Why I Quit Farming

And why I am grateful for the years when I was entwined with nature

Photo: Nicolette Molina

When we bought our old house on 1.5 acres down a quiet country road in Loomis, California in 2010 we had no intention of farming, we simply wanted more space, and maybe a slower lifestyle. I was mostly a full-time mom, but I always had a side gig and sometimes worked traditional jobs. I had worked as a magazine editor, then published my own magazine and enjoyed being an entrepreneur. Honestly, I knew I was not wired right for a corporate job because I always hated being told what to do.

In 2016 after shuttering my magazine and batting around many business ideas I landed on growing cut flowers in our backyard. This probably had something to do with the trend of farming flowers first demonstrated by the amazing Floret Flowers in Washington. I’ve always loved flowers and it seemed like a good way to work a job where I could juggle kids’ schedules and also contribute beauty to the world while being outside.

The spring patch of ranunculus, anemones, sweet peas and Dutch irises in full glory.

What started with one row of flowers, grew each year to many varieties of flowers that bloomed from spring through fall. I started a popular CSA delivery, made countless bouquets, taught classes, did a handful of weddings, and even had the thrill of doing the tables at the Tower Bridge Dinner in Sacramento. We built a cooler in our garage, grew to 18 (40-foot long) rows, added hundreds of peonies, and celebrated the harvest with a summer dinner. It felt like I was constantly propelling things forward, working longer hours, juggling so many family responsibilities, and never making much money. Our best year earnings was about $15k. People would frequently tell me how dreamy my job was (which I had contributed to with a well curated Instagram feed) and I would just smile.

My daughter helping pull the endless sea of weeds by hand.

As the years ticked by we were and still are experiencing serious drought in California. Our house and farm are on a well for water and we became concerned about the well running dry. The canal of agriculture water that feeds our neighbors’ crops and animals is literally piped through our backyard yet we could not access it. We tried to work with Placer County but were told it’s a “party line” and all the parties have to agree to let you in. Our neighbors declined to share the water. Water has always been a heated issue in California and the canal system in our area has many inconsistencies and an archaic application process. A guy came out with a clipboard and penciled-in names of those on the party line. A lot of these deals went back generations and were made with a handshake he told us.

In 2020 the perfect storm hit with the pandemic. On short notice my kids were home permanently doing online school, my husband was home, and all the events needing flowers were abruptly cancelled. Something within me shut down as well. For a while I tried to keep things going running frantically back and forth between the house and the spring patch, losing 20 pounds, most of my hair, and my ability to sleep in the process. I struggled to keep up with everything and the weeds quickly took over.

My teenagers helping harvest the ranunculus in their pajamas during the pandemic.

Before the shut down, even though things were difficult with water concerns, crops failing and unpredictable weather, I had many memorable years. There were days when I was stopped cold by the beauty of a row of zinnias set against a California sunset. I would get down on the ground to watch in wonder as ladybugs ate the aphids off the ranunculus stems. I was aware that I wasn’t just the creator of this quilt, but I was a part of its fabric, intertwined with the plants, soil, birds and insects. I grew to need the farm as much as it depended on me.

Over the years I learned to read the sky for weather patterns, listen for the honking geese, and detect the first day when the loamy scent of warm air rose up. In spring I walked through a tangle of sweet peas and was immersed in a cocoon of safety and perfume. My hands were often deep in soil and my mind was clear. There was gratification in growing things with integrity and without using pesticides.

Our annual late summer farm dinner with 50 or so friends.

I will always look back on my years as a farmer with great satisfaction. I know the flowers added beauty to the lives of many in my community, and working with plants taught me valuable lessons about life, loss, and the importance of resiliency.

When I walked the rows in the soft evenings after a long day—mud on my knees and on my iPhone—scanning for weeds or aphids, and anticipating the bloom, I knew that I was truly and harmoniously alive.