The Disappointment of a 0% Hatch Rate

Homesteading has a way of teaching humility.

No matter how carefully you plan, how diligently you prepare, or how much hope you pour into a project, sometimes things simply don't go the way you envisioned. This hatch was one of those lessons.

Several weeks ago, I purchased 12 hatching eggs for our heritage Shetland hens. Like many homesteaders, I had dreams of fluffy little chicks running around the brooder, adding to our flock and helping preserve a beautiful heritage breed. Every egg represented possibility.

I carefully incubated them, monitored temperature and humidity, turned the eggs, and counted down the days. As hatch day approached, I found myself checking the incubator more often, hoping to hear peeping or see the first tiny crack in a shell.

But that moment never came.

One by one, it became apparent that something wasn't right. Most of the eggs failed to develop fully. Some stopped developing early, while others made it much farther but never reached the finish line.

In the end, only one chick became semi-formed. It was the only sign that life had truly tried to emerge from this batch. Unfortunately, that little chick died before it ever had the chance to pip.

The final result was a heartbreaking 0% hatch rate.

For anyone who has incubated eggs, you know that disappointment can hit harder than expected. It's easy to focus on what went wrong. Was it shipping damage? Fertility issues? Incubation conditions? Genetics? Was it the new supplier we chose? Sometimes there are answers, and sometimes there aren't.

The reality is that hatching eggs is never a guarantee. Every egg is a fragile living thing, and there are countless factors that determine whether a chick successfully develops and hatches.

As discouraging as this experience was, it also serves as a reminder of why every successful hatch feels like a miracle. Every healthy chick represents dozens of biological processes occurring perfectly and at exactly the right time.

Homesteading isn't just about celebrating the victories. It's about learning from the failures, grieving the losses, and choosing to try again anyway.

This hatch didn't give us the outcome we hoped for, but it did remind us of something important: success on the homestead is never guaranteed, and resilience is just as important as knowledge.

We'll clean the incubator, learn what we can from this experience, and when the time is right, we'll try again.

Because that's what homesteaders do.

We plant after losing crops. We breed after losing livestock. We rebuild after storms. And we set another batch of eggs, believing that next time might be different.

Sometimes the hardest part of homesteading isn't the work itself—it's having the courage to keep going after disappointment.

Here's to the next hatch.