Scalpel, Please

I’ve never wanted to work in the medical field. I can barely get my blood drawn without Zoe offering her hand in sacrifice, and the decades of school are unappealing. Nor do I have a bedside manner - okay, that’s not true. I have a fantastic bedside manner and years of training; I simply have no interest in maintaining it. Yet I find myself this year tweezing out splinters, packing gauze into holes, threading needles, slicing through tissue, sitting with death, welcoming life, and throwing treatment after treatment at the wall to see what sticks. I’ve become a surgeon, a nurse, and a medical student, and the work is all-encompassing.

This is a metaphor.

I have been solo farming since February 18, 2026. It was never my intention. Last Autumn, I naively thought I was setting myself and the farm up to participate in human-based relationships of on-site mutual care, able to rest and work in equal measure. Instead, two months after a traumatic car crash, I became the only human here, and with occasional exception, have remained that way since.

Solo farming has forced me to examine some hard truths about the founding principles of this operation and what ultimately needs to go. This farm, this ecosystem—they are wonderful, but there are real problems that stem from centuries of colonialism, decades of capitalism, and a lifetime of farmers biting off more than they can chew. It truly feels as though I am performing surgical-like procedures to peel back the overarching philosophies and practices that no longer serve, and in some cases, actively infect what has the potential to be a healthier and more nourishing endeavor. I’ve embarked upon a years-long journey, deep-diving into patient histories, examining symptoms, treating injuries, and creating a long-term plan of care.

Four images showing adorable flower flies on sweet corn; Petunia the ewe with her son, sitting near ewe Rhubarb and ram Lightning; Momma Hen with chicks; an assassin bug eating a bumblebee on goldenrod blossoms.

Bullet Wounds and Bandages: How Solo Farming Was the Better Choice

The day I was finally alone here was the day I began to breathe. Intentionally or not, my upbringing led me to develop feelings of extreme responsibility for the happiness of those around me. So although it wasn’t planned, farming alone was such a relief. For the first time in a decade, I wasn’t directly or indirectly responsible for a single other human’s diet, healthcare, emotional support, transportation, or general well-being. Almost overnight, I was gifted the opportunity to discover my own needs, implement my own desires and draw myself a path beyond someone else’s expectations. My nervous system began re-routing to focus on my own bodily requirements; I’ve been able to actually listen and respond to the need for sleep, or food, or medicine. This kind of self-awareness and improved mental health is quite foreign to me.

Self-orientation aside: one focused, experienced farmer was also what the farm needed. For 26 years, we’ve welcomed visitors, volunteers, and students, and they’ve been a powerful part of the farm. Their impacts here resonate still, and I could give you a tour, telling stories of the echoes folks have left behind. There are the signs Marcella painted, the processing shed Mike, Corey, RJ and Ben helped build, the cement sidewalk H.O.P.E. House laid, the small barn Carly built, and more.

But just a few more people on-site usually means the primary farmer—in this case, me—becomes educator, scheduler, and go-to troubleshooter. I’m so concerned with directing people that basic farm health is forgotten and underlying issues are ignored. Instead of facing the fact that the farm to farmer relationship is unbalanced, I can initiate new and exciting projects with a group of students. Rather than accept that too many cows are too many cows, and the fence is insufficient, I can hastily wrap everything in twine and pretend it will hold together if there are just enough people. The problem, of course, is that there are rarely enough people, rarely at the right time. When a farm is hemorrhaging, folks invited to participate inadvertently act as those butterfly bandages that are used on head lacerations. Helpful in the right circumstances; inappropriate and easily worn out in the wrong ones.

I’ve been told for years that the farm is “supposed to workable by one person on their worst day”, but never has anyone demonstrated that. Not here, anyway, and so what does that look like in practice? From what I can tell, the original Bittersweet Farm was built by two people on the premise that there might be a dozen more around. (You’ll have to take my word on that; I’m not calling my father to double-check.) There was constant pressure to produce and sell, to meet market demands and pay the bills. The farm got too big too fast, and there was never exactly incentive or capacity enough to seriously ease the work, because of the aforementioned philosophy: “It will hold together if there are just enough people.”

A clear example of this is the sheep flock. For many years, my mother worked with border collies, and rounding up sheep was made possible by those clever dogs. When that became too difficult for her, sheep herding necessitated a large group of volunteers, much running around, many grass stains and several hours of well-used muscles. As much fun as it was, it was its own form of misery, impossible for a collie-less solo farmer.

Additionally, the coyotes have been sending clear messages about habitat loss, broken fences and ecological capacity through the occasional slaughter of our beloved sheep. Last year they took six, this year, one. A flock that requires 10 college students to wrangle them is not a flock that willingly seeks shelter each night, coyotes or no. In Summer of 2025, I began using grain to bribe the sheep into a safety pen at night; I utilized the same method to coerce them onto the correct pasture come morning. It was an effective if imperfect strategy. Lately, though, mornings have found me in the Northernmost pasture, crying, because, well...it’s working. The sheep and I, in response to our mutual needs, have developed a new relationship, one where bribes are no longer necessary and we simply walk towards safety or food based on the sun’s movement across the sky. Our care plan is now based on communication and harm prevention, not an unspoken decision to only really interact during snowy, hay-feeding months.

