Crowing Pains

More life lessons from the chicken coop

A new sound has emerged from our backyard. It began as a feeble croak over the summer and has since grown into a magnificent predawn proclamation. Our six-year-old hen, Emmylou, is becoming a rooster.

At first, she wouldn’t do it if humans were around, still cautious and careful with her new talent. I’d sneak up to the attic window for a discreet vantage point. I had to confirm if what we were hearing was true. Is Emmylou crowing? Indeed, she was.

As summer progressed, so did her skill. Her usually short, reddish-pink comb has grown taller and become bright red. She’s even sprouted pronounced rooster spurs on both legs.

Emmylou is the first one out of the run each morning, casing the joint, making sure it’s safe for the other ladies. Today, I bent down to greet her and stroke her soft, grey feathers. She gracefully submitted to my touch in true, friendly fashion. She’s the easiest to pet and most willing to be held.

Emmylou is our favorite, the only survivor from our original flock. While she’s well established as alpha hen, the new hormones surging through her body have added a new, slightly more dangerous edge to her behavior. As a perimenopausal woman, I completely relate.

Even more relatable is the sense that Emmylou isn’t really in control of what’s happening to her. When our little Rhode Island Red, Reddo, joins her in the run, Emmylou chases her around with added fervor, unsure whether to attack, perhaps mount, or simply knock Reddo down a peg on the pecking order like the top hen she’s always been.

In this moment, I am reminded that transitions are hard. I recently offered that sage wisdom to a friend who’s starting a nonprofit (support ReMix It AVL if you can!). Then, I conveniently forgot it.

It’s finally feeling like fall here in Eastern NC. Days are still warm, but the trees are dropping leaves, and I need to move the porch plants inside before the first freeze. As much as I love this season, I tend to forget what heavy lessons it can bring.

Harvest season is a time for honoring the year’s growth and embracing necessary endings. Astrologically, we’ve survived another eclipse season. Most of the horoscopes and intuitive readings I tune into speak of the veil thinning and shadow work.

Since quitting booze just shy of three years ago, I’m no stranger to shadow work. My first year of sobriety was quite the tender journey. Year two wasn’t so emo, but I was insanely preoccupied working a full-time job. I wasn’t just busy; I was stressed and overwhelmed. In hindsight, it was a toxic situation.

In January, I was laid off. Shock and betrayal, disappointment and anger, I felt all the things. Once I moved through the stages of grief, I was left primarily with a sense of sadness and heartbreak. I had been working for a friend, someone I loved and trusted, and that relationship ended.

Around that time, my cousin offered me this nugget: “When people show you who they are, believe them.” Oof.

That seems to be the theme of my year. This harvest season, I’ve noticed lingering feelings bubbling to the surface. New growth edges are showing around truly releasing all that went down for me, personally and professionally, in 2025.

So far, the year of the snake has really lived up to its essence. I’ve shed a full-time job and resigned from two long-term volunteer commitments. I even quit weed, which is something I never thought I’d say, having identified as a lifelong stoner for decades.

Though I haven’t felt compelled to share much of this journey, I’m proud of my personal growth this year. I’ve pivoted back to nurturing all of my creative pursuits, and I’ve been able to show up as my fullest, best self for my family, which has truly been a blessin’ and a lesson. But when residual aches have crept in lately, it’s taken me off guard. I guess there’s always more shadow work to be done.

There are forces beyond our comprehension working invisible magic every day, slowly, quietly, unfolding a greater purpose in its own time. I mean, it’s happening right here in our chicken coop. Just when we thought Emmylou was retired, she’s taken us all by surprise, living proof that you can totally reinvent yourself in middle-age!

I should take my own advice, huh? Transitions aren’t easy, and they don’t happen overnight. Like grief, growth is often nonlinear. And, like Emmylou, we’re not always in control.

p.s. apologies to our neighbors for the ruckus coming from our coop—you’re invited over any time to witness the power and the glory of our trans rooster!