08/07/2025
I'm officially closing the chapter on my journey with birds, and I wanted to pause and reflect on my experience. I figure this may also provide some insight on this decision, as it wasn't made lightly.
The last of my lavender birds went to their new home this week with one of my favorite repeat customers - someone I’ve come to know and trust over the years. The rest of my flock is gone or heading to new homes in the coming days. Just like that, years of work and love are coming to a close.
Lavender silkies and bantam cochins held my heart for a long time. What started with a handful of birds grew into something I gave everything to: my time, my energy, my heart. My blood, sweat, and tears. Early mornings. Late nights. Long drives to shows. Countless trips to pick up birds. Cleaning breeding pens at 2 a.m. Checking the incubator in the middle of the night. Trying to save the wobbly babies and the weird old hens. Hours upon hours of planning, studying, building. I poured so much of myself into this and it gave me so much in return.
It’s hard to put into words just how much this life meant to me. There was joy, frustration, victory, heartbreak… and so many lessons.
The biggest one? Start with the best.
If your goals are long-term, like breeding, showing, or building something of real quality, invest in good stock from the beginning. The best you can afford. It’s not about having more birds. It’s about having the right ones.
Less is more. Always.
Keep the birds that meet your highest standards, and let the others go to good, loving homes. I never believed in hard culling unless it was necessary for their wellbeing. Every life matters, but so does your energy, and your intention. Protect both.
And while I’ve loved the birds deeply, the people shaped this journey just as much.
Sometimes for better. Sometimes for worse.
The poultry world is passionate, competitive, and at times, deeply chaotic. If you stay long enough, you’ll see the full spectrum - rumors, egos, cliques. You learn quickly who you can trust and who you can’t.
But in the middle of all that, I found some truly good people.
People who stood beside me, answered questions, lifted me up, encouraged me, and reminded me why I started in the first place.
A few of you I want to mention by name (in no particular order, please don’t be hurt if I missed you): Lisa, Mac, Sarah, Janelle, Marco, Bri, Sieara, Alejandro, Lorene, Steve, Ralph, Heather, and more.
You brought so much light into this journey. You helped me in different ways at different stages, and I’m grateful for every conversation, every kind word, every time you showed up with patience and perspective.
To my mentors - Steve, especially you - thank you.
You helped shape me into the breeder and exhibitor I became. The best parts of what I built came from standing on the shoulders of people like you.
But not everyone offered that same kindness.
After my accident, during one of the most vulnerable moments of my life, I heard the gossip. Some from the bird world joined in - whispers, speculation, judgment, about my personal life. Crossing the line from professional to petty.
The car accident alone was traumatic enough. I kept telling myself, “I’ll show again next year. I just need some time. I’ll take a year off… but I’ll be back.”
But next year came, and I didn’t have the drive to continue.
I realized how truly exhausted and burnt out I had made myself - mentally, physically, emotionally. When I do something, I do it with pride. I give it my all. I had been pushing so hard for so long that I never gave myself the space to breathe. To rest. To make mistakes without shame. To exist without constantly proving something. I had poured so much of myself into this world that there wasn’t much left over for me.
I tried. I went to a local show to remind myself of what I loved… but the spark never quite came back.
At that point, it wasn’t just about birds anymore. The space that once felt like peace started to feel like grief. Trauma. Pain.
No matter how much you love something, if the environment becomes heavy, hostile, or hollow, it’s hard to keep finding joy in it. And eventually… I stopped.
I’ll miss it.
I’ll miss the sound of roosters crowing at sunrise. I’ll miss how my girls ran to me for treats, clucking with their funny little chatter. Chickens are brilliant, emotional, quirky creatures with giant personalities, and they brought me so much happiness.
But when something you once loved starts to feel like loss… you have to listen.
I’m choosing to close this door not out of failure or regret, but because I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing space to heal, space to grow, and a new chapter that feels lighter.
To those who helped rehome my birds with kindness and care: thank you. You gave them soft landings - and that means more to me than you’ll ever know.
I’m trading one show ring for another now. 🐓➡️🐩
Trading crowing roosters for the quiet, calm nature of my sheep.
Trading trauma for peace.
It’s bittersweet. This chapter held so much of me. But it’s time to let it rest.
To everyone who was part of this journey: thank you. For the memories. For the lessons. For everything.
And to those who made it beautiful… I’ll carry you with me. Always.
This isn’t the end of my farm or my journey - just the beginning of something new taking shape. 💜
