Farmer Engagement with Regenerative Agriculture in New England: Understanding Challenges and Facilitators to Improve Services and Outreach

See Appendix D for Participant Demographics and Profiles:

Appendix D_ Participant Demographics and Profiles

See Appendix E for additional data tables referenced below. 

Appendix E Additional Supporting Data Tables

1.1 Farmland Access: Essential Foundations

Access to secure farmland emerged as the most significant enabler of regenerative agriculture across the sample. Farmers who were able to begin RA practices often did so through non-market pathways—such as inherited family land, partner support, or long-term trust-based leases. These routes into landholding reflected structural privilege more than institutional access.

“We were lucky to have access to a big property with decent farmland,” noted Achilles, emphasizing that timing and circumstance—not just vision—made their start possible. Similarly, Cassie explained, “It was my grandparents’ land. That’s the only reason we could even think about starting.” These relational pathways differentiated those who could begin RA from those who remained on the margins (see Table 1: Farmland Access and Structural Privilege for extended and additional data quotes).

Farmers often expressed discomfort with these advantages. Heather shared, “We wouldn’t be here without my partner’s trust fund. I hate saying that, but it’s true.” Their awareness highlighted that motivations alone cannot overcome structural barriers; material starting points shape what is possible.

Conversely, those without secure tenure described their efforts as delayed or constrained. Sloane remarked, “I can’t invest in perennials or soil-building rotations when I don’t know if I’ll be here next season.” These accounts show that land insecurity undercuts not only long-term planning, but the emotional and ethical commitments at the heart of RA.

Sociomaterial theory helps clarify this dynamic: land is not passive terrain, but a material actor whose availability and tenure shape what regenerative practices can emerge and endure.

1.2 Meanings Before Methods

While land access was foundational, farmers consistently described their entry into RA as rooted in deeply held ethical or spiritual values—rather than technical or market rationales. Regenerative agriculture, for many, was a way to enact care, responsibility, or ancestral connection.

“This is a small way to participate in a green future,” said Achilles, articulating a shared ethic of action in response to environmental and ecological crisis. For Cassie, the motivation was personal: “Farming brings me closer to my ancestors and how they lived with the land.” Others described regenerative farming as spiritual or moral practice (see Table 2: Ethical and Spiritual Motivations in Regenerative Adoption).

Yet these meanings could also become burdensome. Alice reflected, “Sometimes I feel like I’m holding too many values, and they’re tearing me apart.” Marigold added, “I’m doing this for the land, for the soil. But sometimes it feels like it’s never enough.” These accounts complicate the idea that values are always sustaining. When not met with material or institutional support, they can become emotionally depleting.

This aligns with a key insight from sociomaterial theory: ethical meanings do not operate independently of practice. They are lived, felt, and strained within material conditions. Regenerative commitments take root not only through belief, but through alignment with what bodies, tools, and systems allow.

1.3 Early Frictions: Competency and Embodiment Barriers

The early years of RA were often marked by steep learning curves and bodily strain. Few participants had formal training in ecological farming. Most learned through trial, error, and exhaustion. As Achilles admitted, “When we started, it was just poor judgment from not knowing anything about farming.” Cameron echoed, “I was nervous messing with the soil because I really didn’t know what I was doing.”

This competency gap had real consequences. Kermit recalled, “We started flipping beds wrong because we didn’t realize how sensitive the soil was.” Flynn noted the limits of improvisation: “It’s expensive to do enough soil testing, so sometimes we're guessing.” These early mistakes stemmed not from apathy, but from unsupported learning environments (see Table 3: Knowledge Gaps and Learning by Doing).

Physical labor added another layer of fragility. Judy described the toll clearly: “By August, my arms are shot and my hands are swollen.” Doug reflected on age and capacity: “I know more than I ever have… but my body can’t execute what I imagine anymore.” These accounts reveal embodiment as both a site of knowledge and a limiting condition.

Flynn summed up the affective cost: “You get tired, and you stop seeing. It’s not ignorance—it’s burnout.” In this phase, regeneration was not yet sustainable—it was aspirational, fragile, and physically costly.

