Not everyone leaves agriculture because they’re gay. But many step back when the land they love doesn’t feel like a place where they can belong. David Jones (he/him) grew up dairy farming and still identifies deeply as a farmer, even though that path led him away from daily life on a farm. His journey was shaped not just by coming out, but by seeing others who looked like him living out loud in rural spaces, he found the courage to be himself and discover a sense of belonging after farm life.
David’s story reminds us that visibility isn’t performance. It’s service. It’s the quiet check-ins, the use of inclusive language, the simple recognition that someone sees you. Those small acts matter, perhaps more than a spotlight ever could. His experience teaches us that belonging isn’t given. You claim it, and in doing so, you expand the table for everyone else.
If this story resonates with you, please connect with David on LinkedIn and Instagram.
How are you involved in the agriculture community?
I’m a farmer by blood. It’s an identity and a profession I was born into.
For many years before and after college, I was a dairy farmer. The journey away from that life has been long and winding, but today my focus has shifted from production agriculture to supporting and coaching people.
As a professional coach, I work with leaders, entrepreneurs, and occasionally farmers. Some of my clients are in the agriculture industry, some are not. I coach people who are stuck in some way, who can’t seem to get closer to their goals, and are ready to try a different approach.
Why are you proud to be part of the agriculture community?
For a while, I wasn’t proud.
Coming out marked a turning point. Not just personally, but in how I was seen by my agricultural community. At best, the fact that I was openly gay wasn’t acknowledged. At worst, people distanced themselves, stopped talking to me altogether, or approached me with the intent to insult me.
A few people offered quiet support, but I had come out and left the family farm at the same time, and in a small town, those two decisions became one story. I didn’t have the energy to correct the narrative or campaign to stay visible. So I let myself disappear.
For a long time, I felt like I didn’t belong. No one was offering me a seat at the table, and it hadn’t yet occurred to me that I could pull up a chair without waiting for permission. It seemed like the only way to stay connected to agriculture was to compartmentalize or conform. So for a while, it felt easier to walk away.
But distance offered some perspective.
Over time, I met others. People who felt they had been pushed out, as I had. Through those connections, I began to reclaim my place. Though I haven’t always been proud to be part of a community that didn’t fully accept me, I’ve always been proud to be a farmer. I still am. Growing food and offering sustenance is a form of service I believe in deeply. I miss it often. These days, I grow a bit of my own food again, not just for nourishment, but to stay rooted in where I come from.
Today, I see plenty to be proud of.
I’m proud of the people working to expand who belongs in this industry. I’m proud of the farmers who prioritize sustainability, who mentor the next generation, who speak up for what’s right in quiet rooms when it would be easier to stay silent. I’m proud of the women who pulled up chairs for me at tables where I didn’t yet believe I belonged. I’m proud of the LGBTQ+ folks who continue to live visibly and generously, often without knowing who they’re inspiring.
I’m proud of the resilience of this industry.
I remain involved in agriculture by being of service to the people in it. This is an incredibly rewarding field, and also an incredibly demanding one. We don’t always talk about how hard it is. So many of us are taught to resist help, to carry the weight alone. I’d offer this: you don’t have to. None of us do.
Pride, for me, lives in that choice. To keep reaching for the parts of agriculture that still feel like home, even if I’ve had to find a new way to belong.
How have you felt or seen support for LGBTQ+ in the agriculture community?
Support, as I’ve experienced it, hasn’t always been loud.
Before coming out, I found strength in seeing examples of gay men who weren’t afraid to live openly.
It turns out, simply being visible is a radical act of service to those who feel alone. Like I once did.
Living in a rural part of the world, access to online communities was a lifeline. Learning I wasn’t as alone as I thought, and then seeing LGBTQ+ people in the industry living openly, was perhaps the single greatest gift that helped me accept who I was. It made me feel like I had the courage of a community behind me when I finally came out.
There are a handful of people whose boldness gave me permission to imagine doing the same. I’ve never publicly acknowledged them, but perhaps this is an opportunity: Marcus Hollan, Jesse Eller, Grant Ermis, Ryan Amaral – four men in my world whose willingness to exist as they are gave me the courage to do the same. It took time to locate that boldness in myself, but I carried theirs with me. And I know there are others I’m forgetting.
In the years that followed coming out, support rarely came with a spotlight. It arrived in the form of a text message, a quiet check-in at a conference, a simple: “Hey, I saw you… and I’m glad you’re here.”
That kind of support sticks.
Most of the people who showed up for me didn’t wear rainbow pins or post about allyship. They simply chose connection over distance. Curiosity over judgment. They didn’t need me to explain or justify myself. That, in itself, was a gift.
