Food Access Depends on Where You Stand

Food access in rural America is shaped less by choice and more by distance, infrastructure, and what has quietly disappeared over time. I did not understand this growing up. Looking back now, I can see it clearly. 

The View from a Different Place 

As an adult looking back on my childhood, certain moments replay with surprising clarity. One of them is my dad lifting me from bed before sunrise, carrying me to the car at 4 a.m., and starting the annual drive from Texas to Tennessee to visit my favorite aunt and my three cousins. After hours in the car, nothing felt better than arriving in what my cousins called “the sticks.” The release was immediate. We ran across their land without boundaries, without supervision, without noise complaints. The landscape was beautiful and the pace was slower. Trips into town with my aunt felt communal. Everyone seemed to know everyone. People stopped to talk. That stood in stark contrast to my hometown, where I crossed paths with countless people each day but rarely exchanged more than a passing glance.  

As I grew older, I noticed the struggles just beneath the surface of that slower pace. Jobs were few and far between. My aunt rotated through work whenever something became available. Most opportunities were low paying and rarely lasted more than a few months. 

At one point, my dad tried to help my aunt by funding a small restaurant for her in town. She was a phenomenal cook, the kind who could make biscuits and gravy better than anywhere I’ve ever had them, which is saying something in Tennessee. For a moment, it felt like an opportunity to build something lasting. 

But the kitchen struggled. Foot traffic was inconsistent. Purchasing was difficult for her to manage. She often underbought produce, dairy, and meat, then found herself running to the local grocer for ingredients rather than making the two-hour trip to Nashville, where wholesale prices might have made the numbers work. Everyday life revolved around what was available nearby, and to be honest, that was not much. 

I remember when her town got its first Walmart. It was a big deal. People talked about it as a turning point. Lower prices. More selection. For many families, it felt like progress. Over time, something else happened. The small local grocers could not compete. They did not have the buying power and could not match the prices. Gradually, the mom-and-pop stores disappeared.  At the time, I did not think of this as a food access issue. It just felt like change. 

What Access Looks Like from the Outside 

I grew up and built my life in cities. Food has always been close. If I need groceries, I drive a few minutes or walk a few blocks. I choose where to shop based on convenience or preference, not necessity. Cost registers, but it rarely determines whether food is available at all. 

That contrast becomes clearer the older I get. 

In rural communities like the ones I visited growing up, access is shaped by distance, by what infrastructure exists, and by what has been lost over time. When a store closes, it does not just change where people shop. It changes how far they travel, how much they spend, and how often fresh food is an option. 

Rural hunger often does not look like empty shelves. It looks like planning. It looks like tradeoffs. It looks like families making careful decisions about where to spend limited time and money. Food access was part of that reality, even if I did not have the language for it at the time. 

The Quiet Role of Systems 

Looking back, what stands out most is how quietly these changes happened. No single decision created the gap. Systems are shaped over years by economics, consolidation, and systems that favored scale over proximity. When access depends on a single store, a single route, or a single supplier, communities become fragile. When local options disappear, the margin for error shrinks. A broken car, a missed paycheck, or a price increase can ripple quickly through a household. 

These are not dramatic failures. They are slow ones. 

Sitting With the Reality 

I think about those Tennessee visits often, especially when food feels effortless in my own life. I think about how easy it is not to notice access when it has always been there. I think about how rarely we question the systems that determine who get food easily and who works harder for it. 

This reflection is not about nostalgia or blame. It is about awareness. About recognizing that food access in this country is uneven and deeply tied to place. Understanding that what feels normal in one setting can feel out of reach in another. 

If access has changed so much in the places I remember from childhood, what does that mean for the families living there now? And what does it say about the systems we continue to build and maintain?