Confronting Demons in My Pajamas

Facing the truth matters — and it just might surprise you.

I often wish I was a person who took loss in their stride. A person who didn’t break quite so easily or thoroughly. But that’s not who I am.

On Saturday, I spent the day in my pajamas facing my demons.

It started with what many would consider a small loss. The baby chicks I had ordered arrived, and one died in the mail. I could face that loss. There was nothing I could do. But in the next 24 hours, four more died. Nothing I did seemed to do anything more than provide momentary comfort and delay the inevitable.

I did what I do. I put on a brave face. I did the next thing that needed to be done. I buried the babies and then helped my dad finish up building the coop and run for those remaining. I kept going. But later, in the privacy of my home and in my pajamas, I fell to pieces. The loss hit like waves, and I was drowning.

I had to confront my demons, and no one could help me.

I had to look at loss and accept it even as it broke my heart. What’s troubling is that I never seem to experience a singular loss. It’s always compounded by the layers of loss in my life. Five tiny lives gone is a blow, but that blow was striking the bruises of loved ones lost and changes that have come and gone, changes that are coming, and the inevitability of more pain to come.

I let the pain come. I stopped trying to hold it at bay. I sat with it, and I didn’t try to find a distraction. In my pajamas, with nothing between me and grief, I let it in. I let go.

I moved slowly the next morning. I fed my dog and cats. I made my coffee and stood drinking it while looking out over my backyard. I took my time. Then, I made my way into the enclosure where I’m keeping my brooder and checked to see if the remaining chicks survived the night. I knew loss was possible, but I couldn’t put off checking any longer.

To my surprise, six happy, healthy chicks ran out to greet me.

They were active — eating and drinking, keeping warm, and staying busy. None were showing any signs of illness. They were okay, and I would be. For a moment, I let the grief fade in the face of immense gratitude that these six were still alive and well.

I never planned on getting chickens — until I did. I didn’t know I would grow up to be this person living this kind of life. But I’m proud of the person I’ve become — a person who honors and cares for living things, a person who loves hard and grieves hard because I know that all of it matters.

Every life. Every breath. Every moment lived.

Loss will always hit me hard. I have a history of not taking it well. There are reasons on reasons for this. But those are my demons, and I accept them. I stopped running, hiding, and denying. I turn to gratitude instead — not in an effort to erase the grief but in an attempt to balance it with love.

The truth, the whole truth, is that I love hard. I love with everything I am. Is there anything more natural than feeling loss with as much intensity as I experience love? I might be a person who takes loss hard, but I’m a person who loves well.

I reframe my narrative.

I stop telling myself there is something wrong with the way I feel. I put aside societal expectation. I put aside any idea of “normal” when it comes to human feelings. I let myself feel everything because it seems like feeling all that life has to offer is the point of being human. It’s how we’re made. It’s what we’re meant to do.

So, I rewrite the story.

On Saturday, I spent the day grieving tiny lost lives.

I had loved the baby chicks I ordered before they ever arrived, and I grieved when they died. I did everything I could. I could not delay their death, but I could offer care and comfort at the end.

I did what I do. I kept my grief close to me. I buried the babies and then helped my dad finish up building the coop and run for those remaining. Afterward, in the privacy of my home, I let the grief come. I honored those lives lost, and I knew that I had done everything I could do. I knew that I had loved those tiny creatures and cared for them.

Love will always fill my heart.

And with it, grief will come. That’s to be expected. The world won’t end because I had to feel it. There’s nothing wrong with me for experiencing love and loss in this way. It’s who I am.

I stop overcorrecting. I stop trying to be super-human. I embrace the ordinary, messy, meaningful human experience. If there are demons to be faced, it’s the voices outside of ourselves telling us that we’re not feeling what we should feel. That we need thicker skin and guarded hearts. That we should be anything other than who we are. I don’t need to face demons. I embrace the mess instead. Finally, it feels like enough.