Someday, the farm and I will be ready for more full-time humans. Right now, we still welcome volunteers every weekend. But I know my limitations and hang-ups. I truthfully don’t believe those sheep and I would have the relationship we do if I wasn’t the only human here.

Preventative Medicine

I was one of those kids who never got sick, not even ear infections. It’s only been in the last decade that I’ve incorporated into my routine regular shots of elderberry syrup or fire cider, and consistency is still a learning curve. With the farm, it’s even easier to see preventative care as almost superfluous, something to get to after the emergencies are dealt with.

I’m really, really, reeeaaalllyyyy tired of emergencies.

This year, I’ve been buckling down on what I’m calling here ‘preventative care’, but in my head I call, “fixing those stupid little things that constantly annoy me, because they will kill me slowly and surely.” I’m paraphrasing from a quote I read in an 1890s almanac, but the point stands. I’ve spent much of my life anticipating the next big problem, because the little problems were all jury-rigged together with duct tape and a single bent nail, and I knew they’d eventually disintegrate.

Little Things That Constantly Annoy Me

• leaky hoses, or hoses that are missing fittings

• those tiny bits of wire on gateposts that catch on my clothing every time I walk through

• same thing, but the wire catches on the gate chain—this is a screaming offense

• the, like, six hatchet heads that no longer have handles

• the extremely dull knives that I’m finally learning to sharpen—this is such a hard skill for me

• all of my pants have holes in the pockets. every single one of them

• torn greenhouse plastic—especially on the Snuggle Tunnel, where it lets in the rain

• every frayed extension cord that could kill me

• the sheep laneway ‘gate’ that is a piece of tacked-on plywood

• the gutters that are installed with jute twine, because somebody (it actually wasn’t me) lost the hangers

Repairing those little things are, shall we say, what keeps the farm from catching a cold. Preventing the farm from a systemic MRSA infection requires more in-depth procedures, such as:

• developing holistic worming schedules

• developing holistic breeding schedules

• woodstove installation

• greywater system completion

• restoration of tree health through pruning

• increasing soil organic matter through composting and deep-litter systems

• restoring obligate field bird habitat through rotational grazing

• deciding how many animals are too many, and what those relationships demand

Personalized care of the farmer is usually the most ignored by many growers. Here, this includes, but is not limited to:

• adjusting chore times to match my rhythms

• accepting time off as necessary and creating opportunities for it

• rejecting the idea that ‘real farmers’ must destroy themselves to maintain every aspect of a farm at all costs

• realizing my unique background often makes comparison to other farmers moot and unhelpful

• thinking in centuries, not seconds, and making decisions that honor next decade

• maintaining diversity in my life, rather than relentlessly focusing on the farm

• developing a routine that respects my aforementioned needs

Soon after I developed an appropriate routine, I realized it was, in fact, working. Oh, sure, my sleeves still catch on the damn fence, but I am less concerned with broken hoses or that the pigs will escape because dinner is late, because the underlying system is improving. There are absolutely ‘stomach bug-esque’ flare-ups, but I think the colds are held at bay, and the MRSA is no longer a risk.

Panic Versus Faith

Another philosophy my father did his level best to instill was that panicking is a preferred way of life. If worry isn’t what gets you up in the morning, why on Earth are you climbing out of bed?

Oddly enough, I find this unhelpful.

I have a specific set of energy, and panicking simply drains me while doing nothing to support fixing the situation. I attempt, instead, to emulate the son of the veterinarian James Herriot. I read Herriot’s books almost daily as a teenager, and young Jimmy was described by his father to never be prone to concern; even during an emergency, he remained calm and collected. That seems a better practice than what I’ve seen demonstrated.

But even the most dangerous practices leave space once they’re gone—what is there to replace panic with? Well, I’m a big fan of the idea that hope can be a paralyzing falsehood, so it isn’t that. Worry is just as destructive; worry too much and you stop recognizing the real problems, because your body is already on edge.

I chose faith. Prior to 2024, I’d generally understood faith as a religious concept. In February of ‘24, I’d started to know it as a method by which one could simultaneously jump off a cliff whilst sewing a safety net. Faith is work, and faith is relationship, and faith is belief, and faith is listening closely and trying something new, even if you’re anxious about the result. Faith, perhaps, is an experimental drug, one for which you actively fight and judiciously study the data on. Faith is, as the Farm Committee reminds me, something I need to have in myself and the quality of work that I do. Faith has been in big supply here this season.

