I grew up in a family of hunters and fishermen — the real-deal kind. The kind who woke up before dawn without complaining, brewed strong coffee that could strip paint, and loaded the truck with gear like it was a sacred ritual. In our small Indiana town, that wasn’t a hobby. It was a way of life.
For my family, hunting wasn’t about trophies or bragging rights. It was about providing — putting food on the table, filling the freezer, and making the most of what the land gave. It was work, but it was also connection. There’s a deep kind of respect that comes with that, one I recognize more now as an adult.
Still, even with all the encouragement (and maybe a little pressure), I was never quite a convert.
I took the 4-H hunter safety class because it was mandatory in my family. Everybody did. It was basically our version of driver’s ed. We learned about safety, responsibility, and respect for the animals — all good things. But when it came time to actually go out into the woods in the dark, holding a weapon and waiting in silence for something to appear, I knew immediately: I am not your girl for this.
The idea of sitting quietly in a deer blind at 4 a.m., freezing, holding a rifle, and trying not to move — that was my own personal version of purgatory. I either wanted to talk the entire time or fall asleep, and neither one is particularly helpful when your goal is to not scare the deer away.
And while I understood the purpose — food for the family, stewardship of the land, the shared tradition — I also knew deep down that something in me just worked differently.
Because while everyone else was learning how to field dress a rabbit, I was over here trying to figure out if we could keep it as a pet.
That was the thing about me: I wanted to name everything.
Our pigs had names. So did the rabbits. The chickens weren’t just chickens — they were personalities with feathers. I talked to them every day and could tell you who was bossy, who was sweet, and who was a little unhinged.
Photo by Thomas Iversen on Unsplash
Even the barn cats and dogs got names that sounded like members of an extended family. I had a whole menagerie of “friends” that, in my mind, were absolutely not food.
This became problematic.
My family, bless them, had to do some creative explaining when it came time for the “circle of life” conversations. Hunting wasn’t about cruelty — it was about feeding people, about making do, about survival. And I respected that even as a kid. But I couldn’t unsee the faces or unfeel the connection I had to those animals.
There was one fall I’ll never forget. A deer had been brought back from the woods and hung up on my old swing set — the one I used to twirl until I was dizzy. But this time, it wasn’t for play. It was for field dressing.
We were taught to cut carefully, making sure not to puncture the intestines and soil the meat. It was meticulous work — part science, part survival skill. I knew how to do it, and I helped plenty of times. But let’s just say I never dreamed of a future as a butcher or, heaven forbid, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
The blood, the smell, the cold air — it was all so vivid. Necessary, yes. But it changed something for me.
I don’t think I ever set foot on that swing set again.
But here’s the thing: in our little farm town, that was normal. That’s just how things were done. If you weren’t hanging a deer from a tree, you were hanging it from a cherry picker — the same one you’d used to pull the engine out of your truck last week. There was nothing strange or cruel about it. It was just life and gravity. Real, unvarnished, and practical.
And I’m genuinely grateful for that upbringing. It taught me what hard work looks like. It taught me to respect where food comes from, and the people who do the work most of us couldn’t stomach.
But even with that gratitude, I also learned something else about myself.
I wasn’t wired for the hunt. I was wired for the story. For connection. For care.
While others saw an animal in terms of meat or resource, I saw something with a name and a personality. I saw relationship.
And even though I’ve never shot a deer, I’ve spent my whole life learning to read other kinds of signs — tension in a room, a person’s tone when they’re hurting, the quiet moments when someone just needs to know they’re safe. Turns out empathy is its own kind of survival skill.
When I look back now, I can laugh at it all — the little girl who refused to eat the chicken because she’d named it, who whispered apologies to the rabbits, who talked too loud in the deer blind and fell asleep in the truck. I didn’t know it then, but that tenderness wasn’t weakness. It was direction.
My instincts were just different.
And honestly? I’m thankful for that, too.
I’m thankful for the hunters and fishermen in my family — for the way they taught me responsibility, respect, and resourcefulness. I’m thankful that they provided, that they made sure we never went without. And while I love a juicy steak or chicken sandwich just like anyone else, I’m thankful that I don’t have to be the one to hunt or field dress my dinner. Grocery stores exist, and that’s a blessing I do not take lightly.
Instincts are funny, though, aren’t they? We talk about “survival of the fittest,” but maybe survival isn’t just about strength or skill. Maybe it’s also about knowing what you’re not cut out for — and choosing to honor that.
Because some of us were born to hunt, and some of us were born to name the chickens.
And both kinds of people make the world work.
These days, I still find myself naming things, rescuing strays, and talking too much — just no longer from the deer blind. The setting has changed, but the instinct hasn’t. The little girl who couldn’t stay quiet in the woods just found a different way to make noise — one that felt as natural to her as hunting did to others.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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