Flight Lessons: What Falconry Taught Me at 30

(An image of myself, handling one of the largest owls of the day: The Urasian Eagle Owl.)

For my 30th birthday this year, my mother surprised me with something extraordinary.

She’s been on an “experiences over objects” kick for the past few years—believing that memories last longer than material gifts. And honestly? I agree with her now more than ever.

This year’s experience was a 3–4 hour guided falconry experience.

Out of respect for the organization’s privacy, I won’t be naming them or sharing their location. They’ve unfortunately dealt with vandalism and bird theft in the past, so they keep a low profile. What I can say is that they’re a small, family-run group caring for around 200 birds—from owls to eagles, hawks, and falcons. They breed, train, and work with other falconry organizations, offering everything from wedding demonstrations to photo shoots. They’re incredible.

During our visit, we interacted with six different birds of prey. We started small—with a wide-eyed Eastern Screech Owl—and worked our way up to an African Hawk Eagle. Each time our guide brought out a bird, we were allowed to handle them ourselves… except for the Hawk Eagle. He was a bit antsy. And bitey.

The highlight of the day came at the end: a forest walk with a Harris Hawk named Juniper. We got to call her to our gloves, and the faces I made each time she landed on mine had my mom and aunt laughing nonstop. But for me, it was pure magic.

And while I’ll be sharing more about the birds and the falconry itself, this experience did something deeper. It shifted something in me—something fundamental.

So hold on tight, folks. This one’s going to be long!

Learning to Listen to Raptors

This experience taught me a lot—about falconry, yes, but also about myself. Let’s start with the birds.

Falconry isn’t about domination or obedience. It’s about cooperation. The birds aren’t “trained” in the traditional sense—they’re conditioned to associate humans with food. That’s it. Trust plays a role, especially early on when handlers build familiarity and comfort. But once that trust is established, everything else hinges on one thing: hunger.

It surprised me how much of falconry revolves around weight management. Not in a cruel or restrictive way—the birds we met were healthy, well-fed, and regularly checked by vets. But their weight is carefully monitored, because it directly affects their ability to fly and their willingness to engage.

Here are the specifics that I learned:

• Birds are fed on specific schedules, often with a skipped meal before a demonstration. A slightly hungry bird is more likely to respond to food cues.

• They’re kept within a precise weight range. Too heavy, and they can’t fly properly. Their wings can’t support the extra mass.

• If a bird’s crop is full, they’ll ignore their handler entirely. At that point, all you can do is wait.

Actually, Juniper demonstrated that last point brilliantly while we were on our walk:

At one moment, she caught and ate a wild sparrow mid-flight—completely unprompted, unapologetic, and majestic. Then she perched in a tree, basking in her victory and the glory of fresh food, while we all stood below waiting like peasants. It was hilarious, yes—but also the perfect embodiment of falconry’s core truth: you are not in control. The bird decides when, how, and if she’ll engage. You’re just the snack-bringer. And sometimes, she finds her own.

Wild, right? Falconry is less about control and more about respecting the bird’s terms. You’re not the boss. You’re the food source. And if they’re not interested, they’ll let you know.

Turning 30 With Talons and Trust

I didn’t expect my 30th birthday to feel like a rite of passage. But walking through the woods with Juniper—watching her fly, perch, and choose her own timing—something shifted.

As I've already mentioned, my mom has always believed that experiences matter more than objects. For the past few years, she’s leaned into that belief, gifting me memories instead of things. This falconry experience was her latest offering—and it felt like more than just a birthday surprise. It felt like a quiet ceremony. A moment of flight. A reminder that I’m still growing, still capable of wonder, still tethered to the wild parts of myself.

Turning thirty always comes with its own emotional weight. There’s pressure to have things figured out, to be polished and predictable. But instead of feeling behind, I felt… aligned. Not with expectations, but with something older. Wilder. Truer to me.

I didn’t just hold a hawk—I held a new kind of courage. One that doesn’t rush. One that doesn’t perform. One that lands when it’s ready.

Every time Juniper landed on my glove, I felt a rush of excitement—like a child meeting magic for the first time. But beneath that thrill was something deeper: peace. I wasn’t just mesmerized by her beauty or the novelty of the experience. I was calm. Present. Grounded in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Each bird we met brought its own energy—some shy, some bold, some wild in ways that felt familiar. And as I listened to our guide explain how falconry works and the significance of each bird, I realized how much of it mirrored my own emotional rhythms. These birds didn’t perform on command. They responded when they were ready, when the conditions felt right. Hunger, trust, instinct—all of it had to align.

I’ve spent much of my life feeling like I’m out of sync with the world around me. My disabilities, my mental health, my environment—they’ve all shaped how I move through life. And sometimes, I’ve felt like I’m failing simply because I can’t “perform” the way others expect me to. But watching Juniper catch a sparrow mid-flight, perch in a tree, and make us all wait while she basked in her own timing? That felt like a revelation.

She wasn’t being difficult. She was being herself. And in that moment, I saw myself in her wildness. In her restraint. In her refusal to rush.

This experience didn’t just teach me about birds. It reminded me that I, too, am allowed to move at my own pace. To respond when I’m ready. To honor my instincts, even when they don’t fit someone else’s schedule.

Conservation and Connection

Before this experience, I admired birds of prey from a distance—awed by their beauty, but unsure of their world. Now? I want to protect it.

This birthday surprise taught me that falconry isn’t just a sport or a spectacle. It’s a living relationship between human and raptor, built on trust, timing, and respect. And for the organizations that care for these birds, it’s also a form of conservation. Many of the birds we met were part of breeding programs, educational outreach, or rehabilitation efforts. They weren’t just ambassadors—they were survivors.

I left that day with a deeper appreciation for hawks, eagles, owls, and falcons—not just as symbols of power, but as individuals with instincts, moods, and preferences. I saw their intelligence. Their autonomy. Their quiet defiance. And I realized how much of their story is misunderstood or overlooked.

So here’s what I’m carrying forward: a renewed commitment to ethical wildlife education, conservation genetics, and emotional storytelling. I want to help people see these birds not as props or predators, but as partners in a shared ecosystem. I want to advocate for the falconry industry—not just the thrill of it, but the care, the science, and the soul.

Because when you meet spectacular birds such as these, you don’t just walk away with a memory. You walk away with a mission.

What I'll Carry Forward

This birthday didn’t come with balloons or candles. It came with feathers, silence, and a hawk named Juniper.

I didn’t leave with souvenirs. I left with perspective.

Falconry reminded me that timing matters. That trust takes time. That wildness isn’t something to fix—it’s something to honor. These birds didn’t perform for us. They responded when they were ready. And in that, I saw a reflection of my own rhythms. My own need for space, patience, and autonomy.

I’m still learning how to move through the world on my own terms. But this experience gave me a new kind of courage—the kind that waits, listens, and lands when it’s ready.

So, as a finality from this beautiful experience, I'll ask you all this: What wildness do you want to protect?

(Loved reading? Awesome, I loved writing it!)