What is that smell? I look down at my rain boots to see the big, steaming pile of responsibility I’ve stepped in. Or pig manure, whatever you want to call it. Either way, cleaning pig poop off of my shoes is something I actually get used to over time, especially when I willingly put myself into situations where stepping into it is commonplace.

I’m not sure if any day could be considered normal when dealing with the equivalent of a 300-pound toddler, but that’s what I look forward to each and every day. Walking into the barn each morning before school and seeing pigs huddled up next to each other in the wood shavings while I try to quietly drop the feed in and not wake them makes me as happy as staring into the pink, blue, and purple ribbons of the sunrise through the bus window. Then there’s the all-too-familiar routine of trying to make my pig walk left when, of course, she decides there has never been a better time to go right. Couple all of that with the smell of freshly cut grass and the sun dipping out of view behind the fields of wildflowers after a walk around the barns, and I don’t see how anyone would want to spend their days any other way.

Some may wonder why anyone would voluntarily put themselves through the ever-present fear of ruining clean shoes. Why would anyone choose to pick themselves out of bed to turn off their Beatles alarm playlist at 5 a.m. every day? Or spend well-earned babysitting money on a new bag of pig feed instead of the newest young adult trilogy-turned-movie? I raise pigs because giving up a few luxuries— a clean pair of shoes, socks, and sometimes even jeans— taught me that the patience, responsibility, and joy I get from spending time with my pig are definitely more valuable than that extra hour of sleep every night.

Even through all the late nights spent studying due to probably a little too much time spent brushing my pig, through shaking hands and sweaty boots on the day we finally showcase them in front of judges, and even through the excitement or disappointment of results after it’s all over, I know that my life will have always changed for the better. The immense responsibility of caring for another living thing begins to feel so insignificant when a pig who I never thought would even behave starts nudging my leg when I walk in her pen and jumps around because she wants to go on a walk. All of the friendships I’ve made and people I’ve bonded with (whether human or animal) have had an unmistakable impact on me, and I wouldn’t have my drive to succeed, my collaboration skills, or my compassionate nature if it hadn’t been for that first fateful step into pig poop.