I grew up duck hunting with my daddy. As a little girl, I was often the only female at Ducks Unlimited meetings, surrounded by men and their sons. In college, I spent Labor Day weekends in the dove field—shooting birds and socializing under the sun. Hunting is in my blood. From an early age, I was taught to respect guns, wildlife, and the beauty of the outdoors.
Looking back, I see how hunting wasn’t just a sport in our family—it was a classroom. My dad taught me patience, responsibility, and the value of hard work. The time we spent in duck blinds and dove fields was more than a hobby; it was sacred time away from distractions. It was his way of showing me my strength. And he did it with balance and intention—not ego.
There are plenty of jokes about hunting:
- “We interrupt this marriage for hunting season.”
- “Love has four letters, but so do deer and hunt.”
- “Opening day should be a national holiday.”
And I get it—those memes carry some truth. When hunting season rolls around, the focus shifts. The air feels different. Hearts lean toward the woods long before the weather changes. You feel the anticipation like a current—checking gear, sighting rifles, counting down the days. It’s as if memory and expectation are braided together.
I’ve spent many hours in a deer stand the past few decades—so I know the adrenaline rush when a deer steps into view. The world goes still, your heart races, and for a moment, there’s nothing else. For many of us, the outdoors is where we feel closest to God—in a deer stand, a duck blind, or on a quiet walk through the woods.
Some of my favorite memories are hunting with my children. On one particular hunt, we didn’t see a single deer all day—probably because we were laughing and talking too much. But as the sun dipped low, when deer are most active, we quieted down. My son spotted a good-sized deer as it hovered close to the tree line. We whispered strategy, gauged the distance, and I found myself suspended between stillness and action. I took a breath and let the arrow fly. Once hit, the deer ran into the woods.
We climbed down from the stand, found blood, and began tracking—navigating through the dark woods with headlamps and phone flashlights. It became clear while we were out there that I hadn’t made a good shot, and my deer was unlikely to be found. When the coyotes started howling, I looked at my kids and said, “Peace out.” That ravine was theirs.
Moments like that are why I love hunting—not just for the harvest, but for the time, the laughter, and the connection it builds. There’s something sacred about the woods, especially when you’re sharing it with your kids. And yet, for all the joy and meaning it brings, hunting can also take more than it gives—especially when it’s not kept in balance.
There’s a term: “hunter’s widow.” It describes a spouse left alone for days and weeks on end, managing kids and a household while their partner pours all time, energy, and money into the hunt. When a marriage is already fragile, that absence can feel like abandonment. Children feel it too.
Yes, hunting is therapy.
Yes, the outdoors offers answers.
Yes, the woods can feel like a cathedral without walls.
But even blessings require balance.
When hunting begins to outweigh the needs of a marriage or family—when it becomes more important than holidays, ballgames, or basic connection—it crosses a line. What once nurtured relationships can start to tear them apart.
A spouse might feel replaced by the deer lease, the gear, or the next trip. It can even feel that the deer means more than the human being. Money that’s rationed at home flows freely, and sometimes secretly, into hunting. Time that could be spent building connection is traded for solitude in a stand. The neglect becomes louder than any echo in the trees. When hunting turns into obsession, it can create destruction. And love becomes the silent casualty.
I’ve always supported hunting. I stood behind the passion, cooked the meals, celebrated the wins, and listened to countless hunting stories. Encouragement gives peace and understanding which becomes part of the hunt itself. I’ve stared at a wall lined with mounted deer heads—each one holding a story. That wall represented passion, commitment, and memories. But, it also represented what was missing: presence, balance, integrity, and humility.
That wall became a reflection—not just of the hunt, but of choices. Choices that prioritized a pursuit over people. Choices that looked like pride disguised as passion.
Hunting, when rooted in respect and intention, is a gift. It can bond generations, build character, and offer healing. Being outdoors and watching the sunrise from a tree stand, an open field, or a duck blind is God’s provision and a blessing. But it must be kept in its place. Because when passion grows too big, it leaves no room for the people who matter most.
So as you step into this season, do it with gratitude and intention. Let each hunt be more than just a chase—it’s a chance to be fully present, to honor your relationships, and to carry your values into the woods with you.
Take stock of what matters. Prioritize connection. Hunt with heart.
Because when you begin the season this way, the hunt becomes more than just the outcome of a day. It becomes an experience of purpose, presence, and love—woven deep into your hunter’s soul.
At Robertson + Easterling, we offer thoughtful, compassionate consultations to help you process your story, understand your options, and make decisions rooted in clarity-not crisis. If you need someone to talk to, reach out today to schedule a confidential consultation. You don’t have to navigate this alone.
