Growing up, hunting was always something the men in my family did. I’d watch them leave before dawn, returning with stories of the woods and the quiet patience required. For years, I was content to stay home, but a part of me was always curious about what it was like to be out there, fully present in the wilderness.
It wasn’t a desire to prove anything, but a longing to experience the same connection they seemed to have with the land. My father, seeing my interest, encouraged me to join him. I was nervous—not about the hunt itself, but about being a beginner in a world I knew nothing about.
My first morning in the deer stand was cold and silent. I was bundled up in layers, trying to stay perfectly still as the first light broke through the trees. My father, sitting a few yards away, simply let me be. He had taught me the basics, but out there, it was up to me. The fear of failure started to creep in, but as the minutes turned into an hour, a different feeling began to take over. I started to notice the little things: the way the sunlight filtered through the bare branches, the sound of a squirrel chattering, the slow, steady beat of my own heart. In that stillness, I felt completely alive.
Hours passed, and I didn’t see a deer. I walked back to the truck feeling a mix of disappointment and a strange sense of peace. My father, seeing my face, just smiled. “It’s not about the harvest, is it?” he said. He was right. That morning, I didn’t come home with a deer, but I came home with something far more valuable: a newfound confidence and a deeper connection to the wild. I learned that hunting isn’t about being an expert; it’s about being patient, being present, and trusting your instincts. That first hunt wasn’t a failure—it was the beginning of my journey as a woman of the woods.
