12/27/2025
I don’t just raise birds—I build genetics, lines, temperaments, resilience. I track and adjusted breeding, cull selectively, treat responsibly, and do the work most people will never see. These aren’t disposable animals. They are the result of years of effort, learning, and most importantly, attachment.
When mycoplasma showed up, I didn’t jump straight to culling. I fought it. Hard! I researched obsessively—studies, vet protocols, long-term flock outcomes, antibiotic limitations, vertical transmission, biosecurity realities. I tried to find a way to preserve what I’d built without condemning future birds to chronic illness. I looked for a solution that didn’t exist.
That’s the part people don’t understand: there is no ethical middle ground with some livestock ailments. You either accept a permanently infected flock and the suffering that comes with it, or you stop it completely. Treatment doesn’t cure it. Time doesn’t clear it. Hope doesn’t fix biology.
This week I culled 50 birds....
Not because they were “replaceable,” but because keeping them would have guaranteed more loss—chicks born sick, birds struggling through flare-ups, and the disease spreading beyond my own yard. Ending it quickly was the only way to preserve any future flock at all.
I lost pets. I lost genetics. I lost six years of work in a matter of days.
There is failure in that—I won’t pretend there isn’t. Not failure of effort or care, but the kind that comes from learning that doing everything right doesn’t always protect you. It’s a brutal lesson in limits. And it hurts in a way that’s both practical and personal.
I have to remind myself that this wasn’t abandonment. It was containment. It was choosing to carry the weight myself instead of passing it forward in any shape or form.
The next flock, when I’m ready again, will start clean. That doesn’t erase what was lost, but it honors it. Everything I learned—every success, every mistake, every bird—will shape what comes next.
I didn’t quit.
I closed a chapter that was no longer survivable.
And pushing forward doesn’t mean I’m okay with what happened.
It means I refuse to let the loss be meaningless.