I put the same limitations on others as I put on myself.” Suddenly, it made more sense. And, of course, later in the day, I experienced exactly that.

This winter I have the opportunity to do some traveling to talk with farming groups about mental wellbeing. One of those invitations takes me to Gander, Newfoundland. As I quickly realized, getting there isn’t the easiest journey. It requires careful planning and, if I’m honest, a level of stress I hadn’t anticipated.

Here’s another piece to the story. Over the past few years, I’ve become more uptight about traveling. In years past, planning a trip was simple and even exciting. Airports were gateways to adventure, and flights were just another part of the journey. These days, the thought of flying sends my anxiety into overdrive. And now, there’s an added layer: my wife retired earlier this year and wants to travel with me.

In the past, I would have simply found the quickest, cheapest, and most efficient way to get somewhere and back. Now, with my wife involved, the planning process becomes a collaboration. And booking airline tickets online can test the patience of even the calmest person. So, tensions were high before we even began. Full disclosure: it was me. My stress quickly escalated, and before long, the conversation deteriorated to the point where both of us felt like walking away.

As I scrolled through endless flight options, losing my way on the website and ending up with routes that would take me anywhere but Gander, I realized something. I needed an attitude adjustment. This happens sometimes, usually too late in the process, but better late than never.

I stopped and reflected. My wife was approaching this as a trip, something to be experienced, perhaps even enjoyed. I, on the other hand, was trapped in my old way of thinking: get there, do my job, get back home. Cheap, fast, efficient. But not necessarily pleasant.

Once I recognized the difference in perspectives, everything shifted. We talked openly about what we each wanted from this trip. Suddenly, we became more adept at working together, even the website seemed easier to navigate.

It hit me then: I had been putting my limitations on my wife. My stress, my anxiety, my rigid expectations, weren’t just my own. I had unconsciously projected them onto her. By acknowledging it, I could let go of those limitations and approach the planning, and the trip itself, with curiosity, openness, and maybe even a little enjoyment.

This little episode reminded me of a simple truth about life and mental wellbeing. Our frustrations and anxieties often spill over onto those around us. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes it’s glaring. But when we pause, reflect, and shift our perspective, we not only free ourselves, we create space for connection, understanding, and collaboration.

So, as I continue planning this winter’s trips, I’m carrying that lesson with me. I’m trying to remember: the limitations we feel are often our own And the ones we place on others? They can be unlearned, one thoughtful conversation at a time.

Want to stay connected? Visit my website here: https://www.gerryfriesen.ca/

What Defines Us: Beyond the Negatives

 When someone asks, "How are you?" or "How has your year been?" our minds often gravitate toward the negatives. We recall the stress, the losses, the disappointments, and the moments that challenged us. It’s as if our struggles have a louder voice, overshadowing the quieter, more subtle triumphs. But do these negatives truly define us, or have we simply grown accustomed to letting them take center stage?

I’ve reflected on this tendency, particularly through the experience of my own experience with mental illness. Being open about my struggles has been both freeing and necessary. It’s part of who I am. Yet, I often wonder: is that the full picture? Does my mental illness define me, or is it just one thread woven into the fabric of my life?

Negativity has a way of sticking. It’s like Velcro, clinging to our thoughts and resurfacing when we least expect it. Positive experiences, on the other hand, often slide off like water on a duck’s back. When someone responds to the same questions with positivity like “I’m doing great,” or “It’s been an amazing year, we sometimes react with skepticism. We might think, "It must be nice," inadvertently sinking deeper into our own negative narratives. This reaction says more about our internal dialogue than about the person sharing their joy.

Acknowledging hardships is important. It validates our experiences and helps us process emotions. But dwelling solely on the negatives can create a distorted view of reality. It’s like reading only the sad chapters of a book and assuming the whole story is bleak.

So, what do we want to define us?

