We regularly have little feathered visitors from next door, and the chickens are beautiful. Proper showstoppers. Bought as pullets at point of lay, they have a wide stretch of meadow to roam and a gorgeous stable to roost and nest in. They are well cared for, well fed, and genuinely want for nothing.

Our neighbours are lovely, and they do everything right.

And yet… their chickens are obsessed with ours.

Despite all that space and comfort, they spend a surprising amount of time trying to get into our run and coop. They hover at the edges, look for gaps, occasionally make a successful dash through the fence, and help themselves to food that is, quite clearly, not theirs. All of which goes down terribly with our girls, who are not known for their hospitality.

It is, on the face of it, a bit of a nuisance.

But the more I watch it, the more I think there is something in it.

Because those chickens are not escaping something bad. They are being drawn towards something else. Something about our setup, our routine, our little flock dynamic is appealing enough that they keep trying, even though they do not need to.

And that feels like a useful reminder.

In work, in leadership, in life more generally, there will always be people who look at what you have built and try to understand it, recreate it, or be part of it. Sometimes that can feel uncomfortable. It can trigger that instinct to protect, to hold things close, to worry about being copied or crowded.

But what if we looked at it differently?

What if, instead of seeing it as a threat, we saw it as a signal?

If people are paying attention, if they are curious, if they are trying to get closer to what you are doing, it usually means you are doing something right. You have created an environment, a culture, or a way of working that others find attractive.

That is not something to shut down.

It is something to be quietly proud of.

Of course, boundaries still matter. Our chickens are very clear on that point. Not everyone is welcome in the coop, and there are limits for a reason. But there is a difference between having boundaries and becoming guarded.

We do not have to gatekeep to succeed.

In fact, the best environments I have seen are the ones that are open in spirit. They share ideas, they support others, and they recognise that someone else doing well does not take anything away from them.

If anything, it raises the standard for everyone.

So now, when I see the neighbour’s chickens hovering at the fence line, plotting their next attempt to break in, I try not to be too irritated.

I take it, instead, as a bit of an unexpected compliment.

They could be anywhere. And they have chosen here.

Together, we rise.

This chicken nugget is a little different.

It was such a beautiful day that I let all the girls out for a long free range. I sat with Sapphy on the grass as she’s not well, but I left the run door open so that the girls could get back in for fresh water and food.

All was good. The girls love to forage and Sapphy thoroughly enjoyed getting some sun on her back. There’s something very peaceful about watching them scratch about with absolutely no sense of urgency, as if the world can wait while they investigate a particularly interesting bit of grass.

After a couple of hours, they all start to head home, where they are safe and secure. When they’ve been out for a while they don’t require any coaxing back, they happily flock to the run to stock up on treats and fresh clean water. Their safe place. Their routine. Their version of comfort.

But when I got back, I saw we had a tiny little visitor.

A robin redbreast had found its way into the run, but was struggling to get out. What is a safe place for the hens had very quickly become a prison for the poor robin, who fluttered from side to side trying to find a way through something that simply wasn’t designed for it.

Same space. Completely different experience.

And there it is, the lesson, quietly flapping about in the corner.

We often assume that because something feels safe, normal, or even comforting to us, it must feel the same to everyone else. But comfort isn’t universal. It’s shaped by experience, by perspective, by what you’re used to, and sometimes by what you’ve had to endure.

The hens see food, shelter, routine.
The robin sees barriers, confusion, and no obvious way out.

Neither is wrong. They’re just seeing the same thing through completely different lenses.

And if you’re not the robin, it’s very easy to miss that entirely.

In the coming days we celebrate St George’s Day in England, our patron saint (born and raised in Greece, who never set foot in the UK, which is its own little irony).

The St George’s Cross will be everywhere. For many, it’s a symbol of pride, heritage, and identity. Something familiar. Something positive.

But for others, that same symbol has, over time, been pulled into spaces that feel far less welcoming. It has been used in ways that make some people feel excluded rather than included, uneasy rather than proud.

Same symbol. Completely different experience.

And this is where it matters.

Because the lesson isn’t “don’t celebrate” or “don’t feel proud.” That would be missing the point entirely. The lesson is awareness. It’s recognising that your version of “home” might feel very different to someone else standing in the same space.

It’s choosing to notice the robin.

It’s taking a moment to ask whether the space you’re in, the words you use, the symbols you carry, are opening doors or quietly closing them for someone else.

The hens didn’t do anything wrong. The run is exactly what they need it to be.

But the robin still needed a way out.

And maybe, as humans who like to think we’re a bit more evolved than a flock of chickens (jury’s out some days), our job is simply to pay attention to that. To hold our own sense of comfort, while still making room for someone else’s discomfort to be seen and understood.

Because in a world that feels increasingly divided, we don’t need to agree on everything.

But we do need to recognise that we’re not all standing in the same run.

Today has been a beautiful day, so of course my husband decided it was time to cut the lawn. As he ventured to the garage for the lawnmower, I dashed round the garden collecting up dandelion leaves.

An odd thing to do? Well yes, to anyone who hasn’t kept chickens.

The girls absolutely LOVE sweet dandelion leaves, so much so that I actively cultivate them in the lawn every year to ensure we get a proper bumper crop. What looks like an untidy patch of weeds to most is, to me, a carefully grown treat supply. Andy may not be entirely thrilled about it, but the excitement of the chickens when they see those leaves, the running, the flapping, the sheer joy, is an absolute delight to watch. It’s one of those small, simple pleasures that feels far bigger than it should.

And it did get me thinking.

How often do we rush to tidy things away, to cut things back, to remove what looks unnecessary or out of place… without really considering the value it might hold? Not everything that appears messy or unwanted is without purpose. Sometimes it just hasn’t found the right recipient yet.

