The new girls – The Valentine Crew – arrived on Valentine’s Day.
My lovely husband drove over an hour each way to collect them from Harrogate. Their day had started much earlier. They’d left an organic farm in Wiltshire at 8am, travelled for eight hours, then been checked over before making the final journey home.
By the time they arrived, it was dark. No fanfare. No soft-focus welcome moment. Just straight into their coop with plenty of straw and a quiet night to recover.
This morning they stepped out.
They all came from the same farm, but when you consider there were at least 30,000 hens there, it’s unlikely they knew one another. In the space of 24 hours they’ve lost the only system they understood — the sounds, the rhythms, the hierarchy, the familiarity.
They are nervous. Skittish. On high alert.
And yet, their combs are bright red. They’re better feathered than most when they arrive. Physically, they’re well.
Emotionally? It’s another story.
Venus is the bravest — first to take a few tentative steps down the ramp.
Aphrodite has already found the food (some instincts override fear).
Freya is studying the existing flock through the wire, assessing the politics.
Ishtar is firmly positioned behind the coop, observing from what feels like safety.
Same environment. Same opportunity. Four completely different responses.
They don’t know they’ve been saved from slaughter. They don’t know this is a softer landing than the one they were heading toward. They don’t understand intention. They only know that everything familiar has disappeared.
There’s a temptation, when you rehome hens, to scoop them up and cuddle them — to expect some sort of visible gratitude. As if they should recognise they’ve been rescued.
But they don’t.
They’re not ungrateful. They’re overwhelmed.
And that feels like a useful reminder.
Change — even positive change — is destabilising. A promotion. A restructure. A new team. Growth in a business. A shift in direction. Even something longed for can knock the wind out of you.
From the outside it might look like an upgrade.
From the inside, it feels like loss of certainty.
We’re often too quick to interpret people’s reactions.
The one who charges forward is labelled confident.
The one who heads straight for the “food” is practical.
The one who studies quietly is cautious.
The one who retreats is resistant.
But in truth, they’re all just regulating. Working out where they stand. Trying to feel safe.
My role with the Valentine Crew is simple. Provide food. Fresh water. Clean bedding. Protection from predators. And space.
Not constant handling. Not forced integration. Not expectation.
Space to decompress from a very stressful 24 hours — even if they don’t consciously know it was stressful.
Leadership is often exactly that.
Creating conditions. Holding steady. Resisting the urge to rush people through transition because we are comfortable with the change.
People don’t need to be told they’re lucky. They don’t need to perform gratitude. They need time to find their footing.
By lunchtime, Venus will likely be exploring further. Aphrodite will have eaten twice. Freya will be closer to negotiating flock politics. Ishtar will edge out when she’s ready.
They will settle.
Not because they’ve been lectured or lifted or labelled.
But because the environment is consistent and calm.
Change is hard. Even when it’s ultimately better. Especially when it’s sudden.
Sometimes the kindest, strongest thing we can do — whether with hens or humans — is provide safety, meet the basics, and let adjustment happen at its own pace.
Chicken Nuggets 