1.4 Sociomaterial Misalignments in the Early Phase

When farmers' values, competencies, and intentions were not matched by material resources or bodily capacity, misalignments emerged—what sociomaterial theory identifies as fragile practice formations. Heather illustrated this: “It’s regenerative for the soil, but not for us,” she said, describing a compost system powered entirely by wheelbarrows.

Many farmers substituted their own labor for missing infrastructure. “Getting materials uphill with a wheelbarrow took all day,” said Ella. These forms of overextension were not signs of poor planning, but adaptations made in the absence of alternatives (see Table 4: Early-Phase Misalignments Across Practice Elements).

Flynn described another kind of friction: discursive misrecognition. “We have to constantly explain that ‘no-till’ doesn't mean we’re just lazy farmers.” When ecological practice was misunderstood, its legitimacy faltered. This reflects not only social pressure, but another form of material constraint—narrative and symbolic resources shape what practices can persist.

Russel summarized the tension many faced: “You make it work because you care—but it wears you down.” These stories show that regeneration, in its early stages, is held together by care and effort—but vulnerable to collapse when infrastructure, capacity, and recognition do not align.

2. Maintaining Practices: Material Flows and Relational Infrastructures

Once regenerative systems were initiated, their continuation relied not only on values and land access, but on the daily work of moving materials and sustaining informal networks of support. This phase of practice involved stabilizing routines—moving compost, rotating livestock, planting and harvesting—all under conditions of limited infrastructure, labor, and time. While practices became familiar, they did not become effortless. Continuity required material improvisation, somatic endurance, and relational care.

Farmers repeatedly emphasized that maintaining regenerative systems was more difficult than starting them. The initiation phase was characterized by idealism; the maintenance phase revealed the weight of repetition. Material constraints and bodily fatigue were buffered not by formal programs, but by dense webs of informal relational infrastructure—neighbor help, shared equipment, food hubs, and mutual aid. These forms of collective maintenance made continued practice possible where capital and labor were insufficient.

2.1 Circulating Matter: The Labor of Material Flows

Managing material flows—compost, mulch, water, seed, feed, tools—was a daily challenge. Farmers described lacking infrastructure like greenhouses, storage, or delivery vehicles, which made otherwise simple tasks labor-intensive and time-consuming. “We don’t have a heated greenhouse yet, so starting certain crops early is really hard,” explained Achilles. Others described improvisational strategies: “We use old storm windows and black plastic to start our seedlings outside—it’s not ideal, but it works for now” (Doug).

Transport and storage were major friction points. Flynn noted, “We have materials dropped off by landscapers, but then we have to move them by hand. It takes days.” Brady added, “It’s a 20-minute drive just to get any supplies we need for the farm.” Farmers often had access to materials but lacked the means to move, apply, or store them efficiently (see Table 5: Material Flows, Frictions, and Improvisations).

In response, many farmers adopted creative reuse systems or built local partnerships. Marcus described working with a nearby mulch company: “That has helped us enrich our beds every year.” Doug noted, “We couldn’t afford a new flail mower, but we found an old one and fixed it up.” These examples highlight material ingenuity grounded in constraint. Maintenance in RA was not just about ecological planning—it was about constantly moving matter under pressure.

From a sociomaterial perspective, these material flows were not inert inputs. They were dynamic elements that shaped labor routines, time allocation, and bodily strain. Compost, for instance, was both a regenerative tool and a logistical burden, especially without mechanized systems. Sustainability hinged not just on practice design, but on the physical ability to enact and maintain those practices over time.

2.2 Relational Infrastructures: Invisible Supports

Because material constraints were constant, relational infrastructures became critical for ongoing practice. These supports were not formal or institutional, but grounded in trust, reciprocity, and proximity: shared tools, neighbor help, group deliveries, informal co-ops, and emotional support. They filled structural gaps left by limited capital, labor, or access to conventional extension services.

Doug described borrowing a tractor during a critical time: “Our neighbor helped us when we needed it most.” Freya noted, “The compost swap we do with two other farms has saved us thousands—and we don’t even track it. It just works.” These informal exchanges made it possible to continue farming regeneratively, even in the absence of outside funding or labor (see Table 6: Relational Infrastructures and Mutual Support Practices).

