By P.J. Huffstutter
LITTLE ROCK, Arkansas, Aug 31 (Reuters) – A decade ago, Hallie Shoffner quit a career in non-profits to help her aging parents run the family farm. For more than a century, their land had endured droughts and floods, booms and busts, the shift from traditional farming to the mechanized, high-tech planting of rice, soy and other commodities that now dominate American agriculture.
At first, Shoffner thrived, proud to continue tilling their fertile soil on the western fringe of the Mississippi Delta. Last year, however, she came to a difficult, if unavoidable conclusion: The business, beset by increasingly high costs and vanishing profit margins, could no longer survive. She sold machinery, tools – nearly everything but the land and homestead built by her great-granduncle in 1901.
Shoffner’s ordeal recently sparked another sharp career turn for the 39-year-old wife and mother: Democratic Party nominee for the U.S. Senate. Ahead of the November Congressional elections, Shoffner believes the problems that hurt her farm, and many more like it across rural Arkansas, can loosen the grip that Republicans in recent decades forged across the U.S. farm belt.
It will be difficult.
A recent poll, conducted by news website Talk Business & Politics, and Arkansas’ Hendrix College, suggested the race between Shoffner and incumbent Senator Tom Cotton could be close. But Cotton has been in Congress since 2013, two years before Shoffner returned home to farm, and no Democrat has won federal office or the governorship of Arkansas since 2010. The senator’s campaign coffers dwarf Shoffner’s and the three major non-partisan election analysis groups rate the outcome as safely Republican.
Cotton, through his reelection campaign, declined to be interviewed for this report. Brian Colas, a spokesman for the campaign, in an email scorned Shoffner as a phony with little to offer. “Shoffner’s attempt to pose as a moderate farmer is a fraud,” he wrote. “Shoffner’s far-left social positions and her far-left economic positions matter to Arkansas voters.”
Shoffner is undeterred.
She is among a growing number of Democratic candidates and a new crop of rural politicians with direct ties to agriculture betting that the woes now wracking U.S. farms outweigh the conservatism and social issues that have enabled Republicans to dominate the South and the broader American heartland. “No one in Washington really realizes how bad things are right now,” Shoffner told Reuters, steering her dusty pickup toward a recent campaign stop near Little Rock, the state capital. “If I can’t farm, then I’m going to fight to fix this.”
Her pitch to rural voters is about economics, not any radical shift in party loyalty. Shoffner herself, a center-left Democrat and a Christian, doesn’t expect a sudden embrace of progressive politics.
But the difficulties facing farmers, and the suppliers and industries that serve them, could sour voters on the status quo, some electoral researchers say. “We’re looking at at least more competitive elections than we would have anticipated a year or two ago,” said John C. Davis, a political scientist at the University of Arkansas. “That’s noteworthy.”
Farming is a cyclical business. Even the most fertile lands and bountiful harvests can be upended by weather, soil conditions, or sudden shifts in supply and demand, global trade and economic policy.
Despite such ebbs and flows, the U.S. farm economy early this century managed to grow, fueled by demand from China. Since 2018, however, market conditions have worsened, squeezing farmers who face mounting financial pressure.
First, President Donald Trump, during his first administration, began imposing tariffs on Chinese goods, prompting Beijing to retaliate with levies that dampened demand for American crops. COVID-19 and wars in Ukraine and the Middle East followed, stoking inflation and causing seed, fertilizer and pesticide prices to soar. Higher interest rates, meanwhile, raised the cost of credit.
To alleviate losses for farmers, the federal government in recent years has provided hundreds of billions of dollars in payments to farmers. But the root causes of the problems remain. Growers and economists alike say today’s business environment is among the worst since a wave of foreclosures and bankruptcies crippled American farmers in the 1980s.
American farm debt – including loans for both real estate and operating expenses like seeds, fertilizer, and machinery – this year is projected to balloon to about $625 billion, according to data from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The figure, adjusted for inflation, is 3.2% higher than last year and a nearly 18% increase from 2019. It has outpaced debt levels across other sectors of the economy.
