As a farmer in Central Texas, I’ve often grappled with the persistent challenges posed by leafcutter ants. Unlike typical ant species that can be managed with common deterrents, leafcutter ants exhibit a unique resilience due to their sophisticated agricultural practices. These ants meticulously harvest foliage—not for direct consumption, but to cultivate specialized fungal gardens that serve as their primary food source. This ancient, symbiotic relationship has thrived for over 50 million years, showcasing a resilient and efficient food production system that predates industrial agriculture by tens of millions of years.
And despite being a farmer who frequently loses plants to these tiny invaders, I can’t help but marvel at their model. Observing them closely, I’ve come to draw profound parallels between their communal strategies and the potential for human agricultural systems. Each ant plays a specific role—cutters, carriers, cleaners, and caretakers of their fungus gardens. They cooperate flawlessly, working together to ensure the survival of the whole. Their colonies span vast underground networks, sometimes covering over a mile, and yet every member works with a sense of duty, purpose, and interdependence.
In contrast, human society—particularly in the modern industrial world—often relies on sprawling, centralized food systems. We’ve become detached from our food sources, dependent on long and fragile supply chains, massive monoculture farms, and the whims of multinational corporations. This detachment doesn’t just threaten our health—it threatens our national security. Between 2020 and 2022, 15.5 percent of Texas households reported lacking consistent access to healthy and affordable food. In a state as agriculturally rich as ours, this is not just ironic—it’s alarming.
As a farmer, a mother, and someone who left the big city to reclaim a more intentional way of living, I often feel like I live in an ant farm of a different kind: one controlled by external forces, with little regard for our individual health, well-being, or fertility. We are bombarded daily by toxins—through our food, air, and water—and while it’s nearly impossible to avoid all of it, there is something deeply powerful about taking control of what we eat. Growing our own food, or knowing the hands that grow it, allows us to build resilience—not just physically, but spiritually and communally.
The leafcutter ants may not know it, but they offer us a powerful metaphor for what local food systems could look like. Their survival depends on localized cultivation, shared labor, and clear purpose. They do not rely on distant sources for their sustenance. They don’t outsource. They don’t waste. They thrive by operating as a cohesive unit—hyper-local and deeply interdependent.
Human communities could benefit from embracing these same principles: collaboration, localized food cultivation, and community resource sharing. These are not fringe ideas—they are ancient practices, encoded in the way people have lived for millennia. And they are our best hope for surviving an uncertain future. If the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that disruptions—whether from global pandemics, supply chain breakdowns, or natural disasters—reveal just how vulnerable centralized systems truly are.
Localized food production builds real security. It creates jobs, strengthens community ties, keeps money circulating within our regions, and supports ecological health by encouraging diversity and regenerative practices. It also removes the veil of secrecy from our food system, allowing for greater transparency and trust. When you know the person growing your carrots, or raising your beef, you have a direct line to how those foods are grown, what they’re fed, and whether they’re raised with care or chemicals.
But this is more than just a matter of preference—it’s a patriotic duty. Supporting local, American farmers isn’t just good for our health—it’s vital for our sovereignty. A nation that cannot feed itself cannot defend itself. And yet, our current systems reward overseas imports and corporate monocultures, while small and mid-sized American farms are being squeezed out by red tape, rising costs, and market manipulation.
When we talk about national security, we must expand the definition. It’s not just about borders or defense budgets. True security begins with the basics: clean air, clean water, and access to nutritious, locally grown food. Everything else is downstream from those essentials. If we lose control over our food supply, we lose control over everything.
That’s why I believe food systems should be treated as strategic infrastructure—just like energy or transportation. Local farms, farmers’ markets, co-ops, and regenerative ranches are not quaint side projects. They are the bedrock of community resilience. They deserve investment, protection, and prioritization.
We should be asking ourselves: how many calories can our county produce? How many farmers do we know by name? How many school districts purchase food from local growers? These are the questions that lead to stronger, more sovereign communities.
Of course, we may never eliminate every threat to our food systems—just as I may never fully rid my farm of leafcutter ants. But we can learn from their example. We can mimic their localized strategies, their collaboration, and their relentless dedication to their shared mission. If we do, we just might find ourselves in a future where our food system is not only more secure—but more humane, transparent, and regenerative.
So the next time you see an ant carrying a leaf 10 times its size, consider the lesson. The smallest creatures on Earth have something profound to teach us: about resilience, about community, and about how to feed the future without compromising our values or our sovereignty.
Buy from American farmers. Shake the hand that feeds you (as my friend AJ Richards always says). Build the relationships that will nourish your body and your community in times of peace—and in times of crisis. Because when it comes down to it, no global corporation is going to save you. But your neighbor with the tomato vines just might.
