The Apprentice's Silence

It was a hot day, the kind that makes everything feel heavier. I had just started learning how to use a saddle and platform setup, and I moved slowly toward the area I planned to hunt. Once I got into position, a storm rolled in hard. I got soaked, which was oddly fun, until the lightning started and I climbed down. I hunted from the ground the rest of the evening and didn’t see a single deer until I spooked them in the dark walking out. The air smelled like wet soil and grass, and even though I didn’t fill a tag, the day stuck with me. I’d gone in hoping to see deer during legal light, but instead I got a lesson in patience and conditions you can’t control.

Being lost in the woods feels immediate and obvious, every sound and shape grabs your attention because you know you’re out of your element. Being lost in life isn’t like that. It creeps up while your guard is down. For a few years now, I’ve felt that same kind of lostness about my research. It’s a dull kind of concern that’s just always there, like a hum in the background. I know I have potential, but I don’t know where to put it yet. The feeling reminds me of those early hunts when I didn’t know where to sit or what sign to trust.

My first year of hunting went surprisingly well, but even then, I know it wasn’t pure luck. I had to do a lot right just to be in the position to succeed. Still, there’s a difference between luck and earned success — when your predictions start playing out the way you expect, the pride hits differently. Learning to hunt deer without guidance feels a lot like learning to do space physics without it. Both are wide open, and without a foundation, you just wander around. What I’m chasing now is intuition — maybe confidence, since that’s what imposter syndrome really eats away at. Progress, when the path isn’t clear, just means any sign that you’re closer to understanding how something works, no matter how small that step is.

The state of university politics has made me question whether I even want to stay in that system. If I still wanted to work for NASA or a defense contractor, I’d probably feel more confident in my path, but I don’t. That’s made it hard to stay motivated. Still, the quiet years have taught me that patience and consistency matter more than anything else. Learn slowly but steadily. Only keep doing it if it’s mostly enjoyable. If I could talk to my past self from that hot, stormy day, I’d tell him he’s going to be fine. He’ll find his footing again — as a parent, as a partner, and in the woods. As for hunting a future I can’t yet picture, I still can’t tell if I love that feeling or hate it. But either way, I’m still showing up.