Compared with many other businesses, farmers are forced to borrow just to continue operating. That’s because regardless of economic conditions, they need land, supplies and equipment that regularly require large capital investments. They can’t pivot as easily as businesses in other sectors.
“You can’t do that in agriculture,” said Trey Malone, an agricultural economist at Purdue University. Many small retail companies and manufacturers after the pandemic successfully scaled back, moved online and became more efficient. “Those small businesses had a release valve farmers don’t.”
Agriculture, food and related industries generate more than $1.5 trillion annually, according to federal figures – about 5.5% of the U.S. economy. Turmoil in the sector could easily spill over. In Arkansas, the country’s top producer of rice, the crisis is hitting rural communities hard.
The state, for the twelve months ending June 30, led the U.S. in the number of Chapter 12 bankruptcy filings. The filings, a type of restructuring made available to family farmers under federal law, are considered by economists to be a lagging indicator of stress. Further problems may lie out there as farmers like Shoffner explore liquidations and other extreme options.
As she campaigns at social halls, pizza parlors and machinery sheds statewide, Shoffner warns about the consequences the new farm crisis could bring. Arkansas, she argues, should diversify its economy, building processing facilities to add value to commodities locally instead of sending them out for processing elsewhere. New industry and new crops, she says, are needed to make even cities less vulnerable to commodity swings.
“Rural Arkansas needs to thrive for everyone to thrive,” she told one audience. “When one farm goes out of business, like when my farm went out of business, a whole bunch of other people lose.”
Reuters recently spent three weeks with Shoffner and Arkansas voters to examine the problems at U.S. farms and their potential economic and political implications nationwide. Be they growers, businesspeople, or everyday citizens eyeing gathering clouds on the horizon, all agreed their worries can no longer be ignored.
“EVERYTHING MY PARENTS HAD BUILT”
Nestled between the conservative strongholds of the Deep South and Lower Midwest, Arkansas is among the least likely places in the U.S. for a Democrat to gain traction. As in other Southern states, Arkansas in recent decades shed loyalty to the party and increasingly voted Republican, their Bible Belt values at odds with what they considered elitist, metropolitan worldviews of many Democrats.
Even Democrat Bill Clinton, who famously used the Arkansas governor’s mansion as a springboard to the presidency in 1992, did so by pulling his party rightward. In the decades since he left the White House, the state fully embraced the mix of populist and conservative ideas that now define Trumpism. In the 2024 election, Trump carried the state by over 30 percentage points.
But now, as rural communities struggle, candidates like Shoffner are emerging, voicing discontent over economic and trade policies. Nationwide, Reuters identified at least 30 candidates with farming, ranching or other agricultural backgrounds running for federal office. Nearly three-quarters of those have never held federal elected positions. Almost half are Democrats or independents seeking to unseat Republicans.
In Louisiana, vegetable farmer Conrad Cable, a 34-year-old progressive Democrat, is running a populist campaign against Mike Johnson, the Republican speaker of the House of Representatives. Cable blames tariffs and budget cuts by Trump and his party for the decline of Louisiana farms, rural economies and local healthcare.
“Because of Republican policies, we have 12 to 14 rural hospitals that are set to close next year,” said Cable, who lives in Farmerville, in northern Louisiana. “It means people I love will die.”
A spokesperson for Johnson in a statement said the speaker has led initiatives that improve healthcare and support agriculture in rural communities across the country. Those efforts have included House passage, for the first time in nearly a decade, of a Farm Bill, as the country’s major agriculture legislation is known. The bill is still pending in the Senate.
White House spokesperson Anna Kelly in an email to Reuters said, “President Trump has done more for American agriculture than anyone.” She said administration measures including trade deals, tax relief, and rural development have all benefitted the sector. “The president will continue taking actions to support our great farmers and ranchers while driving economic prosperity for all Americans.”
In the late 1980s, rural discontent helped Democrats wrest the Senate from Reagan Republicans. They successfully contrasted hardship in the heartland with the excesses of Wall Street and the consumerist culture of that decade. The message hurt incumbents by suggesting that “the legislation they have brought forth is not actually bringing prosperity to our communities,” said Cory Haala, a South Dakota State University professor who authored a book about the time.
