My Daughter, The Hunter
If you had told me ten years ago that my daughter Eryn would be obsessed with hunting, I would have laughed. I’m not saying I thought she was incapable of it—heck, both our girls are fast learners, they can do anything they set their minds on—but hunting? My little princess, with her glitter pens and unicorn backpacks? Nah. That was a dad thing, right?
Well, fast forward to now, and life has dramatically changed. Turns out, my daughter isn’t just obsessed with glitter and slime; she's got an arsenal of camouflage gear, new bows her uncle CB spoils her with, and a hunting blind that smells like "eau de deer" (which, for the record, is not a fragrance I’d recommend).
Now, I don’t know when it happened. One minute, she was wearing sparkly pink tutus to the grocery store. The next minute, she’s asking for a camo for her birthday and quoting her dad’s “hunting wisdom” like it’s a motivational speech.
Eryn: matter-of-factly “Mom, the key to a successful hunt is patience. And also, don’t forget the scent blocker.”
Me: squinting “Wait. What do you mean? I thought you just waited for a deer to wander by.”
Eryn: giving me a look like I’m the world’s biggest amateur “No, no. You need to think like a deer, mom. They’re smarter than you think.”
It hit me like a ton of bricks: I was raising a mini hunter. But worse? She was actually better at it than me. (I’ve only bagged one buck in my life. My husband did everything for me except pull the trigger. He even dressed me and shoved me up the tree stand.) She even knows how to work the hunting app on my husband’s phone—and let me tell you, that thing is more complex than a NASA launch sequence.
Husband: “See, this is why I’m proud of her. She’s got the instinct.”
Me: “Instinct? It’s like she’s been living in the woods her whole life.”
And that’s when it dawned on me: I wasn’t just a bystander. I was the third wheel in a hunting family now. This was the start of my downward spiral into a world where I had zero business being. But hey, at least I still had my comfy, non-hunting slippers, right?
I was in the church sound room this last Sunday when my phone started blowing up with texts and I had this sinking feeling that my daughter had officially surpassed me in every survival skill I thought I possessed. Her dad saw a buck pass by the woods on our land, woke her - and with sleep still in her eyes - bagged her 6th buck (in her 13 years of life) on the weekend of the youth hunt.
This girl, ladies and gentlemen, is out there in the woods with her dad, learning how to track deer, read the wind, and probably even identify which tree was best for hiding behind during a surprise attack. My daughter spends most of her weekends with her dad, out in the woods. They have their own language—whispers about wind direction, secret hand signals, and a shared sense of pride when they find a deer track. And somehow, I’ve become the reluctant housekeeper of this little hunting empire.
My daughter’s huntress spirit is alive and well—and if I’m being honest, I kind of love it. Sure, it’s a bit surreal to see my little girl becoming a mini-me version of her dad, but I also realize I’m witnessing something truly awesome. She’s learning patience, resilience, and how to take care of herself (and maybe her mom) in the wild.
Who am I to stand in the way of that?
