If you had told me 35 years ago, as I hunched over a microscope in a quiet University of Minnesota lab, that my work would someday touch the lives of every farmer, I might have laughed. Back then, my world revolved around the invisible-tiny microbes living in the soil and on plants, their lives unfolding in ways we were only just beginning to understand.
My fascination began with simple questions: What do plant-associated microbes do? How do they help plants thrive? Why do they form these partnerships, and what do they gain? I spent years collecting microbes from fields managed in every imaginable way, building a living library of possibilities. I wanted to see the world from the microbe’s perspective — to understand not just how they survive, but how they flourish, and how we might harness their strengths to help agriculture reduce its reliance on pesticides and synthetic inputs.
My lab became a hive of activity-students, test tubes, field trials, and data. We published hundreds of papers, each a tiny window into the complex dance between plants and their microbial partners. Today, the most profound insight I’ve discovered is this: no microbe, and no scientist, is an island. Our greatest advances come not from solitary effort but depend on community — on the right partners, at the right time, in the right place.
Despite publishing hundreds of scientific papers and securing millions in research funding, I realized that knowledge alone was not enough. The gap between discovery and delivery — the so-called “valley of death” — remained wide. Growers were eager to test our microbes, but translating research into practical, scalable solutions required a new approach.
The U.S. Land Grant system was founded on the principle that education and research should serve the public good, providing solutions to the grand challenges facing agriculture and society. I felt a deep responsibility to honor this mission, not just by advancing knowledge, but by ensuring it reached those who could use it. Translation is critical, yet traditional extension alone could not bridge the gap between lab bench and farm gate.
So, when most would be thinking about retirement, I did something unexpected: started a company. Guided by our university’s commercialization office, I began meeting with investors —what I jokingly called “blind dates.” It was daunting, but we laid a solid foundation for what is now Jord BioScience.
Scaling up field trials, mastering fermentation, navigating marketing and communications, these were foreign territories. But I wasn’t alone. Just as microbes thrive in partnership, I found strength in building a team. The thrill of hiring our first non-university employee, the challenge of growing microbes during the pandemic, the leaps we made as new team members joined — each step reminded me that collaboration is at the heart of progress.
Today, at Jord BioScience, we’re not just commercializing microbes; we’re building a network of partners, including growers, researchers, and investors, committed to sustainable agriculture. Our core value is collaboration, because we know that when times are tight and challenges are great, synergies matter more than ever. Every success has been a collective one, built on trust, communication, and a shared vision for a more sustainable future.
My journey has taught me that academia must become more entrepreneurial, embracing uncertainty and seeking the bright side of risk. Land grant universities play a critical role in agricultural innovation, but they need financial support and a bridge to commercialization to continue innovating new solutions in today’s environment. When resources are scarce, collaboration isn’t just beneficial — it’s essential.
Now is the time for all of us in the agricultural system to break down silos and boldly work together with purpose and optimism. Because, just like microbes, we are stronger and more resilient when we join forces.