Shoffner, the sixth generation to work the family soil, was born in that era, growing up in the 1901 farmhouse. Her father farmed. Her mother started a research business that tested and developed seed varieties on their land, about 90 miles northeast of Little Rock. A road sign still identifies the area as Shoffner, for the unincorporated town that once existed around their farm.
After high school, Shoffner earned a degree in Spanish from Vanderbilt University in Tennessee, spending a summer in India teaching English. While earning a master’s degree from the Clinton School of Public Service, she interned with a women’s rights organization in Peru.
School behind her, Shoffner returned to Little Rock and joined a series of non-profit and marketing organizations. In 2015, she was working for a startup when her mother called. Her father had begun forgetting appointments, leaving the farm early for reasons he couldn’t remember. He was later diagnosed with dementia.
Shoffner quit her job and came home to farm.
She spent long days with her parents – walking fields, studying crops, tracking finances. By 2017, she was running the farm herself. She says the work was hard but fulfilling. She gave birth to a son, now 7.
For a spell, the farm thrived. She grew rice, corn, soybeans. “I loved everything about it,” Shoffner says.
By summer of 2024, soaring costs made the outlook increasingly grim. Shoffner recalls sitting inside the farmhouse, building spreadsheets, calculating the right mix of acreage and crops to avoid a loss. One scenario, the only feasible option she saw, would involve slashing the operation – planting rice on about 500 acres, roughly a quarter of what the family farmed in better times.
Still, with interest rates near recent highs, financing would be onerous. Her lender approved a nearly $1 million operating loan for the coming season, but the farmland and her parents’ savings would be the collateral. Although the stipulation wasn’t new, it now appeared too risky for a plan that left little room for error or setbacks beyond her control.
Shoffner had no way of predicting problems then just around the corner – further Trump tariffs, additional spikes in fuel and fertilizer prices. But she had farmed long enough to know that things rarely go according to plan. “I couldn’t risk everything my parents had built,” Shoffner says.
She called her parents. Then she called the auctioneer.
“We got her in fast,” said Kirk Witcher, an auctioneer who handles farm liquidations in Arkansas, Mississippi and Tennessee. Including Shoffner’s, Witcher last year oversaw 19 farm liquidations. This year, he told Reuters, he managed that many by mid-May.
Over two weeks in March 2025, Shoffner sold tires, equipment, and more. A tractor fetched $130,500, while a heap of scrap metal sold for $40. Total proceeds: just over $1 million.
Shoffner still worries whether it was enough. The family this year filed for an extension on taxes related to the liquidation, seeking more time to know just how much they owe. “It’s a mess,” she says. “We still haven’t figured it out.”
“BACK OUT TO THE FARM”
Initially, Shoffner said she had no plans to enter politics.
While still processing the trauma of the liquidation, she posted about it on Facebook, over a picture of her young son in camouflage overalls. “After 150 years of farming in my family,” the March 2025 post read, “I’m heartbroken to share that our operation is closing.”
The post got traction. In comments, others related fears that a similar decision lay ahead for them. A Democratic organizer reached out about an upcoming town hall in Little Rock. Would she speak to attendees?
At first, Shoffner declined. But upon further reflection, and consultation with her mother, she agreed.
The Methodist church that hosted the meeting that evening was full. So was the venue for a simultaneous event just seven blocks away – a $7,000-a-plate fundraiser for Cotton, the incumbent senator, at the Capital Hotel, a 19th century edifice that advertises its “Gilded Age elegance.”
Gripping a metal music stand improvised into a podium, Shoffner related her tale. She blamed the malaise weakening farm country on incumbents. She decried elected officials who act rural when courting constituents, but forget about them as soon as they leave.
“I am sick of politicians playing dress-up in cowboy boots and saying they care about farmers and then do nothing in our time of need,” she said.
The church erupted in applause. Several of those present, Shoffner said, suggested she run for office. With the help of early volunteers and donors, she decided to do so. She began working with Anna-Lee Pittman, a veteran of national campaigns including Hillary Clinton’s in 2016.
Within a year, Shoffner had won the Democratic primary.
