Trust Issues

Planting Season and the Art of Surrender

I stop every 50 feet like some neurotic ex-boyfriend peeking through the blinds.

Crawl under that damn planter like I'm chasing woodchucks. Check seed tubes, closing wheels, depth settings. Again. And again.

If even one seed doesn't come up, I take it personally. It's not just a missed seed—it's a failure. It's me failing.

Meanwhile, some guys yank the planter out of the shed, maybe lob a grease gun at it from across the shop, load it up, and go. No depth checks. No seed tube checks. No nothing. They won't even know something's wrong until the skips show up two weeks later.

And somehow, it always seems to work out for them ... the ones who never miss church on Sunday, anyway.

I don't know how many people are like me, but I'm a certified depth-checking psycho. Been in charge of planting since 2004—minus a couple of lost years in farming exile, wandering through other industries, trying to 'find myself.'

Turns out, those places aren't built for people with dirt in their blood.

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Spring is the worst when you're stuck indoors, watching it all unfold from afar. I remember commuting three towns north, trapped in some day job, and the whole way up the highway, you could smell it—fresh dirt, cracked open by the first farmers prepping seedbeds. That scent hits you right in the ribs. Right up there with fresh cut grass, baseball stadium hot dogs, and that first whiff of a lilac bush in late May.

Makes for a hollow feeling—the ultimate FOMO.

Hard to focus on busted radiators and timing belts when every cell in your body wants to be out there, knees in the cold dirt, chasing that perfect seed depth. Arguing with yourself for hours if you should go one cog deeper or just leave the damn thing alone. (Pro tip: Usually best to trust yourself and leave the damn thing alone) And then obsessing over it for the next four weeks while you wait to see what comes up.

It's probably not healthy. But I care. Maybe too much. I tie my worth to this work. To every sprout that breaks the surface. To every acre whispering that I did something right.

This year's been one hell of a test. Windiest spring in fifty years, then straight into the 90s in early May. Makes you wonder if Mother Nature's got a personal grudge.

But that's farming—you're always 24 hours from a flood and two weeks from a drought. Some say that comes straight from the Book of Cenex—Chapter One, Verse Two.

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And that's where the real battle begins.

Not with the planter.

Not with the seed meter.

Not with the closing wheels.

The real battle is trust.

Trust that you set it right.

Trust that the rain came at the right time.

Trust that you can't fix everything—and maybe you're not supposed to.

Trust that maybe, just maybe, the work you poured into this ground will hold.

Even when the wind howls.

Even when the forecast flips.

Even when doubt creeps in at 2 a.m.—when you second-guess every pass, every setting, every decision you've made since the first field.

Because at some point, you have to let go.

And that's the hardest goddamn part of this whole business.

You stand there at the field edge, watching those first green needles poke through the crust, and your brain's still running calculations: Should've gone a quarter-inch deeper on that wet spot. Should've slowed down through that turn row.

Should've, could've, would've.

But the seeds are in the ground now. An inch and a half down, sleeping in the dark, waiting for enough heat and moisture to wake up and do what it's programmed to do.

And all your depth-checking, all your obsessing, all your midnight second-guessing?

It doesn't matter anymore.

What matters now is whether you can stand in that field, look at dirt that might be hiding your future, and trust that the work you put in was enough.

That's the real battle. Not against weeds or weather or commodity prices.

It's against the voice in your head that says you didn't do enough. That whispers you're gonna fail. That keeps you checking and rechecking long after the time for checking has passed.

Some guys make it look easy—that surrender. They plant, they pray, they move on.

Me? I'm still learning how to let the dirt do its job without me hovering over it like a helicopter parent at Little League.

Sure, I've got all the toys on the planter. Stuff you can tweak on the fly. Sensors. Data layers. Spiked closing wheels that I'll be splurging on next year after this season's trench-closing fiasco. Always optimizing. Always adapting. Probably overthinking it every step of the way.

Not because I've got nothing better to do.

But because so damn much rides on this.

Because every season feels like a test you don't get to grade.

That's the madness we live with every day. Trying to control what we can't, while what we can control drives us half-crazy.

And I'm not the kind of guy who drags the planter out of the shed, flings some seed around, and shrugs, "Well, it's in the ground, isn't it?"

No. Not this guy.

Every spring is a battle for emergence, sanity, and trust.

So here's to all you planter operators out there—whether you're the depth-checking obsessive or the full-send, wing-and-a-prayer type.

May your crop come up even, clean, and green.

And if it doesn't? May you find peace in the waiting and strength in the knowing that you did what you could with what you had.

Because sometimes that's all the dirt asks of us.

And sometimes, that's enough.

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