"There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace."

-Aldo Leopald

Everything aches. After one month of bending over, pulling crop fabric, planting, weeding and everything else that farming is, my body is tired. It’s good kind of tired though. And to be honest, wrestling my farm manager may have been what pushed me over the edge. All I can say is that, everything hurts.

The first week wasn’t so bad. I confidently walked out onto the fields thinking ‘I got this.’ I have a built in confidence from years as a competitive swimmer and waterpolo player that has taught me to push through pain. So I did. But that same confidence told me I didn’t need to stretch. Boyyy was I wrong.

Everyone romanticizes farming as something they’ll do when they retire. Lordy. If thats the plan, you better start squatting and bending over for 8 hours a day to build your strength up. Week three on the fields, I developed a case of tendinitis in both wrists. I thought it would stop me, but the doctor assured me I’ll be okay if I stretch every 15 to 30 minutes. I wake up each morning to clamped fists, and have to coax them into action.

My shoulders are tan. Very strong and very tan. And my abs have lines of definition from the ways they hold my body upright. I stretch every morning, every lunch break, and every evening now just to be able to keep going. I do abs and planks to support my back. This work is honest and it hurts like hell.

I can confidently say, I do not think farming is for the retired. I think we have that backwards. Farming is for our youth. For the times when there is still blood flowing through our veins, and our muscles recover swiftly, and we are able to build the strength that only farmers have. Mmhmm. I think that if every generation was required to spend 5 seasons farming, our society would look a lot different.

One, we would have food. Two, we would have a whole new level of respect for the food. The truth is that it is a romantic job. We get to be outside all day, sun shine on our skin. Our bodies full of fresh earth food. The cows and chickens and pigs running around us. But the romance is hopeless. Many people walk in thinking that the work is simple. That anyone can do it. Nope.

‘Weeding a field is ultimately what will make or break you as a farmer,’ my boss said as we talked about the tendinitis. She’s the kind of tough love, direct, no-nonsense person you’ve got to be to make it in a man’s world. She’s solid. Pure gold. Tough as nails, and I respect the shit out of her. She supports us, but never takes it easy on us. And I have to run to keep up with her.

I sit here a month in, and my body is finally starting to build the muscles it needs. My hamstrings are tight from bending to plant the eggplant. We straddle three holes and move along them while keeping our backs straight. We step down the line and plant the next three. And my shoulders hurt from lifting water buckets for the pigs and chickens. And my lower back from my deep squats weeding carrots, beets, lettuce, greens, and kohlrabi.

It’s incredible and humbling to see how quickly farming has put me in my place. But for the first time in a long time, I believe in the place I’ve landed. This work makes sense to me. And as the summer rolls in with her deep thunderous storms and scorching hot days, I am excited. Excited for the vegetables. Excited to grow them with my crew. Excited for the aching to subside and to be able to be here fully.

And I have a feeling that this is only the beginning of a long career out here in the fields. Dirt so deep I could almost grow a garden bed from my skin. Smile lines stretching from the corners of my eyes. And a body that moves with the season. Growing all the while. Growing with my veggies. Growing with my team. Growing into more of me than I have ever been.