Her campaign, according to Federal Election Commission filings, reported 55% more in contributions from individual donors than Cotton during the second quarter of this year. Nearly 80% of those contributions, Shoffner’s campaign says, came from local donors, not big out-of-state political organizations.
Cotton, however, is still favored to win. He enjoys a much bigger war chest, built over many years of campaigning – nearly $10 million in cash on hand compared with just under $900,000 for Shoffner, the filings show. The prediction market Polymarket rates his odds of winning at 94%.
As she crisscrosses Arkansas, Shoffner hopes her message can outmaneuver Cotton’s financial advantage. “Tom Cotton?” she asks, criticizing what she says is her rival’s absence at rural hustings. “He hasn’t shown up for us as a senator and he hasn’t shown up on the campaign trail.”
The senator’s campaign defended Cotton’s work on behalf of the state. “Senator Cotton’s job requires him to be in Washington most of the time, casting votes and passing bills on behalf of Arkansans,” wrote James Arnold, a spokesperson, in a statement. “What’s important isn’t who holds the most political events, but who best represents the will and values of the voters.”
Cotton’s campaign, and the broader Republican party, have questioned Shoffner’s credentials and sought to portray her as extreme. In a recent fundraising email, Cotton said “national Radical Democrats,” through Shoffner, had made Arkansas their “next target.” One conservative outlet dug up old internet posts in which Shoffner, while interning in Peru, talked about marching in Lima’s gay pride parade.
“She’ll never be elected,” Samantha Cantrell, a spokesperson for the National Republican Senatorial Committee, told Reuters.
Today’s troubles, Shoffner says, matter more than her student activism nearly two decades ago. New farm problems, from renewed fighting with trading partners to hardline immigration policies that raised the cost of labor, are making things worse.
Some voters say attack ads against Shoffner actually piqued their interest. During a recent stop at Farm Fest, a fair in the eastern town of Wynne, Shoffner introduced herself at a tent for a local car business. “I’ve seen an ad trying to talk bad about you,” said Edie Myers, a medical assistant who told Shoffner she has seen the area’s problems up close. “I didn’t listen to it.”
At her Little Rock headquarters, volunteers one afternoon came in and out, grabbing lawn signs, making donations, offering to make phone calls. Amid the commotion, Pittman, the campaign manager, approached her. “We have a lot of new people,” Pittman said, suggesting they take staff to see Shoffner’s land to better understand the family’s experience. “It’s time to go back out to the farm.”
The next day, Shoffner drove there in her battered Chevy Silverado, followed by Pittman and a gaggle of staff. The old farmhouse sits shaded by towering trees. Other structures are weathered and idle – an old cotton gin building, a former general store from when the farm anchored a small community.
As the staff wandered, another pickup truck approached. Shoffner’s cousin, Jack Kent, stepped out. A Republican who voted for Trump, Kent farms some of the family land, including plots once cultivated by Shoffner.
Kent said he unsuccessfully tried to get Shoffner to run as a Republican. He will support her nonetheless, he added, not because of blood ties, but because her experience could help Arkansas farmers. “The amount of debt and size of these operating loans,” said Kent, 62-years-old. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The question is whether other voters can be convinced.
One evening, after 14 hours of campaign stops, Shoffner took a break and pulled into the parking lot of a farm supply store in Paragould, near the state’s borders with Missouri and Tennessee. More than 100 people were there for a “farmer revival,” organized by the local chapter of a rural ministry.
The minister, Cliff Carter, is a friend and a fellow farmer, and Shoffner had promised to stop by. A cross fashioned from pine 2x4s stood beside a flatbed trailer serving as a stage. A half-filled livestock trough awaited baptisms.
Carter told the gathering he had prayed repeatedly for God to improve conditions for the industry. “But you know what?” he asked. “They’re not changing.”
Afterwards, a young farmer approached Shoffner and said he too had been praying for a miracle. Others assembled around her. They shared their own woes, shook her hand, and some pledged their support.
“I don’t think a miracle is coming,” Shoffner told them. She recounted her experience and then spoke of the need for new policies, new crops, new industries. “It’s a real opportunity for us,” she said.
(Editing by Paulo Prada and Emily Schmall.)
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