The Beginning of the End
Reflections from a field of dreams.
On May 12th, I sat in the tractor with my dad as he planted the last field of his final season farming. It was surreal. Sacred, even. Three generations—my dad, my kids, and me—rolled over the black soil in motion and memory. The engine hummed while I tried to take it all in. This was it.
The typical dynamic when I’m with my dad is that he sits in quiet, contemplative reverie while I ask lots of questions. He drove. I drew him out. What years were hardest? Did he and my grandpa arrive at the decision to sell the livestock at the same time? What will he miss the most? What does he fear? Together, we remembered. The bitter. The sweet.
My dad’s family has farmed for as far back as we can trace. Back to Sweden, across oceans. Every Pearson generation before me worked the land. In 2026, that tradition will end with me and my brother.
The transition isn’t happening with conflict or crisis. There was no great reckoning. It’s just… ending. But not without emotion.
I never felt pressured to stay in Minnesota so my parents could pass the torch. They didn’t ask that of me. My dad was living his dream, and he wanted me to live mine. (Which is exactly what I get to do every day.) On some level, they always knew that farming wasn’t the life I was meant to lead.
My mom, in particular, understood what being a farmer’s wife would ask of me. The early years of farming for my parents were harrowing and stressful. Financially and relationally. I remember when I was young hearing her describe that she wasn’t sure how she could have managed it had she not, herself, grown up with so little, at times in dire circumstances, on a farm. My parents wanted me to have options. And I’m deeply grateful they gave me the opportunity, permission, and freedom to exercise them.
Still, sitting in that tractor, I felt more than gratitude. I felt something heavier. Not guilt. I did nothing wrong. But there was a grief I didn’t fully anticipate. The ache of finality. The beginning of the end. A goodbye to something that shaped me. The weight of legacy.
I’ve spent my adult life helping others explore what it means to live a meaningful life. I’ve coached people through change, loss, reinvention. I know the language of grief and growth. But even so, I didn’t have words for this.
The truth is, endings—even good, natural, timely ones—can hurt.
This transition for our family isn’t just about farming. It’s about identity. Inheritance. The unspoken contracts we hold with the people who came before us. And the decisions we make that shape the lives of those who come next.
I want to give my children what my parents gave me. Space to dream. Permission to choose. Support without strings.
In May, I got to sit next to my dad, and we did what every farmer does at the end of planting season. We closed the last field. Now, we pray in wait. For the courage to keep going forward, and gratitude for everything behind us. All the beautiful and good.
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