If you follow me on social media, you already know I love using analogies to explain concepts, processes, and all kinds of things about soil. They make science easier to connect with, and today I want to share one that’s a little more personal.
Not so long ago, I had a dog named Oslo. He was the best, truly.
We took great care of him, monitoring his health, knowing he had a heart condition typical of his breed. We checked his numbers, followed veterinary advice, and did what we could. But health is more than numbers. What about his stress levels? His environment? His joy? Those things weren’t captured by statistics.
His story taught me something powerful: focusing only on “health” can make us miss the bigger picture.
That’s exactly what happens when we talk about soil health.
The Buzzword Problem
“Soil health” is everywhere: on campaigns, in policies, in research. It works really well because it’s intuitive: if people care about their own health, they can relate to the idea of healthy soil. The metaphor is strong. But in its popularity, the term has also lost precision. “Saving soil health” sounds good, but what does it really mean?
If we only classify soils as healthy or unhealthy based on a handful of indicators, we risk reducing soil to a simple scorecard. Just like people, soils don’t fit neatly into categories. One soil might store water exceptionally well, another might support biodiversity, another might lock away carbon for centuries. None of these functions alone makes a soil “healthy” or “unhealthy.”
Why Words Matter
When we overuse metaphors without care, we drift away from what we truly want to achieve: protecting soil from damage, and restoring it when it’s degraded. That requires more than labels. It requires understanding how each soil naturally functions and respecting those differences.
Imagine going on a hike. You walk a few hundred meters, dig into the ground, and notice how the soil changes, different colors, textures and structures. Each one tells a story about the landscape, the climate, the plants, the animals.
Some soils can store vast amounts of water or carbon, others cannot, and that’s fine.
Their value is not defined by what they can’t do but by the role they play in their environment.
From Health to Security
If our goal is truly to secure soil for future generations, we need a strategy that goes beyond “health”. That’s where the idea of soil security comes in, a concept I am working on that embraces soil’s diversity and complexity.
Soil security asks us to:
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- Measure and monitor soils in their natural state, not just against simplified benchmarks.
- Protect soils where they are still functioning well, before damage occurs.
- Restore soils where human activity or climate change has degraded them, but always with respect to their natural capacity.
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And soil security goes beyond science. It requires economic measures, regulations, laws, and above all the knowledge and participation of people. Because securing soil is not just about measuring its properties, it’s about creating the conditions for societies to protect and value it. That’s a big conversation on its own, and I’ll dive deeper into it in a future post.
Conclusion: More Than Some Numbers
If we want to secure our future, we must secure our soil. That means moving beyond buzzwords and into a deeper understanding of what soil is and what it does. Oslo reminded me that life is more than numbers, it’s context, connection, and care. The same is true for soil.
So maybe the best way to close is this: just as Oslo’s worth was never defined by statistics, neither is soil’s. Every soil has value, every soil has a role, and every soil deserves to be secured: for us, for nature, and for the generations to come.