America. Land of the free, home of the brave, and for over a century, U.S. agriculture has been a quiet colossus — feeding the world while policymakers argued over whose steak was medium-rare.
But this month (It’s October 26th, while I write this), the export engine that powered rural prosperity has seized up. The world’s biggest buyers — led by China — have simply stopped showing up to the checkout line. Soybeans? Off the menu. Beef? A 90% nosedive.
What’s happening? Good question. It’s simple: The global grocery cart just rolled past “Made in the USA.” Meaning; the rest of the world will only buy American farm goods if they have literally no other option.
The gist is simple: tariffs have managed to offend almost everyone with a shipping lane. The bottom line is that we made it harder to buy from us, and the world quietly decided it didn’t need to.
Right now, Brazil is cultivating soybeans with Olympic intensity. Argentina? Well, it’s carving up a global steakhouse empire. And China—once our best and hungriest customer and the one with the biggest tab at the table—it has moved on, not in anger but in indifference. Slipping out the back door, choosing partners less temperamental and more predictable.
Meanwhile, back home, America’s population is shrinking for the first time in history. Translation: not enough new mouths to eat the mountain of food we keep growing. And the ones we do have? They’re already full — mostly of $18 avocado toast and moral superiority.
Here’s the thing: when demand fades, prices don’t decline gracefully — they collapse. Suddenly, everyone’s selling close to home. It feels noble, patriotic, even communal, until you notice it’s an auction in reverse, with each bid chasing the floor.
Now, you can post or hashtag “support local” all you want, but posts and hashtags don’t eat dinner. Fewer people equals fewer plates, and fewer plates mean that farmers are staring at mountains of food that no one is buying.
You’d hope for a bit of help from Washington — a bailout, perhaps, or at least a clever trade pivot. But the USDA, bless it, is now so understaffed it couldn’t organize a bake sale, let alone a bailout.
And the larger problem? Washington has developed an allergy to expertise. By the way, that’s not new as that has run across recent administrations. Meaning; for the past twenty or so years, both parties have had a bad habit of valuing loyalty over skill. That might win elections, but it doesn’t balance budgets. The lesson here isn’t partisan — it’s practical: when you fill a room with people who won’t challenge you, you eventually end up talking only to yourself.
What’s the result for the American farmer? One-third less demand means two-thirds less income. Farmers aren’t just squeezed — they’re being economically composted. It’s capitalism with a wood chipper attachment.
What we have is a perfect storm brewing: collapsing exports, shrinking population, vanishing policy competence, and a farming sector that’s quietly bleeding out while we argue about who gets to ban TikTok.
Yes, American farmers are going bankrupt. Not because they can’t grow food — but because they can’t sell it. And that’s perhaps the most American tragedy of all: abundance turning into ruin.
It’s tempting to frame all this as doom and gloom. But perspective matters. Markets have never rewarded nostalgia; they reward foresight. The world doesn’t owe America its appetite anymore — and pretending it does only guarantees one outcome: our breadbasket becoming a museum piece titled “Once Fed the World.” Admired for what it was, not for what it is or could still become.
But despair has never planted a seed. Betting the farm on a globalized world that’s deglobalizing is like bringing a surfboard to a drought. The smart money — and the smart farmers — will adapt. They’ll downsize, localize, diversify. They’ll think less like exporters and more like entrepreneurs.
If you take one thing away, let it be this: the real crisis isn’t in the soil — it’s the story. You can’t fix policy failure with patriotism, or trade with tweets. You fix both with competence, creativity, and a renewed respect for the people who actually know what they’re doing.
Feeding ourselves — let alone our allies and the world — has never been about slogans. It’s about stewardship, skill, and the stubborn belief that tomorrow can still be fertile ground. Until we rediscover that truth, the only thing we’ll be growing in abundance is regret — and even that, ironically, no one will want to import.