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.