Perhaps it’s not about ignoring the negatives but balancing them with the positives. The resilience we build, the small victories we achieve, the moments of connection and joy, are just as defining as the struggles. When I think about my own journey, yes, mental illness is part of it. But so is the courage to speak openly, the relationships I've nurtured, the work I've done, and the growth I've experienced.

Imagine if, when asked how our year has been, we paused to consider the full spectrum of experiences. What if we highlighted not just what went wrong, but also what went right? The lessons learned, the kindness received, the strength discovered in unexpected places.

We are complex beings, shaped by both light and shadow. Our challenges are chapters, not the entire book. At the end of the day, we get to choose which parts of our story hold the most weight. I choose to be defined not just by my struggles, but by how I've grown through them, the people who’ve walked beside me, and the hope that keeps me moving forward.

So, the next time someone asks, “How are you?” take a moment. Acknowledge the hard parts if you need to, but don’t forget the good. Because you are more than your negatives. You are the whole story.

It May Not Be Too Good to Be True, But It's Good Enough

I was involved in a webinar recently  with The Do More Agriculture Foundation to talk about all things mental health and in particular my own journey. We discussed my alias, The Recovering Farmer, and what that really meant. If we look at the definition of recovering, it means to return to a previous level of health, prosperity and equanimity. After I explained where I am at with that (health, prosperity, and equanimity), I made the comment that I am still in recovery and will be for the rest of my life.

After the webinar, a participant reached out and thanked me for that comment, that I am still in recovery and will be for life. It gave her encouragement knowing she was not alone and could relate to that. That got me thinking about something I had written some time ago but never posted on my blog.

I was watching a TV show where a couple was discussing their friends’ marital relationship which was not doing well. In an effort to explain their own relationship, the husband said “it may not be too good to be true, but its good enough.” Instantly my mind went to my mental health and I drew a comparison: my mental health may not be ‘too good to be true’, but it’s ‘good enough’. Let me explain.

This winter has been a season of discovery—again. I say ‘again’ because, like so many times before, I’ve found myself searching for ways to improve my mental health, hoping to feel better, hoping for something that finally ‘works.’ And as the months have passed, I’ve come to a realization: good enough might be the best I can achieve.

At first, that thought felt like I was giving up. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that accepting ‘good enough’ isn’t about settling—it’s about being realistic, being kind to myself, and recognizing that progress doesn’t always look like perfection.

For years, I searched for the one thing that would fix everything. I wanted that breakthrough moment, the magic bullet that would make the struggle disappear. Every time I tried something new—whether it was therapy, medication, mindfulness, or another strategy—I hoped it would be the answer. And every time I realized that none of them were perfect solutions, I felt like I had failed. I also realized again that high expectations lead to future resentment or in my case, feelings of failure.

That feeling of failure was discouraging. I’d get frustrated, wondering why nothing was ‘working.’ I’d hear stories of people who turned their lives around with one decision, one treatment, one mindset shift, and I’d wonder what was wrong with me. Why wasn’t it that simple for me?

What I’ve come to understand is that there is no magic bullet. There never was. And expecting to find one – and only one -- only made the journey harder.

Once I let go of the idea that I needed a single, perfect solution, I started to see things differently. Maybe I wouldn’t find one answer, but I had already found many things that helped in small ways. Some days, those things worked better than others. Some days, I still struggled. But instead of looking for the ultimate fix, I started focusing on what actually helped, even if it didn’t solve everything.

I realized that ‘good enough’ was still movement in the right direction. And that mattered.

There are things that help me manage my mental health—not perfectly, not permanently, but enough to keep me going. Writing has given me an outlet. Talking with others who understand has helped me feel less alone. Humor has let me laugh even on the hardest days. Therapy has provided guidance. And as my doctor told me, often  it’s a compilation of all the small things that shift the mindset. None of these things are the answer, but together, they are an answer. And that’s enough.

