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When I was invited to speak at the Chautauqua Institution a couple weeks ago about the future of agriculture, food and technology, four words bounced around my head.
They come from the philosopher William MacAskill: “We are the ancients.”
It’s a simple phrase but a powerful one, because it’s a reminder that although we tend to think of ourselves as descendants of the past—which we certainly are!—we’re also ancestors of the future.
And I think, in a really fundamental way, we’re misunderstanding the future. When I think about the future of food, I don’t start with technology itself. I start with the people using it.
I’ve spent more than two decades traveling around the world and talking with farmers, scientists, entrepreneurs, policymakers, fishers, food workers, community leaders, and so many others. That’s become my work and my passion: I’m a professional listener.
And I listen to a lot of farmers. Typically, they’re not looking for the next silver bullet technology. They want solutions that quietly improve their lives. Because in the end, technology isn’t the destination. It’s a tool.
People often ask me whether I’m excited about artificial intelligence. I am, for the most part. They ask about biotechnology. Robotics. Precision agriculture. Gene editing. Digital tools. My answer is almost always the same: Yes, with guardrails and intentionality. Artificial intelligence is helping reduce food waste. Digital platforms are helping farmers reach new markets. Weather forecasting tools are helping producers deal with the impacts of El Niño. Traceability systems are removing opaqueness from agricultural and marine supply chains.
What’s necessary to make these emerging digital technologies into forces for good is that they solve problems people actually have, not imaginary ones. And that they’re shaped by the people actually experiencing the problems the technologies aim to solve.
Because what I’ve heard from farmers around the world is that people rarely wake up wishing for a new technology—they’re looking for solutions. They’re trying to grow food with less water. They are trying to protect their crops from existing and emerging pests and diseases. They are trying to reduce backbreaking labor. They are trying to counter the impacts that will come from El Niño. They are trying to simply feed their families. They are trying to build a future their children want to be part of.
Too often, we talk about the future as if we have to choose between high-tech and low-tech agriculture. Between artificial intelligence and Indigenous knowledge. Between robotics and agroecology. Between biotechnology and biodiversity. Too often, we talk about technology as if what’s happening in farmlands in Zambia and conference rooms in Silicon Valley are totally unrelated.
But this is a dangerously false dichotomy. Those aren’t competing ways of knowing; they’re complementary. One expands what we can measure. The other deepens what we understand.
The future belongs to agriculture that combines innovation with experience, scientific discovery with practical wisdom, and new ideas with generations of accumulated knowledge. The future is defined by our ability to bring together the best of what we already know: The knowledge of farmers. The insights of scientists. The wisdom of Indigenous communities. The creativity of entrepreneurs. The leadership of women. The energy of young people. And the power of technology when applied thoughtfully and responsibly.
The next agricultural revolution won’t be judged by how sophisticated our technologies become. It will be judged by whether future generations inherit healthier soils, healthier communities, healthier ecosystems, and healthier food systems because of the choices we make today.
And perhaps that’s the most important lesson I’ve heard over the past 20 years of listening: Food systems transformation isn’t powered only by the technologies we invent but also by the relationships we build with one another. That’s how innovation spreads, how communities become more resilient, how we truly nourish both people and the planet.
Another question I get asked all the time is whether I’m optimistic about the future. And I don’t think optimism is quite the right word; hope is. Hope is seeing people respond to extraordinary challenges with creativity, determination, and courage. That’s what gives me confidence. The future of agriculture is not something that happens to us. It’s something we create, every day, from a foundational place of hopefulness.
After more than 20 years of traveling the world, I remain hopeful. Not because I think someone is coming to save us, but because I’ve seen what people are capable of when they are trusted, supported, invested in, and connected to one another. Technology matters—but relationships matter more.
The future of food is already being built. Our responsibility is to make sure the people building it have the resources, opportunities, and respect they deserve. If indeed “we are the ancients,” we need to start thinking and behaving like the stewards we’d hope to be remembered as being.
Watch Danielle’s full keynote address at the Chautauqua Institution below:
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Photo courtesy of Duta Waskita, Unsplash
