The Egg That Whispered

Sometime last November, my son and I went on a homeschool excursion to a nearby farm. It was one of those golden afternoons—warm, with the scent of sunbaked earth and eucalyptus in the air. We wandered among the trees, met pigs and goats, and then came upon a gathering of chickens scratching under the shade.

The guide mentioned something that sparked everything.

“If you’d like,” she said, “you can collect some eggs. You can feed them to the pigs—or you can try to hatch them.”

My son turned to me, wide-eyed.“What’s hatching?” he asked.

I explained what incubation meant: the warmth, the turning, the waiting. His face lit up. He had been asking to get chickens for so long, and suddenly, this felt like the right moment.

So we did it.

We bought a small incubator and placed it carefully in a quiet corner of our home. I ordered a few fertilised eggs online, and when they arrived, we began. Every day, we turned the eggs, checked the temperature, and watched. It became our quiet ritual. The days passed slowly, peacefully, like the turning of pages in an old book.

On the twenty-first day, it began—tiny cracks, little peeping sounds. The first chicks hatched in the early hours, damp and blinking, their feathers soft as fog. One after the other, they emerged into the world.

But one little egg struggled. We could hear chirping inside, and see the tip of a beak tap, tap, tapping—but she just couldn’t hatch. I remembered all the advice that said not to help. That chicks must do it themselves or they wouldn’t survive. And yet… something felt different.

The other chicks kept lying beside that one egg, like they knew she was special. They would settle around her, their tiny bodies keeping her warm. I felt it in my gut—this one needed help. So, carefully, nervously, my son and I peeled back the shell. Out came the tiniest, wettest little chick. We named her Onyx.

She had splayed legs and couldn’t stand. So, for a week, we kept her warm in the incubator with a tiny splint, tending to her gently. We gave her leg support and healing herbs, held her close, and waited. And one morning—she stood.

I’ll never forget the joy on my son’s face. We returned Onyx to her siblings, and she nestled right back in, as though she had never left.

As the weeks passed, the chicks grew fluffier and bolder. Most were Silkies, one was a curious little Frizzle (we named him Salty), and then there was Dahlia, our regal Polish hen.

My intuition started whispering early: some of them were roosters. I couldn’t explain how I knew—I just did. When you spend quiet time with chickens, really watching, really listening, they tell you so much.

After six weeks in the brooder, we moved them to their new home—a coop we built ourselves, with fresh wood chips, cozy corners, and even a “chicken salad bar” filled with herbs for them to peck. They thrived. They greeted us with joy, ran when we called, and found delight in every worm and blade of grass.

Then, just last week, we heard it:“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

At first, it was just one. Then another. Then more.

I laughed. I was proud. But I also felt that creeping worry—roosters are aggressive, roosters are dangerous, roosters will fight and attack, I had heard so many of those stories.

But none of them have been true.

Yes—we have eight roosters! Eight fluffy, sweet-natured, funny, curious little gentlemen. And we love them all.

We’re now creating a “Bachelor Pad” just for them, a peaceful space beside the coop where they can live happy, safe, loved lives. I could never kill them, or give them away to meet an untimely end. They’re family.

We’ve been feeding them a rich diet of organic feed, herbs, spirulina, chia and flax seeds, nutritional yeast, sardines, oregano... and the occasional peck at my lemon balm plant, which they adore. They free-range during the day, scratch the earth, stretch in the sun. When my son and I walk to the coop, they run to greet us, full of excitement.

There’s something sacred about raising animals with your whole heart.Something grounding. Something ancient.

This experience has been the very essence of simple living—slowing down, tuning into nature, and finding meaning in the small things. I’ve learned so much—about intuition, about care, about letting life unfold and trusting your gut even when the advice says otherwise.

I keep thinking about Onyx—the little chick who couldn’t hatch on her own. The one we almost left in the shell. The one who taught me that sometimes… it’s okay to help. That softness can be strength. That love, when it's quiet and steady, changes everything.

Now, when I hear the roosters crow at sunrise, I don’t hear noise.I hear joy.I hear the start of a new chapter.I hear the story we’re living—one peep, one flap, one egg at a time.

🌿 Love stories like this?

If you’re inspired by tales of homesteading, nature, and living a simple life, I’d love to welcome you to my podcast A Wild and Simple Life—a collection of short stories that celebrate slowness, beauty, and meaningful connection.

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