A Doe Came to Listen at the River

The evening we gathered by the Provo River, the heat had finally let go of the day.

We found our spot along the bank, through a thick tangle of burdock and sneaky poison ivy, where an old cottonwood had fallen and its huge roots lay bare and exposed to the air. It was secluded, the kind of place only womenfolk looking to feel safe would think to find. Someone before us had drawn a small woman in charcoal on a stone at the water’s edge, and we named her “Lady Provo.” Dragonflies circled over the river without end. Spiders crept over our bare toes, and none of us minded. The warm evening breeze that comes as the earth begins to close the chapter of the day wrapped around us like a blanket, and we smiled, and we felt held by the river.

There were five of us, tea in our hands. When one of my dear friends began to sing, a hummingbird came forward, as if to listen. That was the kind of evening it was.

The women who have held me

These have been my dear friends, my deer 🦌 friends, for more than a decade.

They watched me walk through the tender months after my divorce and the long years of learning to co-parent. They held my hands through the deep sobs after we lost Liv, a girl I loved and was something like a second mother to, and they brought food to my family when I could not feed us myself. They have walked beside me through the tender transitions of my children growing and moving on.

They are the ones I go to when it is time for a new marking on my skin, the ones I go to when it is time to dance, and the ones I go to when it is simply time to be silly and celebrate. On Sundays we often have brunch and hold each other in a big cuddle puddle, we work on each other’s shoulders and feet, and we drop in deeply together, building a kind of safety I did not always know was possible.

With them I do not have to explain myself. They let me live in the etheric realm and the earth realm in the same breath. They let me be the mystic and the practitioner, and the friend who tells ridiculous stories as we paddleboard under the full moon for hours. There is nothing to prove with them and no part of me to hide. I do not have to show up showered, or healed, or holding it all together. They simply support me, through and through. It is the one place I can finally exhale.

A doe came to the far bank

That evening, one of my friends, a beautiful earth tender, was telling us about a ceremony she had moved through. She spoke with such confidence, such sovereignty, her story and her power embodied. There is a particular reverence that settles over a circle after a womban tells the truth of her life with that much honesty. We listened. We witnessed. We simply held her.

As she was speaking, about halfway into her share, we looked up.

Across the river stood a doe.

All by herself, no herd around her, her large mule-deer ears perked toward us. She was not grazing. She was not passing through. She was listening, the same way we were, watching and observing us with eyes that cared.

She stared at us, we stared at her, and for a long moment the whole circle communed with her across the water. In that moment something in me softened. There was no threat in her being there, no fear and no caution, only belonging. It was as if she had felt the love in our little circle and wanted, for a moment, to be part of it.

Once her presence was known, once we had truly seen each other, she moved on. Unhurried. Unafraid. She had simply come, and then she went.

That is the medicine of the Deer, at least the way I have come to know it. Never a threat, but a moment of pure care, a reminder that we are meant to live far more harmoniously together than we remember. To be witnessed without being rushed or fixed, and to feel safe enough, held enough, that the body can finally soften.

What the herd is for

The doe was alone, but we were not.

A deer is one of the animals we look to when we speak about how the body lets go of fear. In the wild, when a deer has run for its life and the danger has passed, its body begins to tremble. It shakes. It discharges everything the fear poured into it, and then it walks on, carrying none of it forward. This is the root of the somatic work I do. Our bodies were built to do the very same thing. We were made to shake it off, to move through the freeze rather than stay frozen inside it.

But the body cannot release while it is still bracing. It can only let go when it feels safe. Often, the thing that lets us feel safe again is another person, a circle, a herd that stays close and does not turn away.

That is what these women are for me. There was a season when a painful ending left me feeling raw and broken, and they did the simplest, most meaningful things. They left me voice notes. They massaged my shoulders and my feet. They believed, out loud and without wavering, that I would make it through. That is what a herd, a tribe you feel safe inside, actually does. It does not fix you. It holds you, and it reminds you that you can get through this, whether the hard thing is losing someone you love, recovering from the ER, or any of the countless transitions this life asks of us. We do them together.

I would like to believe that if that doe could return to her own herd and share her highs and her lows, she too could shake loose whatever she was carrying. That is the power of witness. It is the power of sitting in intimate space with one another where no one is judged, where we are there only to listen, to love, and to share the moment together. To know that you can come back to your herd and release, and shake, and speak, and still be held, loved, and accepted, this is one of the greatest gifts I know.

You were never meant to carry it alone

You do not have to carry it alone. The doe moved on gently because, even for a moment, she was seen. May you let yourself be seen too.

Questions people ask

What does the deer symbolize as an animal ally? Deer carries the medicine of tenderness and safety. She is the part of you that heals not by pushing harder but by being gently held, the reminder that your body releases its fear only when it finally feels safe enough to.

What does it mean when a deer comes near you? In many traditions it is a sign of gentleness and safety, a message that you can soften and let your guard down. For me, a doe came to the far bank of the Provo River at the very moment my circle of women were sharing their deepest truths, and we felt witnessed by the whole living world. A deer will not come close while you are braced. Her nearness says you are safe now.

I am a somatic and energy practitioner, not a licensed therapist, and nothing here is a substitute for medical or mental health care. This is an invitation to your own knowing, offered with love.

If something in you softened as you read this, there is a gentle place to begin. You are welcome in our Rewilding Hearts community, a herd that gathers each month to hold one another. And if you would like to be met one to one, you can book a free discovery call, twenty unhurried minutes, no pressure and nothing to sell, just space to be heard.

The doe moved on light, carrying nothing she did not need. May you, too, set down what you were never meant to carry alone.