Take Off the Blinders: A Letter to Rural America

For a long time, I walked around with blinders on.

Not literal blinders, of course — but the kind you don’t notice until you take them off. The kind that make you believe that the people above you, the bosses you work for, the companies you pour your energy into, actually have your best interests at heart. The kind that tell you everything is fine, even when your gut is whispering that something’s not right.

I work in rural public relations. That means I spend a lot of time telling stories — stories about farmers, oilfield workers, small businesses, school teachers, and folks trying to make it through the day without losing hope. I’ve lived and breathed the stories of people who wear calluses like badges of honor. People who give more than they take. People who, for the most part, just want to be left alone to live their lives and raise their families.

But here’s the hard truth I’ve had to learn: sometimes, we’re the ones keeping ourselves in the dark.

When I started out, I wanted to believe in the people above me. I wanted to believe that the company I worked for would take care of me, the way I was taking care of them. I wanted to believe that loyalty meant something. That if you worked hard and kept your head down, you’d be safe. You’d be respected. You’d be seen.

I was wrong.

What I’ve learned — sometimes painfully — is that the people who smile the biggest and say “everything’s just fine,” are often either too blind to see what’s happening… or they do see it, and they’re trying to keep you calm long enough to get their own business done. They’re working the system while telling you to “stay positive” and “trust the process.” They need things to run smoothly — until the day they don’t. And on that day, you find yourself with a pink slip, a broken promise, and the bitter taste of betrayal.

I don’t say this lightly. And I don’t say it to sow bitterness or anger. I say it because someone needs to.

Our rural communities — our farms, our oilfields, our water supplies, our main streets — are not okay. And we need to stop pretending that they are.

We need to stop telling ourselves that the next election will fix everything. That the next boom in oil prices will save us. That some politician from the city will understand what it’s like to work 16 hours a day and still fall behind on the bills.

We need to take off the blinders.

We need to stop putting blind faith in companies that would replace us tomorrow if it saved them a dollar. Stop waiting for the cavalry that isn’t coming. We need to look around at what’s happening — to our neighbors, our schools, our health clinics, our land — and ask real questions.

Why are so many of our kids leaving and not coming back?
Why are we working harder than ever and still living paycheck to paycheck?
Why is the land that fed our grandparents now being bought up by corporations that don’t even live here?
Why are we the last to get help and the first to be blamed?

The truth is, nobody’s coming to save rural America. And I don’t say that to discourage — I say it to wake us up. Because if we want to change things, we have to start by seeing clearly.

We have to stop letting people tell us that questioning authority is the same thing as being ungrateful. It’s not. It’s being smart. It’s being responsible. It’s protecting what we love.

We have to get involved. Go to school board meetings. Ask questions at the co-op. Look into who’s on the county commission and what they’re actually doing. We need to talk to each other — not just at the feed store or the football game, but seriously. Honestly. With open eyes.

And maybe hardest of all, we need to admit that we’ve been lied to — and that sometimes, we’ve lied to ourselves.

I know it’s easier to just keep the blinders on. To keep smiling, keep working, keep telling yourself that everything will be fine.

But easier doesn’t mean better.

We are not just cogs in someone else's machine. We are not just boots on the ground. We are the backbone of this country. We grow the food. We pump the energy. We raise the families and carry the weight.

But we can’t do any of that with our eyes closed.

So I’m asking you — as someone who’s been there, who’s believed the nice words and swallowed the hard truths — take off the blinders. Look around. Listen. Speak up.

Because if we don’t start seeing things for what they are, by the time we finally do… there might not be much left to save.