This Queer Couple Supports LGBTQ+ and BIPOC Farmers’ Mental Health

LGBTQ+ farmers are at high risk for depression and anxiety, and farmers who are Black, Indigenous, and people of color face additional stress. Here’s how two determined farmers in Texas care for their community.

Ariana Dolcine moved to Texas with two dreams: to establish a thriving farm with her partner, Kennady Lilly, and open a farm-to-table Caribbean restaurant celebrating her Haitian roots. In her vision, she would cook dishes with malanga, a starchy root vegetable, calabaza, a pumpkin-shaped squash, and other “cultural crops” that she and Lilly cultivated themselves.

In February, she opened Griot Gardens, her restaurant in Houston, going into business with her mother, a seasoned restaurateur. But growing food in Hempstead, a remote agricultural town outside the city, has proven tougher than she and Lilly anticipated, with numerous losses in the past year.

First came Hurricane Beryl, knocking down trees and two 50-foot sunflower beds that Lilly planted solely for the joy they added to her kitchen window view. Shortly after, the winds from a tornado-strength derecho damaged their well, and then the generator broke down, leaving them without water for six months. A rare snowstorm wiped out their winter greens just a few months ago. To add to their woes, a beloved cow and its calf died during labor.

Speaking about her mental health, Dolcine named isolation, burnout from the daily grind of farming, and the “heartbreak” of their repeated losses among her challenges. “I’ve felt really hopeless at a few points this year in a way that I haven’t felt before,” Lilly said, as she expressed feeling “lonely” and “depressed” while struggling financially. Living in a remote town, and in a world rife with homophobia, she and Dolcine never know if revealing their queer identity will jeopardize their safety, adding another layer of stress to their lives.

They’re not alone in this experience.

A study released last year by the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign revealed that LGBTQ+ people in farming are “over three times more likely to experience depression and suicidal intent and about two and a half times more likely to experience anxiety than the general population.” According to the researchers, not conforming to the gender and sexuality norms of farming culture while navigating potentially hostile social environments increases stress and may lead to poor mental health outcomes.

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For Dolcine and Lilly, community building and cultivating a sense of belonging are crucial for maintaining their mental well-being. In October, the couple hosted the “South Side Queer Farmer Convergence,” the Queer Farmer Network’s first gathering of queer and transgender Black, Indigenous, and people of color in Texas.

For three days, 50 farmers camped out at Lillyland Farm in Hempstead, invited to shift their focus from caring for the land to tending their own mental and emotional health. Dolcine and Lilly found the gathering “healing,” both for them and those who attended.

A lot has happened in the months since then that threatens to diminish the mental health benefits they experienced.

With President Trump back in office, multiple reports have called attention to the mental health risks for LGBTQ+ Americans amid his efforts to revoke their rights, signing executive orders that recognize only two sexes, end discrimination protections for LGBTQ+ people, restrict access to gender-affirming care, and attempt to erase queer and trans people from public life and history.

On social media, Trump’s newly appointed Secretary of Agriculture, Brooke Rollins, praised the termination of grants meant to support queer and trans as well as BIPOC farmers and consumers, implying this funding represented “waste, fraud, and abuse.”

None of this is stopping Dolcine from organizing another queer farmer gathering this year.

“People are struggling in this line of work,” she said, highlighting the additional difficulties that queer Black, Indigenous, and people of color face in accessing farmland and resources. “I want them to be connected and know they’re not alone in this journey.”

Building Community in the Trump Era

In 2018, in the midst of Donald Trump’s first term, a group of friends in Iowa got together and created the Queer Farmer Network (QFC), a national nonprofit devoted to building community and reducing isolation for rural and queer farmers. That same year, they organized the first Queer Farmer Convergence, a now annual gathering informally known as “the QFC.”

It was created “to provide a space of respite for farming and rural queers who may experience isolation . . . and who may be particularly vulnerable to the mental health struggles well known to both farmers and LGBTQ+ community members,” its website states.

First held at Humble Hands Harvest, a worker-owned cooperative farm in the northeast corner of Iowa, the QFC has branched out over the years to include gatherings in Virginia, Michigan, and New Hampshire. The QFC took place at locations in Texas and Wisconsin for the first time last fall, both of which focused on bringing together queer farmers identifying as Black, Indigenous, or people of color—a change Dolcine suggested when she attended her first QFC two years ago.