Some relied on food hubs or cooperative distribution to reduce time and labor demands. Heather shared, “They pick up from us weekly, which means we don’t have to spend hours driving to drop-offs.” Annabel emphasized that knowledge also flowed through these relationships: “We learn more from each other than we ever did in workshops. It’s like on-the-job training, just with friends.”

These supports were affective as well as material. Relational infrastructure offered not just tools or labor, but companionship, problem-solving, and a shared language of care. In contrast, those without strong networks described burnout or plateaued practice. As Freya put it, “We have the values and the vision, but we don’t have the greenhouse, and that delays everything.” Where social supports were thin, regenerative efforts faltered.

Relational labor is often informal and under-recognized in conventional assessments. But from a sociomaterial view, it is foundational. Maintenance is not an individual act—it is distributed across a web of human and more-than-human actors. These networks are what enable resilience in the face of ongoing strain.

2.3 Embodiment in Continuity: Labor, Fatigue, and Somatic Limits

As farmers moved beyond the initial adoption phase, the body emerged as a central site of both sustainability and strain. Regenerative farming demanded not only knowledge and infrastructure, but daily physical labor—often unmechanized, repetitive, and isolating. While ecological routines became familiar, the somatic toll of maintaining them accumulated, shaping how—and whether—farmers could continue.

Judy captured this plainly: “By August, my arms are shot and my hands are swollen. It adds up.” Heather added, “It’s a very physical job, and you can feel the toll after a long day.” These quotes reflect a recurring pattern—sustainability for the land often came at the cost of sustainability for the body.

For aging or solo farmers, embodiment became a limiting factor. Russel noted, “I just can’t do what I used to. My knees don’t like the farm as much as they used to.” Doug reflected, “I know more than I ever have… but my body can’t execute what I imagine anymore.” In these accounts, physical capacity became a bottleneck: even as knowledge increased, execution became harder (see Table 7: Somatic Strain, Burnout, and Bodily Limits in Regenerative Practice).

Embodied limits also altered how farmers engaged with their land. Flynn shared, “You get tired, and you stop seeing. It’s not ignorance—it’s burnout.” The sensory attentiveness required by regenerative systems—observation, responsiveness, improvisation—was dulled by exhaustion. As perception narrowed, decision-making became reactive. Marigold echoed this shift: “You just do the bare minimum and hope for the best.”

Still, some farmers mitigated somatic strain through relational or economic buffers. Iris explained, “Having my sister nearby helps a lot—we split the load during planting and harvesting.” Annabel shared, “I can take a day off now and then because we have a crew we trust. That wasn’t always the case.” These forms of distributed labor—family, friends, hired crew—enabled rest and continuity.

Importantly, embodiment was not only a site of depletion; it was also where vitality was felt. Violet described it this way: “The joy and energy you feel when the farm ecosystem is working—it feeds back into you.” For farmers who experienced moments of ecological success—healthy soil, responsive plants, thriving systems—bodily fatigue was offset by a sense of affirmation and feedback from the land.

Sociomaterial theory frames embodiment not as a background condition, but as a dynamic actor in sustainability. When bodily capacities align with material flows, relational supports, and ethical meanings, regenerative systems can stabilize. But when the body is overextended—due to labor scarcity, poor infrastructure, or external demands—the practice becomes brittle. Continuity, in this light, is not just a technical or ecological achievement. It is also a somatic one.

3. Adapting to Change: Responsive Competencies and Situated Adjustments

Beyond maintenance, regenerative farming required farmers to remain adaptable—physically, mentally, and ecologically. This phase was defined not by stability, but by responsiveness: to changing weather, evolving ecosystems, labor disruptions, and market fluctuations. Rather than following static models, farmers emphasized ongoing experimentation, ecological feedback, and collective learning.

Adaptation was not framed as failure, but as integral to regenerative success. “We’re not planning for stability anymore,” said Iris. “We’re planning for weirdness—heat, rain, dryness, wind, all of it.” In this context, the ability to adjust quickly—to flex rather than break—emerged as a defining feature of resilient practice.

