There is a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t roar.

There is a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself or ask for permission. It wakes early, adapts as needed, and is built through small, deliberate acts of care over time.

For me, being healthy has never meant shrinking myself or forcing my body into submission; it means building muscle so my primal body can move through the world with competence and confidence. I live with several medical conditions that result in chronic pain, and while that reality shapes my days, it does not define my limits. Most days, I still move, not out of denial, but out of respect for the body that carries me. I enjoy movement!

Movement is part of how I stay in relationship with myself.

In the primal world, prey are often misunderstood as fragile or passive, when in truth they are some of the most finely tuned bodies that exist. A prey body must be nimble, responsive, alert, and capable of sudden bursts of power followed by recovery. That kind of intelligence lives in muscle, in connective tissue, in a nervous system that is supported rather than depleted. It is built through nourishment as much as through motion.

Strength, in this sense, is not aesthetic. it is functional, adaptive, and deeply embodied.

This is why protein matters to me, especially in the morning, before the day begins making its demands. I aim for 120 grams of protein a day, not as a rigid rule but as an ongoing practice of support, because protein feeds muscle, muscle supports joints, and joints make movement possible. When I nourish myself well, I am not chasing perfection; I am preparing my body to meet the day with resilience.

My AM Protein is not a shortcut or a trend, and it certainly isn’t about optimization for its own sake. It is a foundation, a quiet act of devotion offered before anything else asks for my energy, a way of saying to my body that it is worth caring for even when it hurts.

Some days that care looks like intensity and effort, and other days it looks like gentleness and restraint. There are mornings when my energy is abundant and others when simply showing up is enough, but consistency has never required perfection. It asks only that I return, choosing nourishment, honoring movement when my body allows, and trusting the quiet truth that strength is built patiently over time rather than demanded on command.

In this way, my morning ritual becomes less about discipline and more about relationship.

Strong prey survive not because they are relentless, but because they are responsive, because they listen to their bodies and adapt without apology. Because they understand when to expend energy and when to conserve it.

They eat. They move. They endure.

This is the rhythm I return to each morning, feeding a body designed for motion, resilience, and life, and trusting that strength, real strength, will continue to grow as long as I care for it.