I used to think that anything short of feeling great wasn’t good enough. But now I see that feeling okay—feeling better than before—is still a win. Accepting that has lifted a weight off my shoulders. Instead of feeling like I’m failing, I see that I’m managing. And that’s something to be proud of.

Let me be clear. This is how I experience my journey. It may be different for others. If you’ve ever felt like you’re searching for an answer that doesn’t seem to exist, I hope you can take comfort in this: You don’t need a magic bullet. You just need what works for you, even if it’s imperfect. Keep using the tools that help, keep seeking new ones, and keep reminding yourself that progress isn’t about perfection.

It may not be too good to be true—but it’s good enough. And that’s more than enough for me. 

Hacked and Hooped

 My wife and I had made plans to get away for a few days—a little escape from the usual chaos. We even booked a resort that offered a spa pass. Now, I’m not much of a spa guy, but somehow, I got roped into that part of the deal. I could say more about it, but for the sake of my dignity, I won’t.

The plan was simple: I had a mediation in the morning, and then we’d hit the road. Bags were packed, the car was ready, and my wife was looking forward to a few days of relaxation. What could possibly go wrong? Well, as most people know, the best-laid plans are really just an invitation for disaster.

When I walked out of my mediation, the office staff approached me with a look I can only describe as concerning. Had I, they wondered, meant to send everyone an email in the middle of the mediation? Unless I had suddenly developed the ability to mediate and type at the same time, the answer was a hard no. That’s when it hit me—I had been hacked. Or at least, my computer had.

In a flash I knew what had happened. The day before had been busy with lots of tasks that needed completing. Late afternoon I received an email that looked legitimate from a trusted contact. To save myself some embarrassment I will just say the rest is history.

Suddenly, the relaxing getaway took a backseat to digital disaster control. I rushed home to find my wife, bags in hand, ready to hit the road. Unfortunately, we weren’t going anywhere until I sorted out the cyber mess. Thankfully, I had an IT guy who answered my distress call.

Now, let me tell you, watching someone untangle a hacked computer is about as enjoyable as watching paint dry. It took an excruciating hour and a half to wrestle control back from the faceless hacker who had so rudely hijacked my email. It’s terrifying how easily these cyber bandits can infiltrate your system and create havoc. By the time my IT guy declared victory, I felt like I’d just run a marathon in the middle of a heatwave.

With the crisis (mostly) averted, we finally hit the road. My wife drove while I tackled my next task: sending an apology email to everyone who had received the nefarious message from my compromised account. I stopped counting at 125. Nothing says “relaxing vacation” like issuing a mass warning about cyber fraud from the passenger seat.

Technology and I have always had a complicated relationship. Any IT issue sends my stress levels skyrocketing. On one hand, I’d love to throw my computer, my phone, and every other device through the nearest window. On the other hand, I have to admit, these gadgets do make life easier—when they work. Quite the paradox.

At the time, it felt like a disaster. But looking back, I realize these stressors always seem like the end of the world in the moment. The key is to take a deep breath, tackle the problem as soon as you can, and move on. More often than not, the stress fades quicker than expected, and there’s always a lesson to be learned. In this case, I learned, again, that stress can cause distractions which can cause issues. Oh, and maybe be careful on which emails I open even if they seem to be from a trusted contact. In the end, the stress of being hacked faded faster than I expected. The getaway turned out to be just what I needed—though I still have mixed feelings about the spa.

The Hidden Risk: How Mental Health Impacts Farm Safety

 Canadian Ag Safety Week serves as an important reminder that farm safety isn’t just about machinery, equipment, and protocols—it’s also about the people who make farming possible. The reality is that farming is one of the most dangerous occupations, and while we often focus on the physical risks, we rarely talk about the hidden danger: mental health. When stress, anxiety, and exhaustion take hold, the consequences can be just as serious as a mechanical failure.

