From City Slicker to Chicken Whisperer: My Hilarious Farm Life Upgrade
If someone had told me five years ago that I’d be waking up at dawn to the sound of roosters instead of alarm clocks, I would have laughed and sipped my overpriced latte from a café with exposed brick walls. I was the definition of a city slicker—heels clicking across sidewalks, Uber rides everywhere, and grocery shopping that never required me to touch anything with feathers or hooves. And yet, here I am, the proud (and slightly bewildered) owner of a flock of chickens, convinced they actually understand me.
My farm life upgrade began innocently enough. I thought a “few backyard hens” would be a charming addition, a way to score fresh eggs and maybe a Pinterest-worthy photo or two. What I didn’t expect was the steep learning curve of poultry parenting. Those birds had personalities. Big ones. Within days, I could tell which hen was the bossy diva, which one was the shy wallflower, and which one was clearly plotting a coup. Suddenly, I found myself spending hours watching chicken drama unfold like it was the hottest reality TV show.
The first major lesson I learned? Chickens don’t care about your schedule. They wake up when the sun rises and they don’t negotiate. My old life included blackout curtains and weekend sleep-ins; now, I get a rooster’s crow at 5:30 a.m. sharp. And while I once rolled my eyes at people who said, “I love mornings,” I now stumble outside in pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, greeting my feathery crew like a frazzled farmer in training.
Then there’s the feeding chaos. I used to think grocery store lines were stressful—until I tried scattering feed while twenty hungry hens descended like feathered piranhas. The pecking order is no joke. If you’ve never seen a chicken throw shade, let me tell you, it’s brutal. I quickly learned to bring treats as peace offerings. Grapes, mealworms, leftover veggies—anything to keep the squabbling down. Somewhere along the way, I developed the uncanny ability to calm them with a few soothing words. Hence, my new title: the chicken whisperer.
The funniest part of this transformation is how seriously I now take things I once mocked. I can discuss nesting box layouts with authority. I argue passionately about the merits of free-ranging versus keeping them in a run. I worry about predators like a parent worries about curfews. Friends from the city visit and laugh at how I coo at my hens, telling them they’ve laid “the most beautiful egg in the world.”
And yet, despite the endless mess, early mornings, and chicken escapades that leave me shaking my head, I wouldn’t trade it. Farming—even on this small scale—has taught me patience, responsibility, and how to laugh at myself daily. It’s grounding, humbling, and ridiculously entertaining.
So yes, I went from latte-sipping city slicker to pajama-wearing chicken whisperer. My manicure days are fewer, my boots muddier, and my Instagram less glamorous. But my eggs are fresher, my heart is lighter, and my chickens—those noisy, mischievous little comedians—remind me every day that life’s best upgrades are sometimes the ones we never saw coming.