Over time, I’ve come to see that visibility is its own kind of support. By simply showing up as myself, I’ve had others, many still quietly navigating their own identities, reach out and say, “I didn’t know someone like you existed in this world.” That kind of moment changes people. It changed me.
Thank you to the men above for being that for me.
While formal systems of support have often lagged behind, it is individual people who have made all the difference in my world.
What advice do you have for LGBTQ+ members of the agriculture community?
I tend to be hesitant to give advice. It’s a tricky game. What’s true for me may not work for you. But maybe I can offer a few thoughts that expand someone’s idea of what’s possible.
If you’re hoping to build a stronger presence in your community, start by building your team. Who’s in your corner? Who picks up the phone when you need someone to remind you who you are? Who’s part of your personal council of advisors? Living visibly in agriculture, especially in rural spaces, won’t always be easy. But it gets easier when you’ve got people standing behind and beside you.
For those who are seeking to live more authentically, especially those who aren’t out yet, I’ll offer the best advice I ever received: get off the farm.
Go somewhere, just for a weekend, where you won’t be recognized. You don’t have to go to every gay bar in the city (though I wouldn’t dissuade you, as long as you’re doing so safely). Take a quiet vacation and practice being out.
Buy two croissants and casually tell the barista one is for your same-sex partner. Mention to a stranger that you’re looking for your next boyfriend. Say, in a small and ordinary way, “I’m gay,” and notice what happens.
This isn’t about performance, it’s about practice.
And what you might find is this: in most places, most people simply don’t care.
Yes, there are still places where it’s not safe to be fully out. But if you can find spaces where the stakes are low and the risk of judgment is minimal, you can begin to try it on. You can practice getting more comfortable in your identity, whatever it may be.
You’ll likely never see those people again, unless you want to. So the stakes stay low.
It might take a little courage at first, but courage grows with use.
What can people in the larger agriculture community do to be strong allies of LGBTQ+ people?
1. Stop being silent.
That’s the first and most important thing.
If someone makes a joke, uses a slur, or says something dismissive, be the one to speak up. That is what allyship looks like. Silence often reads as agreement.
It’s not enough to say “you’re welcome here.” Show it. In what you say, what you tolerate, what you celebrate, and what you correct when no one else will.
2. Don’t force someone to come out to you. But do offer cues that you’re safe.
Mention your support of LGBTQ+ friends or family. Say “partner” instead of assuming “husband” or “wife.” Small language choices signal that someone can breathe a little easier around you. You may never know who you’re helping, but they will.
3. Use inclusive language.
Ask, “Are you seeing anyone these days?” instead of assuming a gender. It may seem small, but language tells people whether they’ll be safe with you.
4. Take part in your own education.
Many of us love your curiosity, but don’t rely on LGBTQ+ people to teach you everything. There are books, podcasts, films, and organizations that can help deepen your understanding.
We’ll help fill in the gaps where we can, but it’s not our job to tutor you.
5. Back people up.
Walk the walk. Support people in hiring decisions, in meetings, in group texts, and in one-on-one conversations. Invite LGBTQ+ people to take up more space, to grab a seat at your table.
Allyship is not a one-time gesture. It is a practice. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be willing to pay attention, to learn, and to act when it counts.
Is there anything else you’d like to share with the Pride in Agriculture readers?
For as difficult as things have been since coming out, life on the other side is fuller, deeper, and more beautiful than anything I could have imagined.
Coming out at 28 felt impossibly late by some standards, and impossibly early by others. But the truth is, no age is the wrong age to become more fully yourself.
That day, the day I came out, was the hardest day of my life.
Everything had to break in order to be rebuilt. Some pieces of me shattered beyond repair, and in hindsight, that too was a gift. The things that no longer fit were never meant for me to carry forward.
Some relationships shattered, too. And while I still sometimes grieve them, there’s no room in my life anymore for friendships with conditional acceptance.
Freedom made space for new relationships, deeper connections, a kind of clarity that only emerges when shame is no longer steering the ship. It took a while, but my life began to bloom in ways that were once unimaginable.
This journey tenderized parts of me that had grown rigid, and it strengthened some of the parts of me that felt shaky. Today, I find a groundedness in knowing what matters, in refusing to wait for anyone else to affirm my worth or humanity.
That is my hope for anyone reading this: that you find your own version of that peace. That you know your worth deeply, not because someone else named it, but because it lives in your bones.
Pride was once unimaginable. Today, it is something I embody. And it is untouchable.
I sincerely hope that if any part of this story speaks to yours that you’ll reach out. Drop me a message on LinkedIn or Instagram (@winesandbovines). I’d love to connect. You don’t have to go it alone.
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