On a sweltering July afternoon in Central Florida, a farmer known simply as F. surveys his fields with a heavy heart. To a passerby, the land might seem barren and unremarkable, but to F., who has worked this soil since the 1980s, it is a stage set for strawberries—if only the season, and the times, were more forgiving. But as he stands under the relentless sun, F. admits, "Things changed, almost overnight."
According to NPR, the seismic shift he refers to is the result of President Trump’s recent immigration policies, which have swept through Florida’s agricultural heartland with the force of a hurricane. Mass detentions and deportations, coupled with a ramped-up enforcement push led by Governor Ron DeSantis—who has deployed highway patrol and local police—have left many migrant workers either fleeing the state or hiding in fear. "You just never know where agents are," F. says, his voice dropping even though no one is nearby. The impact on his farm has been immediate and dramatic: "A lot of the migrants have left. The rest are hiding."
F. is not alone in this predicament. Across Central Florida, farmers are grappling with a labor crisis that’s forced them to make painful decisions. In a typical year, about half of F.’s workforce is undocumented, while the other half come through the H2A agricultural visa program. This season, though, he’s taking no chances. "I’m not hiring any strawberry pickers who are in the U.S. illegally," he explains. But the alternative isn’t much better: "I can’t afford to hire more H2A visa workers—the costs have been going up for years." As a result, F. is slashing production for next year to just 35% of his usual output.
This isn’t an isolated story. NPR reports that over the past four months, agricultural employment in the U.S. has fallen by 155,000 workers—the steepest decline in nearly a decade. Economists have warned that the ongoing deportation campaign will deal a heavy blow to the broader U.S. economy, especially in sectors reliant on migrant labor. The numbers are stark, but the human toll is even more palpable among those who live and work in Florida’s fields.
Even President Trump has publicly acknowledged the dilemma. At a news conference in mid-June, he stated, "Our farmers are being hurt badly. They have very good workers, they've worked for them for 20 years. They're not citizens, but they've turned out to be great. We can't take farmers and take all their people." Yet, despite this recognition, there has been no meaningful policy shift. In fact, the administration’s stance has only hardened. In early July, Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins declared, "The president has been unequivocal that there will be no amnesty." She suggested that automation and drawing from the pool of 34 million able-bodied adults in Medicaid could replace migrant labor. "There are plenty of workers in America," Rollins insisted.
Farmers interviewed by NPR were quick to dismiss these suggestions as out of touch. Many said they are already paying well above minimum wage, yet American-born applicants are rare. John Walt Boatright, director of government affairs at the American Farm Bureau, explained, "The interest and the willingness to work on farms has not been there. It hasn't been there for a long time." Boatright argues for urgent reform of the H2A visa system and supports a pathway to citizenship for undocumented farmworkers—a sentiment echoed by many in Florida’s agricultural sector.
Jeb Smith, president of the Florida Farm Bureau Federation, takes a broader view, warning that threats to the agricultural workforce imperil national security. "I think the American consumer ought to be concerned about food being a national security issue," Smith told NPR. "Anytime that there is a threat to not getting a safe, affordable and abundant food supply, it should be concerning to the American public. We do not want to be dependent on foreign countries for our food. That could be a very devastating reality. That is a dangerous thing to dabble with." Smith’s top priority is capping the costs of the H2A visa program, though he stops short of calling for full citizenship pathways. "There is a concern about some of our workforce just not being able to function at full capacity. That's something we need to be very cognizant of. When it comes to deportation, I'm confident most farmers in our country agree we want a safe border, but we need a good workforce, and we need it legal."
Drive farther west into Central Florida’s agricultural belt and the landscape is dotted with Trump flags and mailboxes adorned with MAGA stickers, a sign of the political loyalties that run deep here. Yet, even among staunch supporters, there is unease. One strawberry farmer, identified only as W., agreed to speak with NPR on the condition of anonymity, fearing backlash in his pro-Trump community. Sitting in a shed, seeking shade from the heat, W. confides that while he supports the president, he’s deeply worried about the future of his farm. "They need to come up with like, letting these ones who've been here for 15-20 years going in and doing their papers right," W. says, referring to long-term workers. "I mean, they been here, raised their families. I know there's some bad seeds out there. But there's bad seeds everywhere." He also wants to see lower H2A visa fees and a legal pathway for workers who have built their lives in Florida.
This tension—between political allegiance and economic necessity—is playing out in real time across the state. While Governor DeSantis’s aggressive enforcement has pleased some, it’s left others caught in a bind. Farmers like F. and W. are forced to choose between following the letter of the law and keeping their operations afloat. The result is a patchwork of uncertainty, with some fields left empty and others worked by a shrinking, anxious labor force.
As the debate rages in Washington and Tallahassee, the practical consequences are being felt in places like Tampa and Plant City, where strawberries are as much a part of the local identity as the sun and the soil. The fear is that if the current trajectory continues, these traditions—and the livelihoods that depend on them—could be lost.
For now, the fields of Central Florida remain quiet, their future uncertain. The only certainty is that the choices made in the coming months will shape not just the next harvest, but the fabric of rural life in one of America’s most productive agricultural regions.
