“I don’t know if it’s still worth it.” –He didn’t say it right away.
We had been talking for a while—about the season, the work, how things were going. The conversation felt familiar at first. The kind you have after years of doing this.
I’ve known him for some time now. But he has been coming for much longer. More than ten seasons, if I remember well.
Every year, he leaves his family behind and returns to the fields… Months of absence. Months of work that demand everything from his body—and from his mind and heart. When he used to talk about it, there was a kind of certainty in his voice. Not because it was easy—but because it made sense.
“It’s hard… but it’s worth it.”
I remember him saying that. At the time, he was showing me photos of his family, the home he was able to build for them…Not only did I believe him—I could feel it. In the way he spoke about his family, about the home he built, and why he kept coming back. This time, something felt different. Not immediately. But slowly, in the way he paused… in the way he chose his words.
He started talking about how the rules for farmworkers have changed—less income, higher costs of living here in the U.S. and back home. Now, it takes more hours to earn what used to come easier. But at the same time, there’s no real way to create more hours—the job remains the same, year after year.
“The work is the same,” he said—and it’s true. The heat hasn’t changed. The hours haven’t changed. The weight of the work on the body hasn’t changed.
But something else has.
He looked down for a moment before saying it. Not with frustration. Not with anger. Just… tired.
“I don’t know if this is still worth it.”
There was no need to explain much after that. Because the question carried everything.
After so many years, he is not trying to understand the system. He already knows it. He knows how the work changes with the season. He knows how the pay shifts. He knows what to expect—and what not to expect.
But now, he is asking something different. Not “how does this work?”, but: “Does it still make sense?”
He talked about his family. About the important moments he has missed. The months away that, when counted, become years… moments that don’t come back. And then he said it, almost quietly:
“This will probably be my last year.”
It wasn’t dramatic. But it stayed with me. Because it wasn’t just about him. His words hold the thoughts and feelings of others who have dedicated their lives to our fields—those “invisible” faces that make it possible for us to have food on our tables.