I’ve experienced this firsthand. I remember many occasions when I was working on the farm, distracted by various stressors, and safety became secondary. One day, when I needed to get some baling done, the tractor wouldn’t start. In my haste, I did what many have done before—I took a screwdriver to direct-start the tractor at the starter. What I failed to check was whether the tractor was in gear. It wasn’t. The moment it started, it lurched forward. Thankfully, it was in the lowest gear, giving me just enough time to step aside. That moment still sticks with me. It could have ended very differently, and I often look back and think, "That was too close for comfort."

When stress, anxiety, and depression set in, they impair our ability to make sound decisions. Fatigue leads to slower reaction times, distraction increases the likelihood of mistakes, and unchecked stress can cloud our judgment.

Farmers deal with countless factors outside of their control—commodity prices, weather, equipment failures, and market uncertainty. This constant unpredictability wreaks havoc on our minds, leaving us feeling powerless. And yet, the pressure to “push through” remains. There’s an unspoken expectation in agriculture that you work until the job is done, no matter the toll it takes on you. But at what cost? When exhaustion sets in, mistakes happen. A missed step, a moment of inattention, or a delayed reaction can turn into a life-altering accident.

The culture of farming has long been one of resilience, but resilience doesn’t mean suffering in silence. We need to start having open conversations about mental health in our farm communities. Checking in on our neighbors, employees, and family members is just as important as checking the oil in our tractors. A simple, “How are you really doing?” can make a world of difference.

That’s where organizations like the Manitoba Farmer Wellness Program (MFWP) come in. MFWP provides accessible mental health support tailored specifically for farmers. Seeking help isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a proactive step toward ensuring both personal and farm safety.

Mental health isn’t just a personal struggle—it’s a safety issue. A farm can’t run without its farmer. If we truly want to prioritize safety in agriculture, we need to start by taking care of ourselves and each other. So this Ag Safety Week, let’s commit to looking out for one another. Because without the farmer, there is no farm.

Manure Happens: Turning Life’s Messes into Growth

 Although temperatures have finally started going in the right direction, there were a few weeks where it was rather harsh. Winter struck hard as temperatures plummeted. And, of course, that is when all things seem to go wrong. One of our vehicles had to go to the garage for some warranty work. That meant trying to start another one that normally stays buried in the snow over winter. Needless to say, it did not start and disappeared on the back of a tow truck. That simply meant that I would not be going any where for a day or two. In the midst of all of that our hot water tank decided it no longer needed to do what its designed to do. It being the weekend left me few options.

I found myself thinking back to my farming days when these things would happen. I realized I was a tad more relaxed than I would have been back in the day. When things break down on the farm they get dealt with asap.

To put it bluntly, s**t (manure) happens. If you’ve spent any time on a farm, you know that manure is unavoidable. It piles up in the barn, gets tracked on your boots, and somehow always seems to find its way into places it shouldn’t be. But as much as we might complain about it, we also know that manure isn’t just a mess—it’s fertilizer. It nourishes the soil, making way for new growth. And just like on the farm, life has its own way of dumping messes on us. The trick is figuring out how to turn them into something useful.

Manure happens. It’s part of farming, and it’s part of life. No matter how careful you are, there will always be challenges, setbacks, and unexpected hurdles. Instead of fighting against the mess, learn to expect it. Knowing that difficulties are inevitable can help you stay calm when they show up.

On the farm, you don’t clean up manure with your bare hands. You grab a shovel, a pitchfork, or a tractor, depending on the scale of the mess. In life, the same principle applies. When challenges arise, having the right tools—whether it’s knowledge, support from others, or a good sense of humor—can make all the difference in how you handle them.

Anyone who’s worked with livestock knows that if you ignore manure, it only gets worse. The same goes for life’s problems. Ignoring stress, conflict, or responsibilities only leads to bigger messes down the road. The best approach is to deal with things as they come—clean up small problems before they turn into overwhelming ones.