3.1 Ecological Feedback and Embodied Responsiveness

Farmers consistently described how land, weather, and more-than-human actors signaled the need to shift course. This feedback was not just data-driven—it was sensed, interpreted, and acted on through embodied relationships with place.

Achilles observed, “It’s not normal anymore—every year, it’s something extreme: flood, drought, hurricane.” Iris noted, “We plan based on patterns that no longer exist. Now we just adapt in real time.” Such statements reflect how environmental shifts and variability transformed planning from long-term forecasting into ongoing responsiveness (see Table 8: Embodied Responsiveness and Environmental Adaptation).

This responsiveness was often sensory. “You feel it in your body when something’s off,” said Marigold. “It’s like the ground is holding tension.” Julian added, “The focus is to encourage healthy microbial life, which we learned through trial and error. Some of the amendments we thought would help actually disrupted the balance.”

These forms of attunement—observing plant behavior, reading soil conditions by touch, sensing weather shifts—were rarely taught through formal training. They were developed through repetition, intimacy with land, and somatic memory. The result was not a fixed “regenerative system,” but a fluid, perceptive one constantly in conversation with its environment.

3.2 Improvisation, Informal Learning, and Social Adaptation

Adaptation also relied on social learning and material improvisation. Without consistent institutional support, farmers turned to one another and to their own ingenuity.

“We’ve continued to expand little by little, learning each season as we go,” explained Achilles. Doug shared, “We reuse everything. Our wash station was built from an old porch. It’s not pretty, but it does the job.” These improvised systems were not marginal; they were central to making regeneration viable under resource constraints.

Peer networks and local cooperatives emerged as key sources of adaptive knowledge. “We learn more from each other than from workshops,” said Annabel. Stella emphasized, “Participating in local farmers’ markets gave me experience in selling and interacting with customers.” Flynn noted the role of digital platforms: “There’s a Discord channel where a bunch of us troubleshoot stuff… like ‘what’s the best mulch for wet springs?’” (see Table 9: Improvisation and Peer-Based Adaptive Learning).

Adaptation extended beyond ecological shifts—it included responding to labor shortages, customer demands, or community needs. Annabel explained, “We joined a winter CSA cooperative with three other farms. Alone, we couldn’t keep it going, but together, we figured out how to make it work.” These collaborative efforts were often born out of necessity, not long-term strategy, but they sustained systems when other supports fell short.

3.3 Normative Tensions and the Fragility of Legitimacy

While adaptation was central to daily practice, farmers sometimes felt that changing course undermined their legitimacy—especially when their choices deviated from perceived regenerative “standards.”

Flynn described this tension: “We have to constantly explain that ‘no-till’ doesn't mean we’re just lazy farmers.” Heather recalled being judged for sourcing organic compost: “A couple of people looked at us like we had betrayed something.” These moments reveal a form of moral gatekeeping in the regenerative space—where informal definitions become rigid expectations.

Alice summed up the pressure: “There’s this silent pressure to be doing it the ‘right’ way all the time. But what if the ‘right’ way doesn’t work for my soil, or my body, or my time?” (see Table 10: Normative Pressures and Discursive Misrecognition).

Deviation from idealized methods—buying in mulch, using some tillage, scaling back—was often met with critique, despite being ecologically justified or personally necessary. Marigold reflected, “Sometimes I feel like I’m not regenerative enough. But what does that even mean?”

From a sociomaterial perspective, these tensions show that legitimacy in RA is not only determined by ecological outcomes, but by expectations and narratives surrounding farming practices. When adaptive practices are misread as inconsistency or failure, farmers face emotional and reputational strain—especially those working under constraint. Sustaining adaptive capacity, then, requires not only physical and ecological flexibility, but social permission to deviate, revise, and survive. Regenerative agriculture must make space for multiplicity—not just in practices, but in the stories farmers tell about what regeneration looks like.

4. Integration and Alignment: Toward Sustainable Regenerative Systems

Farmers with several years of regenerative experience often described reaching a point of alignment—a phase where values, practices, bodies, and material conditions began to cohere. This was not a moment of ease, but of relative stability: farmers felt more confident in their systems, more responsive to their land, and more able to sustain the work over time.

