Tell Your Chickens I Said Hi

Every fall, I find myself having the same disappointing conversation.

“Do you have any eggs this week?”

“Nope. The girls are on break.”

“How about next week?”

Probably not then, either. My egg customers are understandably disappointed. I wish I could tell them when production will resume, but my flock has other plans, and honestly, I’ve decided to respect them.

Right now, my hens look terrible. Feathers are drifting across the yard like someone had a pillow fight. A couple of them are down to the spiky pin feathers, and they’re grumpy about being touched. Those new feathers are tender, and they know it.

Here’s the thing I keep coming back to: a hen can’t grow new feathers and lay eggs at the same time. Something’s got to give. So when the days get shorter and molting season arrives, egg production slows down or stops while their bodies put that energy toward growing back.

Nobody scolds them for it. Nobody says, “Come on, Taco, you used to be so productive.”

Nothing really changes about their place in the flock either. They’re still out there scratching around, stealing each other’s treats, arguing over who gets the best spot on the roost. There’s a whole social hierarchy happening in that coop, and I assure you, not everyone is getting along.

But nobody has to lay an egg to earn a place there.

I’ve been thinking about that lately because I suspect I’m in a bit of a molting season myself. I’ve lost a few feathers this year. Some came loose when things didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. Others I think I’ve been holding onto for so long that it was probably time to let them go anyway. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’ve started growing some new ones.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ll look like when they all grow in. Maybe a little different than I did before. Maybe that’s the point. But I’ll be honest, I keep wanting to skip ahead to the part where I look polished, and the eggs are flowing again.

I don’t particularly enjoy the in-between. The part where things are changing but you can’t quite see what they’re becoming. Where you’re doing the work but don’t have much to show for it yet. And I certainly don’t extend myself the same grace I give a bunch of ragged-looking chickens wandering around my backyard.

Meanwhile, my chickens are out there contributing absolutely nothing to the breakfast table, and I still think they’re pretty great.

The feathers will grow back. The eggs will probably return. And eventually, the girls will look like their usual ridiculous selves again.

In the meantime, there’s still room on the roost.

And if you see me looking a little ragged, just know I’m working on it.

And tell your chickens I said hi.