Originally from Miami, Dolcine was living in Iowa temporarily, working as an independent insurance adjuster. That’s where she met Lilly, a Des Moines native who co-founded the now-closed urban farm Radiate DSM. “On a whim,” Dolcine joined her at Humble Hands for the QFC and found a glaring lack of racial diversity. Organizers told her the network had reserved one-third of tickets for BIPOC farmers, waiving their registration fees and providing travel stipends to attend the QFC, but had limited success.

To Dolcine, moving the gathering to a region with greater diversity and organizing a BIPOC-centered event where people of color would feel safe attending seemed like viable solutions.

But BIPOC gatherings had been a long-term plan of the Queer Farmer Network. Securing a grant for farmer mental health and well-being allowed the network to finance the gatherings and assemble a team to organize them. Dolcine joined that team and agreed to organize a QFC herself, naming it to reflect its location in the South and her own Southern origins.

On the first day of the South Side QFC, farmers hailing from Houston, Dallas, El Paso, Fort Worth, Florida, Tennessee, Atlanta, Iowa, Minnesota, California, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey gathered at Lillyland Farm in a welcome circle that lasted “hours and hours,” Lilly said. As the farmers went around introducing themselves, Dolcine and Lilly heard many express gratitude for the chance to be on land where they could “be themselves and be queer,” not having to mask their identities or code-switch.

“It seemed extremely needed,” said Dolcine, who co-organized the event with Cyd Keel, a queer trans farmer and herbalist living in Memphis, Tennessee.

For the rest of the weekend, the group followed a loosely planned itinerary that included printmaking, natural plant dying, beading, and yoga while leaving space for spontaneous activities like a nighttime dance party around a bonfire and communal nap in a field. Although the event was held three weeks before the election, Dolcine felt it was important not to make it all about political or environmental crises or attacks on bodily autonomy.

“At what point can we turn that all off and just say, ‘OK, I deserve peace of mind,” she explained, fighting back tears. “I deserve not to have these things on my mind for just a moment. I deserve not to think about next month. I deserve just to hear the earth as it is: the water running, the birds chirping. People deserve to just be at ease.”

Brooklyn Gordon, a queer, Black preacher, licensed therapist, and new farmer based in Dallas, attended the South Side QFC not to counsel attendees but to be in the company of other queer folks. “What was most powerful was seeing love prevail,” she wrote in an email to Civil Eats. “We dreamed together of futures for queer farmers, queer families, queer love. We dreamed of being in community with one another again and growing . . . Regardless of the mental state that everyone may have come in with, we all left better.”

Gordon has observed in her therapy practice that managing the complex interplay of racial, gender, and queer identities presents “a constant challenge to being seen, valued, and safe.” From familial and religious beliefs to social conditioning and mistreatment, “it all poses a risk for mental and emotional health,” she said. Recent studies by The Trevor Project and the Center for American Progress echo this point: Mental health risks for LGBTQ+ people stem not from their gender or sexual identity, but from stigma and discrimination.

Like Gordon, Lilly was uplifted by the gathering and the attendees’ reassurance that she was still a farmer, even though her vision of abundance hasn’t yet materialized. “I cried when people were leaving,” Lilly said. “They are my family now.” From her perspective, “family, community, and chosen family” are essential not only for the mental well-being of LGBTQ+ farmers but particularly for LGBTQ+ Black women like her and Dolcine, who face the added stress of anti-Blackness.

Living Free on Black-Owned Land

Lillyland Farm is located in Hempstead, a town roughly 55 miles northwest of Houston, with about 6,500 residents. Hempstead takes pride in its history as the top watermelon shipper in the United States. But driving there on Highway 290 conjures an uglier history: It was here that 28-year-old Sandra Bland was found hanged in a jail cell three days after being pulled over and arrested by a Texas state trooper in 2015. Bland’s name became a Black Lives Matter rallying cry, with suspicions lingering about whether she died by suicide or at the hands of police.