I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at farming, but really, I’ve gotten better at listening. I walk outside each morning, ask the trees, “Now what?” and hear, respect, and have faith in their teachings. Solo farming and gifting food are both things for which there are few to no immediately available cultural blueprints, so the faith I practice (the religion I practice) comes from listening to those non-humans who could, arguably, write the book.* These days, I check in mentally on a regular basis: “Okay, the sheep are on pasture, the pigs are fed, I turned off the water pump, the stove is off, and now I should feed my body.” Asking the trees “Now what?” could be compared to prayer. Doing as they recommend and harvesting the squash is like, say, heading to church. And checking in every day is following through with integrity so that I can sleep easily at night. All of this demands more from me than I ever knew I could give, but it returns the favor tenfold.

There Will Never Be Enough—Wait, No, That’s Not Right.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mother felt food insecure her whole life. From what I’ve heard, food was harder to come by when she was young, and her parents survived the Great Depression, which we know had a painful epigenetic impact on the next generation or two. She never actually stated that she feared an empty pantry, but it was evident in the ways she became extremely agitated over the last cookie of the batch, or ecstatic when Price Chopper held their 10 For 10 sales (she did like tuna and canned tomato soup). I distinctly remember her setting aside 14 pounds of pork chops for us one year, when the entire family ate perhaps 6 pounds annually. Almost twelve months later, those chops were still in the freezer.

This year, I stepped away from growing bulk vegetables, and I started around 200 transplants, compared to the literal thousands my mother used to grow. I planted a few tomatoes, the yearly potatoes, some nice sweet peppers, squash, corn, runner beans, and a good batch of onions, but that was it. I flat-out grew no brassicas, carrots, cucumbers, hot peppers, peas, or green beans, and the beets I planted were sadly never weeded. It was a relief not to subject myself to the labor of cucumbers, but I battled with the voice in my head claiming I wouldn’t survive without homemade bread-and-butter pickles. (I don’t even like bread-and-butter pickles; they’re a family tradition.)

Deciding the work I was doing was ‘enough’, and that the food I was helping grow would be ‘enough’ meant learning how to gracefully approach others for the food they grew, and accept that the larder would look different come Autumn. It also meant opening my eyes wholeheartedly to the abundance already offered by the land. For instance, this Summer late blight hit the tomatoes. I’ve harvested a handful of little Sungold cherries, and that’s it. But you know what? The pears are so prolific that I’ve been pushing them onto everyone I see, knowing I cannot process them fast enough. So less tomato sauce, more pear sauce. This Spring, the chickens decided they wanted the run of the farm. I didn’t have the energy or resources to stop them, and eventually I embraced what could have been a disaster, but was instead an enormous learning opportunity. When the hens began nesting, I decided that, too, was worth embracing, rather than fighting over eggs I’d otherwise consume, gift or sell. There were a few weeks when no, I didn’t have eggs for baking, and it felt a bit absurd. It also felt awesome, because with all the other farm-based proteins, I didn’t really need many eggs, and the number of chicks hatching and surviving has been spectacular to watch.

Why did I ever think there wouldn’t be enough?

It is something I must remind myself of. In some ways, it’s a joke: “Well, we’ll never starve!” In others, it’s a mantra: “There is plenty of food. You will be okay. We will never go hungry. If I harvested all that I could, there’d still be plenty for the insects and birds, pigs and chipmunks, and I could feed several humans all Winter long. Good job. Good job.” And the thing is...I do nothing for those pears! I mean, yes, I sing and I talk with them and I sacrifice a piece of chocolate pre-harvest. But even annual pruning and fertilization is minimal compared to the blessing that is the several bushels of pears on the front porch. As our relationship deepens, it further proves that I am enough, they are enough, and we can hold each other through anything.

Are We Recovering?

This has been the most challenging and educational year of my life. It’s come with an enormous recalculation of the intentions, expectations, habits, and pressures I carry, and it’s required extraordinary faith. The farm will not, can not and should not ever be exactly what it was. It’s not that it was ever bad, it’s just that there was an accumulation of literal and metaphorical diseases, toxins, and stressors, and no patient comes out of something like that the same as they went in. This year of diagnostics and treatments has been excruciating, satisfying, cathartic, and a multi-step, repetitive endeavor. It has been good.

Winter is, theoretically, a time for rest. I’ll be taking preventative care very, very seriously on every front; I want to be healthier, and next year simply cannot be as hard as this. So in between resting, I’ll be drafting a new lifestyle, one that works to respect the lessons learned and implement the more nourishing options. I’ll keep breaking down the systems that raised me, excavating that which causes pain, understanding the methods of care, practicing saying no, welcoming change, and nourishing new relationships. Like so many major medical crises, it’s very hard to know when we’ll finally be whole again, but I think I’ll recognize it when we get there. After all, I’ve been performing surgery since February. I practically have a medical degree at this point.

With Love,

Kia-Beth

* I stand by that statement, but it’s worth noting that there are cultures, such as the Hadzabe, who work outside the market economy, and there is an actual book you can read called This Food Is A Gift. Both are great places to find some faith-feeding inspiration.

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