I ditto what booker1 and the others have said. My dad remembers getting chicken delivered and playing with them in the yard before my grandmother 'took care' of them and fried them up for dinner, so he was understanding about all this. My mother is horrified at the thought. It even took her a while to eat my hen's eggs. So, yes, this is new to me, too. The first batch I did was hard. Not hard like crying hard, but more like steeling my resoplve hard. I caught each one and thanked him for being in my flock before putting him in the crate. Driving over to the plant, I felt weird, like I was the one walking the prisoner down the Green Mile. Gotta be done.
When I got there and handed them off, I asked the guy to be nice to them. He looked at me like I was a nutcase and said, "You know I am going to kill them, right?" I said, "Yes. I know. Just please kill them nicely." I think he got my meaning, though they do so many I think it gets routine.
But afterwards, when I was driving home with 9 cleaned carcasses in the cooler, I felt SO PROUD! Not happy, exactly, just accomplished. Like I had set out to run a marathon and crossed the finish line. I had meat for my family, and it did not come from poorly treated commercially raised birds that were fed God knows what. It was awesome! My advice it to keep your eyes on the prize. I admired my birds beauty, enjoyed their antics, but I always referred to them as the McNuggets or the meat birds.