“I think about it every day,” Lilly said, sitting in her camper surrounded by lush starter plants. “There is not a single day that I leave the farm that I’m not on edge. Anytime a police officer is driving behind me, I am terrified.”

Lilly feels safest at Lillyland, a 32-acre parcel that’s been in her family for eight generations. She picks up a thick stack of paper, slightly curled at the edges, that she calls “The Lilly Bible,” as it lists every member of her family, all the way back to an ancestor who arrived from Africa in 1818.

A local university conducted the genealogical research, though Lilly’s family knowledge also comes from oral histories. She learned from her great-uncle, who also lives on the farm, that when their ancestors were freed from chattel slavery, they came across a field of lilies and adopted the flower as their surname, rejecting the family name of those who enslaved them.

As Lilly walked the property, four adult dogs and six mixed-breed puppies ran behind her. She stopped for a moment to greet Corotha, a horned cow that lives on the land, before moving through the pasture. With each step, she shared the rich history of Lillyland, a legacy that dates to the Reconstruction era, when Black families, denied the promise of 40 acres and a mule, bought whatever land they could.

Based on county records, Abraham Lilly, Sr., acquired 10 acres from Leonard Waller Groce, his former owner’s eldest son, in 1867. His father, Bowie Lilly, bought several plots in the area, amassing at least 82 more acres in the town. But, at some point, the Lillys’ property shrank to 50 acres and then to 32.

“What I’ve heard is that one of my aunts missed a payment,” Lilly explained. “Back then, they were trying to take land from Black people anywhere they could.”

Lillyland Farm provided an idyllic backdrop for the South Side QFC, its thick, prickly woods gradually giving way to open fields where cattle graze in the sun. A large pond covered with lily pads sits at the heart of the landscape, a feature added by Lilly’s great-grandfather. A partially submerged boat at the pond’s edge, left there by the youngest of his thirteen children, reads “The Other Woman” on its side.

Lilly’s grandfather grew up on the farm but left Hempstead to work for the United States Department of Agriculture in Iowa and returned after retirement. After he died, he left two acres to Lilly’s dad, which she and Dolcine now tend. Lilly’s great-uncle wasn’t exactly welcoming when they arrived. “His first words to me were, ‘I know about your lifestyle and I don’t agree with it,’” she said, walking past his house. “He still makes a point to say that all the time, but now he loves me. I’m his favorite niece.”

Texas is known for its particularly hostile stance toward queer and trans people, with recent legislation reinforcing this reputation. The American Civil Liberties Union is tracking 88 anti-LGBTQ bills in Texas, the highest number of any state in the U.S. Meanwhile, the Trans Legislation Tracker shows 128 anti-trans bills in Texas, compared to 33 in Oklahoma and three in Louisiana, its neighboring states.

“I had it in my body and mind not to be gay here,’” Lilly said, reminiscing about the summer when she and Dolcine first visited Hempstead. “It just didn’t feel safe.” But she momentarily forgot and kissed Dolcine at the town’s annual Watermelon Festival in July. “The second we kissed, I heard someone [holler].” A cowboy came up to them and shared that he had a gay brother. “Just be yourself,” he told them. “People are gonna’ hate, but you have the right to be yourself.”

Making LGBTQ+ Farmers’ Mental Health Needs Visible

Researchers believe there are over 23,000 queer farmers in the United States, though the exact number is unknown. The USDA Census of Agriculture, taken every five years and considered a comprehensive count of farmers and ranchers in the U.S., doesn’t ask about gender or sexual identity. Without visibility, queer farmers’ needs go unrecognized.

“I really wanted to understand better what’s going on with mental health for LGBTQ+ folks and how might that be related to the environment within agriculture,” said Courtney Cuthbertson, who led the study of LGBTQ+ farmer mental health at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. “I was kind of surprised when I was starting to tell people about this project idea: Some of the reactions I would get were, ‘I didn’t know LGBTQ+ farmers were a group of people who existed.’”

Cuthbertson’s research team received 148 survey responses from LGBTQ+ farmers in 36 states. About 7 percent lived in Texas. “Most participants were white,” the study said, with 58 percent identifying as queer and 38 percent as trans. From this data, they surmised that poor mental health experiences for LGBTQ+ farmers may be connected to, among other things, the family farm model.

