If anyone ever asks about my fitness routine, I’ll smile politely and tell them it’s a highly specialized blend of deep squats, lateral lunges, and high-speed sprints. But the truth is—it’s just called living my life.

It usually starts with something noble, like reorganizing the closet. I tell myself it’ll be a peaceful, soul-cleansing process—light a candle, put on soft music, fold things like I’m in a linen commercial. Five minutes later, I’m sweating through my T-shirt, one leg deep in an avalanche of hoodies, and arguing with a hanger like it personally offended me. I lift boxes like I’m preparing for the apocalypse and squat like I’m searching for buried treasure under a heap of unmatched shoes.

Then, just as I find the other half of the sandal I once loved, I hear it: the commotion outside.

Loretta the chicken has escaped. Again. And this time, she brought backup—Darla the duck, quacking like it’s a jailbreak. So now I’m mid-closet cleanout, running through the yard in slippers, yelling, “Get back here, ladies!” like I’m wrangling preschoolers with feathers. Loretta dodges like she’s trained for this. Darla waddles in circles. I lunge, I twist, I pray.

By the time it’s over, I’ve hit every muscle group known to man—and some known only to poultry handlers.

And you know what? I wouldn’t trade it.

Because whether it’s the closet chaos or the backyard sprint, I’m reminded that movement doesn’t have to be measured in reps and steps. Sometimes it’s measured in laughter, sweat, and the sweet satisfaction of corralling a duck named Darla before she makes it to the neighbor’s koi pond.

And maybe that’s my favorite kind of exercise—the kind that reminds me I’m alive, still growing, and definitely not paying for a gym membership.