Let’s be honest—this isn’t the article we wanted to write.
We’d rather be talking about a bumper harvest or some wild new rabbit genetics or a witty anecdote from duck wrangling. But right now? Those stories feel like they belong to someone else. This story—the one we’re living—is about burnout.
The kind that sneaks in slowly, and then all at once.
Over the last two years, it’s been wave after wave. A storm ripped through the farm, taking animals and breaking more than just fences. There were pregnancy complications that shifted everything—not just the to-do list, but the physical ability to show up at all. This year brought a new flavor: overwhelm wrapped in financial strain.
And while the animals forage and survive on what nature provides, the farmer isn’t foraging joy these days.
There’s rabbit meat stacked up in the freezer because people said they wanted it… until they didn’t. Feed bills roll in, but sales don’t. The plan was solid. The outcomes were not. Some days, the idea of selling everything and clocking into a 9-to-5 feels like the best case scenario. Other days, it’s a small flock and a part-time gig. And sometimes—on the rare days when the grit returns—it’s just hanging on one more day at full speed.
That emotional whiplash? It’s part of burnout.
Burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s a symptom of caring too much for too long with too little return. It’s what happens when stewardship turns sacrificial, when mission becomes martyrdom. And the land knows this rhythm—it goes dormant. It rests. It stops producing because rest is a requirement, not a luxury.
So maybe burnout is a season too.
Not one we romanticize. Not one we harvest. But one we survive. Like winter. Like drought.
You don’t plant in burnout. You don’t harvest from it. You observe it. You respond to it. You honor it as a warning system, a signal that something isn’t aligned. That the ecosystem—physical, emotional, operational—is out of balance.
And no, we don’t have all the answers tucked neatly into the end of this article.
But we do have this: a willingness to name it. A refusal to pretend everything’s fine. A reminder that farms and farmers are living systems, and sometimes those systems hit a limit.
If you’re living this too—this season of burnout, decision fatigue, and holding it all together with string and stubbornness—we see you. You’re not weak. You’re not failing. You’re just in a season.
And seasons always change.
