I grew up in Calgary, Alberta, and had an 11-year career in the film industry before meeting my husband and moving to rural Saskatchewan. There, I became a grain farmer. It didn't take me long to figure out how challenging, stressful and isolating farming can be.
While 2016 may have been my fourth crop year, it was the first time I stood and watched while my crop, worth literally hundreds of thousands of dollars, was destroyed in a 10-minute hail storm. It was also the first time in my life that I felt like a complete failure—a failure as a farmer, a failure as a spouse and a failure as a provider for my family. It was the first time, and sadly not the last, that I felt my only worth to my family was in my life insurance policy.
I would love to sit here in front of you all today and say that things are better and that I'm the only one in Canadian agriculture who has ever felt this way. To do so would be a lie. We are now struggling for our third year in a row. Weather extremes sabotage our ability to grow the bushels we need to make a profit. Commodity prices do not come close to covering our expenses. Transportation issues inhibit our ability to pay our bills on time. I no longer know what it feels like to live without stress. My husband now struggles with anxiety triggered by the stress of trying to farm and make ends meet. I have watched this anxiety bring him sobbing to his knees.
If you ask me in this moment if I hope my girls grow up wanting to take over our fourth-generation farm, I would tell you that I would encourage them to do anything but become farmers. However, the stark reality is that if we continue down this path, there will not be a farm for them to take over one day.
Right now I'm sure you're thinking that we must be bad farmers and that there must be something wrong with our business plan. After all, the point of a business is balancing risk while trying to make a profit. Do you know that grain farmers in Canada have the second-highest cost of inputs? That is the seed, seed treatment, fertilizer and chemicals we need to grow our crops. We also cannot come close to growing the bushels that other countries grow, thanks to our short growing season and dry climate. On an average year, the bushels I am able to produce on my fields do not cover my expenses, including my mortgage and land rent.
I need to work off-farm, not only to put food on my family's table but to also subsidize my farm expenses. If I worked as a teacher, nurse or banker, or if I were still working in the film industry, I would not be required to hold a second job to afford to do my first.
You see, I cannot raise the price I sell my crops for in order to help cover the rising expenses associated with growing my crops. When I need to move grain to pay bills, I try to find the best contract possible, but ultimately I have very little control over the price. I'm usually forced to sell at a time when prices are low from harvest pressure in order to cover bills that have been accumulating over the year. If a carbon tax is forced upon me, I stand to add an additional $30,000 to my expense list as well.
In February, I sat in a room full of 400 producers. We were tasked with standing up when a question asked applied to us. The first question was, “Have you ever lost a family member or friend to suicide?” Ninety per cent of the room stood up, and that broke my heart.
Farmers are struggling, not only in Canada but globally. We're struggling with high levels of stress, anxiety and depression. We cannot speak out or admit we are struggling because we are told to be strong. We are told to suck it up. We are told that we are not real farmers if we ask for help. If we seek treatment, we might be turned down for life insurance policies or watch our premiums skyrocket. Life insurance companies classify us as higher risk when we take care of our ourselves and seek help.
We run on three to five hours of sleep during the busy seasons—that is, seeding and harvest—and go for weeks without seeing much of our families and children. We spend 15-plus hours a day in equipment cabs by ourselves.
In isolation, we are running the numbers, worrying about our bills and getting further into our own heads. Sometimes we have our children with us as well. We have to juggle farming because we don't have access to child care. Often we are also volunteers in our communities as first responders who deal with being on scene for accidents and with the deaths of our friends and community members.
This summer, a friend posted that a farmer in her community had just died from suicide. I did not know the person, but I broke down sobbing at my kitchen table. When I took a moment to reflect on why the death of someone I did not know upset me so much, I was forced to bring light to a fear that I do not want to dwell on: the fear that surges up when I cannot get ahold of my husband. It is the fear that, just possibly, he has given in to the non-stop stress and anxiety of trying to provide for our family and farm.
The conversation is starting to change. Producers are starting to open up, but it is only a start. The stigma surrounding mental health in agriculture is still strong. We need support from each other, support from our communities, and we need services from our health care systems. Most importantly, we need to be able to afford to farm without having to work off the farm.
Thank you for your time. I appreciate the opportunity to be here to talk with you today.