If you or someone you know requires mental health support, don’t hesitate to reach out to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by calling, texting, or visiting 988lifeline.org for 24/7 assistance. Remember, seeking help shows strength, not weakness. Support networks for farmers, such as the Farmer Angel Network, can provide crucial aid.

Our land holds more sorrow than we care to admit.

My father and I found ourselves on heartfelt ground, at the small cabin I own on a 40-acre plot nestled behind the farmhouse of our childhood. This is the land my great-grandfather fought to acquire during the Great Depression. My grandfather raised dairy cows here, and my father and I shared countless memories. Sitting on the porch, with the sun illuminating the honey-colored wood, the trees whispered of our losses, and my father began to weep quietly.

“You did so well, Dad,” I reassured him. “You held on for so long, and it’s because of you that we have the chance to continue the farm.”

He had sold our dairy cows the day before. Like rain falling while the sun still shines, my father’s tears reflected a mix of emotions. We felt hope for the future of our land and my sister’s aspiration to raise heifers, and grow crops for consumers. Yet, there was also deep sadness over the end of milking cows and anxiety about the farm’s future.

Yet an even graver situation lingered beneath the surface. I had heard stories of farmers who had ended their own lives after losing their livestock or land. As I looked at my father, the thought pierced me like a knife. I pushed it away, but not without a silent prayer as I gazed at the sun-drenched land ahead.

This represents the silent mental health crisis sweeping across rural America. The issues I explore in my book, “Land Rich, Cash Poor,” concerning the gradual disappearance of small farmers, encapsulate the serious threats to our food supply and the economic turbulence gripping us. The struggles faced by residents in rural areas highlight the deeper mental health challenges faced nationwide, concealed due to the stigma of discussing such matters.

Indeed, the mental health crisis is distressingly evident in our rural Wisconsin region, where a nonprofit called the Farmer Angel Network emerged to tackle growing issues of depression and suicide as we sold our herd.

My family is now living this reality, right on that porch.

‘I’m a farmer, that’s who I am. If I fail, we all fail.’

Mental health challenges, including self-harm, are pervasive and indiscriminate. They worsen in our most vulnerable sectors, such as family farms, which are gripped by economic hardship and personal tribulations with each passing year.

Research indicates that more than one-third of Americans suffer some form of mental health issue, a figure likely even higher as many remain reluctant to seek help.

According to the CDC, the national suicide rate has dramatically increased by 33% over the last two decades, with agriculture consistently ranking as one of the top five deadliest industries, sometimes intertwined with substance abuse challenges.

Understanding the root causes of these issues can be complicated. Leon Statz, living about 20 miles away from our farm, shared insights that resonate with many.

“I’m a farmer; that’s my identity,” he expressed to his family in Loganville, Wisconsin. “If I don’t succeed, we all suffer.”

His words echo the sentiments of countless farmers. The farm symbolizes their labor, their family, their community, and their very existence. The pressure mounts when they realize they aren’t just struggling for their jobs but for their heritage as well. Offering advice on balancing work and life seems trivial when faced with such immense stakes.

Having witnessed my father maintain our family’s century-old farm while helping out in any way I could, I understand this burden. I felt the weight from years of being too small for heavy farm work, having animals that didn’t take to me as they did my dad, and experiencing numerous mishaps with machinery. Choosing a writing career instead — while also supporting my sister who is pursuing farming — has not erased my feelings of failing him.

In rural America, like many parts of the country, we often avoid discussing our struggles. It’s a learned behavior from generations past. Families had to endure the hardships by simply persevering through challenges like the 1980s Farm Crisis and the Great Depression.

As I forged my own path, the duality of leaving the family farm while achieving my goal of being the first in my family to attend college sometimes weighed heavily. The guilt contributed to a decade-long battle with alcohol, which I managed to overcome only with the help of therapy.

As I worked on my own projects, I eventually reconnected with my roots, though it has been a challenging journey.

Others, like Leon, feel this pressure even more intensely. Over time, his passion for farming was overshadowed by a profound sense of failure. Even though external factors such as falling milk prices, increasing costs, harsh weather, equipment failures, and the collective hardships faced by farming families were beyond his control, Leon felt the weight of it all on his shoulders. This burden led him into a deep depression.

Leon found himself in a situation that many farmers are confronting: the choice between struggling to support their families by holding onto their farms and the feeling of losing their way of life by selling out. His first attempt at suicide happened just four months after he sold his cows, followed by a period of recovery, then a second attempt.

After selling his cows, Leon faced a particularly difficult time when he realized he couldn’t afford the extra land he believed the farm required. To make matters worse, relentless rain began to fall—blessing or curse, depending on its timing—but for Leon, it was a curse for his mental state. On October 8, 2018, his son discovered him in the shed. He had completed all the chores, intending to ensure everything was in order before he left.

“I don’t think he wanted to die,” Brenda, Leon’s wife, explained as she shared his struggles and last days with me. “It was just that his mind couldn’t let him stick around.”

Darkness can lead to the unthinkable. How we kept hope alive.

There we stood, my dad and I, on that cherished land. The sounds of the trailers clanking as we loaded our cows, sending them away, resonated with me on the porch together.

Tension hung in the air— the deep despair that led farmers like Leon Statz to find no other way out—was palpable as I placed my hand on my dad’s sturdy shoulder, and he leaned in, overwhelmed with emotion. We still had a chance to sustain the farm thanks to how skillfully my dad managed it, yet he was consumed by thoughts of failure.

On some level, we all felt a shared guilt, typical in farm families—blame for the state of the farm and our father. My sister felt torn as we shifted away from milking due to economic struggles, trying to balance a second job and kids. My mom wished she could have contributed more after recovery from brain aneurysm surgery. I questioned if my dad would have considered expanding our dairy business two decades earlier if I had been ready to take on the farm with him.

But my dad’s struggle was heavier. After dedicating his life to the farm, he became the first generation in 100 years to stop milking cows at this location. He faced uncertainty about his future and who he could possibly be without the farm.

Dark thoughts lingered like storm clouds. What’s the point of being here?

Leon’s story changed our own path. In the days leading up to the sale of the cows and afterwards, my parents’ friends, Don and Dorothy Harms, frequently visited to offer support. Dorothy had become involved with the Farmer Angel Network after Leon’s death. This organization provides a support system for farmers, raises awareness about the need for mental health professionals who understand rural issues, and more. Because of stories like Leon’s, our family recognized the vital importance of communication, even when it’s challenging for many farm families.

And so my dad stepped off the porch into the sunlight filtering through the trees. In the days that followed, he began not only to reflect on his perceived failures but also on the family that still depended on him.

I have grandkids here. He began to tell himself repeatedly, thinking of my sister’s children growing up on the farm. I have grandkids here, and it’s my job to teach them.

This hope was the very same that fueled our family for over a century: the next generation. That’s a legacy no one can take away.

This piece has been adapted from Brian Reisinger’s book, “Land Rich, Cash Poor: My Family’s Hope and the Untold History of the Disappearing American Farmer.” Reisinger contributes extensive columns and videos for the Ideas Lab at the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, where this column originally appeared.