Julian shared, “After five years, we kind of found our stride. We don’t second guess every decision anymore.” This shift reflected more than technical competence. It marked a synchronization across core elements of practice: meaning, material infrastructure, embodied capacity, and local knowledge.

Annabel described this turning point succinctly: “It stopped feeling like a project and started feeling like a life.” For these farmers, regeneration had moved beyond ambition or improvisation. It had become a lived, practiced rhythm grounded in experience, iteration, and multispecies feedback.

This phase did not mean the end of constraint—but it signaled the emergence of coherent systems that could hold complexity without collapse.

(See Table 11: Alignment Across Practice Elements for extended quotes.)

4.1 Doing Less, Better: Slowing Down as Strategy and Ethic

Among farmers who had reached greater alignment, many described intentionally reducing scale or complexity as a way to preserve sustainability—for themselves and their land. This shift was not framed as failure, but as refinement.

Doug explained, “We used to try to do everything… Now we do one market and a few restaurants. It’s slower, but it’s better.” Others emphasized the bodily benefits. Judy shared, “I can’t do what I did at 30. So now I don’t. And the farm’s still here.”

Farmers described letting go of stress-inducing enterprises, simplifying crop plans, or focusing on quality relationships over volume. Annabel noted, “We do fewer markets now, but the relationships are better. People come back because they trust us.”

Slowing down was both a survival strategy and an ethic of care. Freya put it plainly: “The land doesn’t need us to do more. It needs us to listen better.” In these cases, sustainability was measured not by expansion, but by durability and livability.

(See Table 12: Slowing Down as Livability Strategy for additional quotes.)

4.2 More-than-Human Feedback and Multispecies Commitment

Many farmers described deepening relationships with more-than-human actors—soil, pollinators, livestock—that shaped their sense of success and purpose. These were not symbolic connections, but daily, sensory, and often emotional forms of feedback.

Violet said, “The joy and energy you feel when the farm ecosystem is working—it feeds back into you.” For Marigold, this feedback was moral as well as material: “The pollinators come back when you stop killing everything. It’s like a thank-you note from the land.”

Livestock, too, were described as collaborators. Bellamy noted, “Our goats help clear the bittersweet… It’s like they know what needs to go.” Soil was also a key communicator. Freya explained, “Strong soil life boosts everything. You can see it in how our plants recover.”

These multispecies dynamics reinforced farmer commitment, especially in moments of fatigue or doubt. Cassie recalled, “The rye came back so thick—it was like the land saying, ‘keep going.’”

From a sociomaterial perspective, this phase reflects a shift in agency: the land and its inhabitants became active participants in regenerative systems, shaping both outcomes and affective ties.

(See Table 13: Multispecies Feedback and Relational Motivation for extended quotes.)

4.3 Persistent Structural Limits

Even for farmers who had developed stable and responsive regenerative systems, long-standing structural barriers continued to shape the outer limits of what was possible. These constraints—especially land tenure insecurity, labor shortages, housing precarity, and rising input costs—undermined continuity regardless of farmer skill, motivation, or system design.

Sloane, farming on borrowed land, put it starkly: “I don’t even know if I’ll be here next year. How can you regenerate when your foundation isn’t secure?” This precarity often made long-term planning feel emotionally and ecologically untenable.

Freya described the cost barrier: “Buying compost is super expensive, and we can’t make enough ourselves yet.” Others pointed to the fragility of labor systems. Russel explained, “I just can’t find help that stays. And you can’t do this work alone forever.”

Housing access, particularly for workers or apprentices, also shaped farm viability. Annabel shared, “We’ve had people who wanted to work with us but couldn’t afford to live anywhere nearby. It’s not just a labor issue—it’s a housing crisis.”

These challenges persisted even in farms that were otherwise thriving. Regenerative systems, once aligned, could still unravel under economic and structural pressure. As Doug reflected, “We’re not pretending the system isn’t broken. We’re just trying to make something livable inside of it.”

From a sociomaterial perspective, these constraints are not external to farming—they are constitutive of it. Regeneration depends not only on what happens within the farm gate, but on the broader systems of property, labor, and infrastructure that shape what is materially possible.

(See Table 14: Structural Constraints and the Limits of Sustainability for extended quotes.)