When Grit Calls in Sick

Still upright. Barely.

2025’s been the kind of year that makes you wonder if a corn god cursed you in a past life.

Still standing. Still farming. Still flapping. Dispatches from the year Grit almost quit.

Commodity prices are like it’s 1986. Fertility plans duct-taped together. Nobody’s talking. Everyone’s pretending they’re “fine” while internally debating whether to switch to sunflowers or fake an injury and skip planting altogether.

And me? I’m the dumbass still talking. Still writing. Still spilling my guts like the world’s gonna change because of a Substack post.

Some days, it helps.

On other days, I feel like a cross between the Joker and the Penguin—frantic, flapping, manic, and unfit for mass production. A hybrid freak who escaped the R&D lab and now roams the countryside preaching about biostimulants and mental health like that’s going to save us.

And yeah—I’m cranky. Crankier than a cat on a tin roof in a thunderstorm.

Even the grit took the day off.

Even the tequila is judging me.

Even my neurons are arguing over who’s in charge—like a drunk board meeting in a brain-shaped dive bar.

But here’s the thing:

We’re all walking through this muck. Not even your top-dollar golf shoes give you the grip you need when the shit is this deep.

So I’m asking you—yeah, you:

What are you doing to stay upright?

Not for the brand. Not for the bin. Not even for your banker. For you.

Are you bottling it up? Are you pacing the shop in your underwear, coffee in hand, delivering a TED Talk to the tool bench?

Are you talking to anybody?

Are you walking it off or just walking in circles?

Because this year is testing us, and grit isn’t always about charging forward.

Sometimes, it’s just keeping your coffee in the cup when your hands won’t quit trembling.

Sometimes, it’s just showing up tomorrow.

Sometimes, it's writing this drivel instead of punching drywall.

And maybe the guys who come out the other side of this dumpster fire will be the ones who didn’t fake it.

So yeah. I’m still truckin’. Manic. Sweaty. Kinda unstable. But standing, still writing.

Still asking:

What the hell are you doing to stay upright?

Just remember—grit’s not about winning. It’s about staying in the goddamn game.