I used to think “fresh air” meant cracking the window in my apartment while the food truck downstairs cooked bacon at midnight. I was a city slicker through and through—subways, skyscrapers, and a coffee shop on every corner. Then, one life decision (and maybe a midlife crisis) later, I found myself on a pig farm, ankle-deep in mud, wondering how on earth I went from dodging taxis to dodging hogs.
The first morning on the farm was a rude awakening. Literally. Instead of the sound of garbage trucks and car alarms, I woke to pigs squealing like they were auditioning for a heavy metal band. I stumbled out of bed, still half-dreaming of my old apartment, only to be greeted by a 400-pound hog staring me down like I’d stolen her breakfast. Spoiler alert: I had no breakfast to give.
Feeding pigs is not as simple as tossing them scraps like in cartoons. There’s strategy involved. You have to get the feed in the troughs quickly before they realize you are the slowest-moving thing in the pen. On day one, I learned that pigs don’t just nudge politely—they charge. By the end of it, I was covered head to toe in mud, cornmeal, and what I can only pray was just mud.
City life had its challenges, sure, but never once did I worry about being knocked over by a pig named Beatrice. Beatrice, by the way, has more personality than half the people I used to ride the subway with. She’s pushy, dramatic, and insists on being first in line for food. Honestly, she’d fit right in at a Manhattan brunch spot.
Then came the chores. Cleaning a pig pen is the opposite of glamorous. Forget scented candles or lavender spray—it’s a workout and a test of willpower rolled into one. At first, I gagged every five minutes. But weirdly, after a week, I stopped noticing. Either I had gone nose-blind, or the farm had beaten the city slicker out of me.
And yet, amidst the chaos and the smells, something surprising happened: I started to love it. The pigs, with their floppy ears and curious snorts, grew on me. They’d follow me around, grunt approvingly when I got their food right, and occasionally let me scratch behind their ears like oversized dogs. There’s something grounding about animals that don’t care about your résumé, your rent, or whether you’ve read the latest trending book. They just want food, space, and maybe a belly rub if you’re lucky.
One evening, as the sun set over the fields, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. No honking horns, no endless scrolling, no city chaos—just pigs snuffling in the dirt and crickets chirping in the grass. For the first time in years, I felt… calm.
Sure, I still miss the convenience of late-night pizza delivery and the thrill of city lights. But now, I wake up knowing I’ve got work to do that matters, even if it means shoveling more than my fair share of pig manure.
I may always be a city slicker at heart, but these pigs have taught me a lesson the city never could: sometimes the messiest adventures turn out to be the most rewarding.
