Author: n.1
chicken therapy is real. here’s how i know.
it’s hard to explain how much a chicken can help you heal until you’ve ugly cried in a lawn chair surrounded by chickens who don’t believe in personal space.
but it’s real. chicken therapy is real.
some people have emotional support dogs. some have cats. one lady in joann’s fabric store had an emotional support iguana. i have emotional support chickens.
in the days, weeks, months following my dad’s death, when my grief made it impossible to get out of bed, they still needed to be fed. when the weight in my chest was too heavy to carry, i still had to haul water buckets and refill feeders. and when the silence in the house got too loud, i’d step outside and be greeted by a cacophony of excited chicken noises and chaotic flapping. when i couldn’t feel much of anything, they reminded me how to laugh. their personalities shone brighter than ever and we created an irreplaceable bond. they didn’t ask questions. they didn’t judge me. they were just there.
in the middle of all this loss, there’s something healing about being needed, pestered, and gently pecked from all sides by something that’s just existing. loudly. dramatically.
my chickens didn’t save me.
but they definitely didn’t let me disappear, either.
the second strawberry season
i used to look forward to spring.
longer days. warmer air.
but now, each new season feels like a countdown i didn’t ask for. a reminder that time is still moving forward. without you.
your strawberry patch has exploded with new growth. some of them are already ripe, ready to be picked. this is the second strawberry season without you.
is that how i measure time now?
not in months, or birthdays, or holidays.
but in fruit.
in black raspberries.
in the peonies that bloom without permission.
in all the things you planted that still show up.
alive. repeating. indifferent.
you’re gone, and they don’t seem to care.
they come back, full of life, like nothing happened.
and I’m still here, trying to catch my breath in a world that refuses to stop growing.
letter to readers
Hi. I don’t know how you ended up here, but if you’re reading this, maybe something in you needed it. Maybe you’ve been carrying a kind of grief that doesn’t have a clear beginning or end. Maybe you’ve lost someone. Or maybe you’ve been losing pieces of yourself for a long time, quietly. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
This blog, Sunflowers in December, grew out of the wreckage of my life. I lost my dad to suicide. Our relationship was complicated—he loved me, but not in the ways I needed. He broke promises and also showed up for gymnastics meets. He left a mess, both in the yard and in my heart.
There are days when I miss him so much it crushes my ribs. There are days when I’m angry he’s gone. And there are days when both of those truths live in my chest at the same time. This is where I let them speak. I write for anyone navigating the kind of grief that doesn’t fit inside sympathy cards. The grief that’s messy, unfinished, full of questions and anger and aching love. I write for people who have lost someone to suicide, or to silence, or to mental illness. For anyone who’s been told they’re “too sensitive” while trying to survive in a world that doesn’t stop hurting.
You’ll find poetry here.
Fragments.
Letters I never sent.
Stories from the wreckage.
If nothing else, I hope this space makes you feel less alone. Because you’re not. Not in your pain, not in your survival, and not in the weird, beautiful, feral process of healing.
n.1
pieces
i collect pieces of everyone else. i carry this collection in my head and in my notes app. the go-to snack, a song that can’t help but to be sung along with, important dates, the tea that’s comforting on rainy days, memories, enneagram type, the color that holds the heart. i collect pieces of others because i want them to feel seen. loved. acknowledged. i collect pieces of everyone else because their pieces fit where mine are missing.