Manure does stink. I remember those days where I worked in the barn all day, cleaned up as best I could, and then went to a social event. I found myself continuously sniffing. Is that manure I smell? Did I miss a spot? But manure can also serve a purpose. Its fertilizer. It helps things grow. Likewise, life’s difficulties, though unpleasant, often lead to growth. Hard times build resilience, failures teach valuable lessons, and struggles shape who we become.

I suspect anyone that farms with livestock would have some funny stories to tell about manure. Let’s be honest—sometimes manure is just plain funny. Farming teaches you to laugh at the messes, because if you didn’t, you’d go crazy. The same is true in life. Finding humor in tough situations doesn’t mean ignoring their seriousness, but it does make them easier to handle. Laughter is a great coping tool, and sometimes, a good joke is exactly what’s needed to get through the stinkiest of times.

At the end of the day, manure happens. It’s messy and it’s frustrating, but it’s also necessary. Whether on the farm or in life, the key is to find ways to turn the mess into something meaningful. Because when you step back and look at the big picture, you’ll see that all those messy moments were actually feeding something bigger—your growth, your strength, and maybe even your next great harvest.

Analysis Paralysis

 I was chatting this week with a colleague who used the term analysis paralysis in reference to the stress created by “unknowns”. Farming has always been a business of uncertainty. Weather, markets, equipment breakdowns—you name it. But lately, there’s been another layer of stress added to the mix: tariffs. These unpredictable trade barriers are making an already challenging industry even harder to navigate. And for many farmers, that’s leading to a frustrating and exhausting condition—analysis paralysis.

When every decision feels fraught with danger, making the right call becomes overwhelming. Should you invest in equipment now, or wait? Should you sell your grain at today’s prices, or hope for a better deal? Should you expand, contract, or hold steady? The stress of tariffs and other external pressures creates a situation where no choice feels like a good one, and instead of moving forward, you find yourself stuck.

This paralysis isn’t just frustrating—it’s debilitating. It’s the fear of making the wrong decision when every option comes with significant risk. And in farming, where profit margins are already razor-thin, even a small misstep can have serious consequences. The unknowns of today and tomorrow—shifting trade policies, changing costs, and unpredictable supply chains—only amplify that stress.

I remember a time when I was still farming, and hog prices had taken a nosedive. Every day, I found myself staring at market reports, trying to predict whether things would improve or get worse. Should I sell now and cut my losses, or hang on and hope for a rebound? Feed costs were rising, bills were stacking up, and I was stuck in a cycle of overthinking. The stress of not knowing what would happen next kept me up at night, and no matter how many scenarios I played out in my head, none of them seemed good.

Looking back, I realize that I wasn’t just weighing options—I was paralyzed by them. Every path felt like a gamble, and the fear of making the wrong decision stopped me from making any decision at all. Eventually, I had to accept that there was no perfect answer. I made a choice, and while it wasn’t easy, at least I was moving forward instead of standing still.

When we’re under constant stress, our ability to make sound decisions suffers. The human brain isn’t wired to operate at peak performance under long-term pressure. Instead, we fall into patterns of overanalyzing, second-guessing, and sometimes avoiding decisions altogether.

This type of stress can also lead to reactive decision-making—choosing the path that seems easiest at the moment rather than the one that aligns with long-term goals. It’s a survival instinct, but in farming, short-term fixes often create long-term problems. When we let stress dictate our choices, we may lock in losses rather than finding opportunities to thrive.

So, what can be done? While we can’t eliminate tariffs or other uncertainties, we can develop strategies to manage stress and move forward with confidence.