One man’s waste really is another’s treasure, but more than that, it’s a reminder to look again. To pause before we discard something, whether that’s an idea, an opportunity, or even a person’s perspective. Value isn’t always obvious at first glance, and joy can often be found in the most unexpected places.

If nothing else, my hens are a daily lesson in appreciation of the overlooked, the unfashionable, and the things others might quite happily mow straight over.

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.

Since Princess Layer passed away, we’ve been trying to integrate Pumpkin back into the flock.

On paper, this should be simple. Pumpkin is by far my largest hen, now the oldest with Princess gone, and she has seriously scary spurs that appeared rather suddenly years ago. By all the usual rules of flock dynamics, she should step neatly into the leadership role. The obvious successor. The natural boss.

Except… that’s not really how it’s working out.

Before going any further, it’s probably worth reviewing our current – and rather depleted – flock.

We have Pumpkin, one of the Halloween birds, the biggest and oldest girl. Then there are the gemstones: Emerald (Ems) and Sapphire (Sapphy), who arrived with their sisters on the morning of the Black Diamonds Ball a couple of years ago. Diamond lasted less than 24 hours, and Ruby flew over the rainbow bridge about six months ago.

The newest arrivals are the Powerpuffs – Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup – who joined us at the end of last summer.

So we’re down to six. In between, we’ve lost all the authors and the Greek goddesses. A lot of history, a lot of personalities, and more than a few reshuffles along the way.

Back to Pumpkin.

She’s fully in with the girls all day now, scratching, dust bathing, and generally pottering about. But every evening, without fail, she takes herself off to the coop she shared with Princess. She isn’t asserting herself as leader. She isn’t marshalling the others or staking out prime territory. In fact, she’s actively nervous around Bubbles and Buttercup, who are smaller, younger, and far more confident than she is.

At first glance, it looks like she’s failing to step up.

But that’s only if you assume there’s one role she should be filling.

What I’ve noticed instead is that Pumpkin is continuing the role she played when Princess was alive.

Because Princess was blind, Pumpkin became her quiet carer. She would gently groom her, pecking away bits of food stuck to Princess’s beak, tidying the feathers around her face and neck. It was never showy or dominant. It was calm, deliberate, and deeply attentive.

And now, that instinct hasn’t gone anywhere.

Sapphy isn’t well at the moment. She’s a little slower than usual, and her comb is slightly darker than it should be. Earlier today, as I was feeding them and trying to make sure Sapphy got her fair share, Pumpkin appeared beside her. When a piece of corn stuck awkwardly on Sapphy’s head, Pumpkin gently leaned in and carefully removed it.

No fuss. No posturing. Just quiet care.

It’s become clear that Pumpkin has decided she’s the nurse of the group. The watcher. The one who notices when someone is struggling and steps in softly rather than loudly.

And honestly? She’s very, very good at it.

It made me think about how often we pigeonhole people – and ourselves – into roles based on age, experience, appearance, or assumed hierarchy. The biggest voice becomes the leader. The most senior person is expected to take charge. The one who looks the part is given the title.

But real group dynamics don’t work like flowcharts.

People, like hens, tend to gravitate towards the role that suits them best. Some lead from the front. Some stabilise from the middle. Some quietly hold everyone else together, noticing the details others miss.

Titles don’t always reflect contribution. And leadership doesn’t always look like dominance.

Pumpkin could force herself into a role that doesn’t fit her nature. She could try to be something she’s not. But instead, she’s chosen to keep doing what she does best – caring, watching, supporting. And the flock is better for it.

There’s a lesson in that, I think.

Not everyone is meant to be the boss. Not everyone wants the spotlight. And that doesn’t make them lesser. Often, it makes them essential.

Sometimes the most important role in the group is the one no one formally assigns — the one that simply feels right.

This week, we finally said farewell to Princess Layer, our oldest hen. Princess arrived pre-Covid, part of my very first batch of hens. From the start, she knew exactly who she was. She served as the perfect second-in-command to our Head Hen, Henrietta—the enforcer, the disciplinarian, the one who made sure everyone else stayed in line. A look here, a sharp peck there, and order was restored.

When Henrietta passed, Princess stepped seamlessly into leadership. She ruled with confidence, guarded her flock fiercely, and took her responsibilities seriously. Interlopers from next door were not welcome, especially if food was involved. This was her domain, and she made that very clear.

Princess lived life on her own terms. She hated being dictated to, and I quickly learned that persuasion worked far better than force. Calling her over and offering food was a much wiser approach than trying to pick her up and move her—Princess knew exactly how to use her beak and claws to make her feelings known. Independence wasn’t just part of her personality; it was her personality.

At the ripe old age of eight, Princess went blind overnight. I truly thought that was the beginning of the end. Instead, it marked a surprising new chapter. For weeks, I hand-fed her, and in doing so, earned her trust completely. She accepted whatever I offered, calmly and without fuss.

We separated her from the main flock to keep her safe, but she wasn’t alone. Pumpkin, her best friend, stayed with her. Together, they adapted. Princess recovered remarkably well, bustling around with Pumpkin at her side, preening, pottering… and even continuing to lay eggs.

And then came her final day.

Almost her very last act was to lay an egg.

Right to the end, Princess did what she had always done. She showed up. She fulfilled her role. She lived fully, purposefully, and without surrendering to circumstance.

There’s something quietly powerful in that.

Princess Layer reminds us that purpose doesn’t disappear just because life changes. That keeping busy, staying engaged, and continuing to contribute, however that looks in each season of life, is a beautiful way to live. She didn’t give up when things became difficult. She adapted, trusted, and carried on being herself for as long as she could.

We should all be more Princess. Live life to the full. Keep going. Be who you are, right to the very end.

Thank you, Princess.