I could feel eyes on me, even though I couldn’t see them. Was it just my imagination running wild again? My constant hypervigilance — the kind that used to feel like a full-time job — had been quiet lately, almost dormant. Still, the old instincts stirred. My dog wasn’t reacting, which used to be my trusted sign that everything was fine. But she’s getting older now, and her sharp senses have softened with time, just like mine have.

 

The sense that we weren’t alone gripped me anyway, humming in my chest like a warning bell. But we continued forward into the stillness of our dimly lit, secluded yard. Night walks like these had become a ritual — not always welcome, but necessary — thanks to aging bladders and unpredictable sleep cycles. The air was thick with silence, not peaceful, but eerie. Even the trees seemed to lean in, listening.

 

As she began circling her third potential bathroom spot, I felt a ripple of annoyance mixed with anxiety. Could she please just pick one already? Finally, she settled. Relief washed over me. Soon I’d be back under warm blankets, safe from whatever strange tension was crawling up my spine.

 

I glanced up from the dark grass — and froze.

 

Another set of eyes met mine. Deep black, oval-shaped, staring back from a light-brown, fur-covered face. A deer. Statuesque. Still.

 

We locked eyes, both unmoving. Neither of us expected the other. It had let us get so close — too close — without bolting. Why?

 

I became aware of the tightness in my shoulders, the tension in my jaw. I was holding my breath.

 

Meanwhile, my dog, nose to the ground, remained blissfully unaware, lost in the comforting routine of sniffing and sorting smells. I gently redirected her back toward the house, glancing once more over my shoulder. The deer hadn’t moved. It stood frozen, just like I had moments before.

 

Fear has a way of wrapping itself around even the quietest moments. It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers — through the hairs standing up on the back of your neck or the tightening in your chest. Sometimes it’s a deer staring at you from the dark, daring you to notice what your body already knows.

 

But here’s what that moment reminded me: our senses are wise, but they are not always precise. They carry the echoes of our past — trauma, stress, loss, learned vigilance. They serve us by being alert, but if we don’t learn to meet them with curiosity instead of panic, they can also lead us astray.

 

Just like I didn’t bolt when I sensed something, just like the deer didn’t flee when it saw us — we both paused. We noticed. We waited. There was a silent agreement in that moment that movement wasn’t the answer — presence was.

This is something I’ve been learning in my own mental health journey: to be aware of what I feel without letting it define the story. To trust my instincts, but not to let them run unchecked. To ask: What am I really afraid of? Is this fear asking for action — or attention?

 

Sometimes, like that deer, we need to pause in stillness. Sometimes, like my old dog, we just need to do what’s in front of us — smell the ground, go through our routine — and keep moving. And sometimes, like me on that cold night, we need to trust that we can feel afraid and still return to safety without running.

 

That night, nothing dramatic happened. But it stuck with me. Because it reminded me that fear doesn’t always mean danger. Sometimes, it just means be here now.

 

And that’s enough.