1. Focus on What You Can Control – Tariffs and trade policies are outside of your hands, but budgeting, planning, and risk management are not. Taking proactive steps in the areas you can influence helps bring back a sense of control.
2. Seek Trusted Advice – Having a solid support network of fellow farmers, financial advisors, and industry experts can provide much-needed perspective. Sometimes, just talking through a problem with someone else makes the right choice clearer.
3. Set Decision Deadlines – Overanalyzing can keep you stuck indefinitely. Instead of waiting for the “perfect” time, set deadlines for your decisions and commit to moving forward.
4. Take Care of Yourself – Stress management isn’t just about business strategy; it’s about personal well-being. Exercise, rest, and time away from constant decision-making help reset the mind and improve clarity.
5. Accept That There Is No Perfect Decision – Every choice comes with some level of risk. Accepting that reality can help shift your mindset from fear of failure to confidence in adaptability.
6. Reach Out for Professional Support – Sometimes, the weight of uncertainty and stress becomes too much to manage alone. Speaking with a counsellor who understands agriculture, such as those at the Manitoba Farmer Wellness Program, can provide valuable tools and support. Seeking help isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a way to gain clarity, manage stress, and build resilience.

Farming is tough, and today’s uncertainties make it even tougher. But being stuck in analysis paralysis won’t change the challenges ahead. The key is to acknowledge the stress, manage it, and move forward—one decision at a time.

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.

Supporting Others: Insights from Someone Who’s Been There

One of the questions I’m often asked is how to support someone who’s struggling with their mental health. Honestly, I find it hard to answer because, in my own journey, I’ve been the one needing support. Surely, there are others with the expertise and experience of walking alongside those in need.

And then this week I had a conversation with a friend and colleague Merle Massie, the new Executive Director of DoMoreAg. Merle certainly has the expertise as she has walked with and supported those that have struggled. She gave me 3 points that she has in mind when she finds herself in those situations and they resonated with me. With her permission I want to use them and build my own thoughts around them.

First and foremost, we need to park what we think we know. While this sounds straightforward, in practice, it can be profoundly challenging. I recognize that I carry with me a collection of beliefs and biases—formed through my experiences, shaped by my upbringing, and reinforced along my journey. These perspectives feel natural, even essential, to how I see the world. But should I impose them on others? Absolutely not.

Too often, I find myself realizing—sometimes painfully late—that while my understanding may hold some truth or relevance, it doesn’t always address the unique needs or circumstances of the person I aim to support. My preconceived notions become a barrier rather than a bridge. This not only undermines my ability to help but also prevents me from truly connecting with and understanding others in their own context.

Secondly, we need to activate our of curiosity. In my work, I often encourage people to transform judgment into curiosity, particularly when navigating conflicts. But this principle extends far beyond conflict resolution—it’s just as essential when it comes to supporting others.

Curiosity is a powerful tool. When we approach others with genuine interest and a desire to understand, we open the door to deeper connection and insight. It allows us to see beyond surface-level assumptions, to truly grasp what someone is experiencing or feeling. Through curiosity, we gain the ability to ask thoughtful questions, to listen without interruption, and to appreciate the unique perspectives and struggles of others.

This shift from judgment to curiosity isn’t always easy—it requires intention, humility, and a willingness to let go of our own narratives. But when we choose curiosity, we create space for empathy and understanding to flourish, enabling us to offer the kind of support that truly meets people where they are.

Thirdly, we need to strive to be a flashlight—illuminating the path for those who need help and guiding them where they are, not where we think they should be. Too often, I find myself defaulting to the role of a streetlight, shining brightly in one fixed spot and expecting those who are struggling to find their way to me. It’s a comforting notion to think that simply being available is enough, but in reality, it often isn’t.

This act of meeting someone where they are—of bringing the light to their darkness—requires compassion, patience, and a willingness to step into their world. It’s about being present and intentional, showing that they are not alone and that there’s a way forward, no matter how overwhelming the journey may seem.

I will never forget and will always be thankful for the day a neighbor did all of the above for me. I was in a dark place, not sure if the sun would ever shine for me again. He sat and listened to me that day. There was no judgement, he normalized and validated what I was saying and by doing that shone his flashlight on the path in front of me giving me the ability to move forward. I know it works. It may work for you as well. Make it a good one.