The idea of “family” being defined as a married male and female is codified in the American Farm Bureau’s 2024 policy book, which states, “A family should be defined as persons who are related by blood, marriage between a male and female, or legal adoption,” excluding all other forms of kinship. The impact of this on queer farmers includes reduced likelihood of securing loans and other support necessary for their success and survival.

When the USDA attempted to broaden the gender and sexual identity options on its census, it encountered pushback. “The survey asks questions including whether farmers identify as transgender, the gender they were at birth, and their sexual orientation,” Missouri Senator Josh Hawley posted on X in 2022. “For Joe Biden, even farming is about advancing his woke agenda.”

Cuthbertson warned that their team’s survey didn’t ask about legislation but about LGBTQ+ farmers’ experiences in general. Still, “We’ve seen historic year-after-year increases in anti-LGBTQ+ legislation,” Cuthbertson said. “I think it’s a fair thing to say that when you hear a lot of negative things about a group you’re a part of, and then there’s legislation proposed, that is going to have a personal impact.”

Although the study found high depression and anxiety rates among those surveyed, somewhat encouragingly, suicide risk was “much lower” for LGBTQ+ farmers than for the general LGBTQ+ population. The research team suggested that future studies investigate whether agricultural work offers some level of protection.

Living the Dream and Finding Hope

On a busy Sunday afternoon at the restaurant Griot Gardens, a server enthusiastically recommends “really, really good” Haitian dishes like akra, a fritter made from malanga root, and D’jon D’jon, rice with black mushrooms, eagerly writing down orders on green tickets. After a short wait, she places a deep-fried snapper with its head and tail still attached on my table next to a glass of vanilla-infused lemonade topped with a fresh Johnny Jump Up flower.

The song “Sonia” by the Haitian Canadian musical group Black Parents streams from a large portable speaker as couples and families eat and chat across tables. A uniformed police officer who moonlights as a DJ walks to each table, striking up conversations in Haitian Creole while waiting for his to-go order

This is the restaurant Dolcine dreamt of when she and Lilly moved to Texas. She opened it in February in collaboration with her mother, Pricia La France, who cooks most of the food. “I’m hoping for a good harvest this year,” said Dolcine, who still aspires to grow all the vegetables for the restaurant. For now, she sources them from Miami and Haiti.

Dolcine runs the restaurant seven days a week, while Lilly gears up to launch a personal chef business and manages the farm, where she has planted eggplant, tomatoes, okra, cantaloupe, watermelon, blackberries, sweet potatoes, lemongrass, and a variety of medicinal herbs. Lilly arrived at the restaurant in mud-covered boots, pitching in to help wait tables. Reflecting on their recent struggles, Lilly said, “There are also good things: There is also beauty and hope.”

Plans for the next South Side QFC are slowly developing. Dolcine and Lilly say their biggest obstacle isn’t the political climate, but rather finding time to organize the event with everything else they have going on. “I try not to let these shifts in power influence my state of mind and cause me to be worried or scared,” Dolcine said. “If I want to do a QFC, then I’m gonna’ do it however I can do it.”

Farmer Mental Health Hotlines & Resources

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, we encourage you to call or text these hotlines for support:

• LGBT National Hotline: 1-888-843-4564
• Trans Lifeline: 1-877-565-8860
• BlackLine: 1-800-604-5841
• The Trevor Project: (866) 488-7386 (for LGBTQ young people, ages 13-24)
• Farm Aid Hotline: 1-800-FARM-AID. Available Monday-Friday, 8 am-8 pm CT. Has English and Spanish-speaking operators.
• AgriStress Helpline: 1-833-897-2474. Available in Colorado, Connecticut, Missouri, Montana, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Texas, Virginia, Washington, and Wyoming.
• Rural Response Hotline: 1-800-464-0258
• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
• National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: 988
• Crisis Text Line: Free 24/7 text service for those in crisis. Text “HELLO” to 741741.

If you are having a mental health crisis, please call 988, or 911 in case of an emergency.

For resources aimed at queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming farmers, visit:

• The Queer Farmer Network
• Trans Farmers for Trans Farmers
• The Cultivating Change Foundation