How Birdwatching Helped Ease My Anxiety

By Emily Busse

Editor’s Note: This blog originally appeared in The Bold Italic and can be found here.

What I thought was a “grandmas-only” hobby has done more for my Sunday Scaries than anything else.

 An old frenemy came back into my life this past year: anxiety disorder. I finally admitted to myself that this particular flare-up wasn’t going to just go away when my dentist said my gums were receding “due to stress-induced grinding.” If your dentist can guess your mental health, it’s time to get proactive.

I started looking for an in-network therapist (still working on that one five months later), and in the meantime, tried a slew of other self-treatments. I upped my workouts, paid $8 a month for a meditation app, and pulled out the adult coloring book I spent way too much on and never used. But the activity that’s done more for my worst weekend dread than anything else was something I never saw coming: birdwatching.

Birdwatching (or “birding” if you’re cool) is about observing birds in the wild. It started for me three months ago when my dad and stepmom gave me a pair of binoculars for my 28th birthday. They knew I liked hiking and camping, and figured I’d enjoy learning more about the wildlife around me. The first thing I did was watch a neighbor four houses away eat a banana through their kitchen window.

The second thing I did was find the National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds: Western Region my parents gifted me two years before (they clearly had a vision for me). I hadn’t used the book yet, in part because I associated birdwatching only with my grandparents who had binoculars and a guidebook handy by the back porch. Or with my dad, who will spend 45 minutes Googling facts about an Anna’s Hummingbird after seeing one from the window. But now that my own birding tools were staring at me from my dresser, I thought I should at least give it a try. Maybe Grandpa was onto something.

The following weekend I schlepped up to Tilden Regional Park and gave it my first go. I didn’t see many birds, and I felt a little creepy using binoculars within view of a playground. But once I got far enough from other people and tweaked the binoculars just right, a whole new world opened up. I saw the brilliant blue feathers of a Scrub Jay—no longer was it just the noisy ass bird that stole colorful rocks from my porch; now, it was a specific, really quite pretty bird with its own unique natural history and characteristics. I stood in the same spot for 20 minutes, following the bird as it hopped from one tree to another. Runners and bikers on the trail had to divert around me, standing with my binoculars glued to my face. The longer I watched, the more detail I noticed about the jay’s feathers, its personality. It was like watching an episode of Planet Earth, 30 feet away, just for me (sans Sir David Attenborough, unfortunately). And, honestly, that was about it for the first outing. But it was enough—I was hooked. Birding, I realized, was like an intensely tame form of detective work. It’s Pokemon Go IRL.

The next weekend, I was at it again at Point Pinole. The following weekend, Coyote Hills. I found myself looking forward to it during the week, researching the next avian hot spot and fighting the urge to Google-identify pigeons that landed on the windowsill at work. Pigeons are actually doves! I’d think to myself with a secret thrill.

I’m still firmly a novice, but I can now identify at least a dozen birds by sight. I can tell you if it’s a female Bufflehead or an American Coot. If it’s a Snowy Egret or a Great Egret and if they’re showing off their lacy breeding plumage.

At surface level, birding combines many things I love: nature bathing, natural science, and making lists. That very first day, I started writing down the date and location of every positive species ID. At the time I didn’t realize that was standard birding practice, I just knew I got the same satisfying rush of endorphins that comes with crossing a task off a to-do list. (People who also put “Shower” on their to-do lists know what I’m talking about).

But there’s something deeper at play for me than recreation. A couple hours peepin’ birds has done more for my Sunday Scaries (or paralyzing dread, whatever you want to call it) than anything I’ve tried. Here’s my theory as to why: First, birding requires you to talk less and observe more. Second, it forces you to focus. Much like working out (now my second-favorite anxiety reducer), you have no room for cyclical negative thinking if you’re laser focused on the task at hand.

Finally, it’s an incredible conduit for mindfulness. I’m more “present” when birding than any other time during the week. You sometimes only have a few minutes to identify a bird before it melts back into the landscape. The heron isn’t going to wait around for you to decide if your friend is secretly mad at you or not. You have to spot the bird, focus your binoculars, hold still, take stock of as many details as you can, and then keep that in your head as you flip through the book. I love and respect yoga and meditation, but I am admittedly bad at centering myself during those activities. I’m always the person fidgeting with her shirt or optimizing my to-do list in my head. Birding showed me it’s OK to get creative about how to find your inner peace.

I’m well aware I did not discover birding. I just happen to be the only one of my peers to do so, so I recently decided to take the next step and meet fellow birders by joining a free field trip with the Golden Gate Bird Alliance at Arrowhead Marsh in Oakland. I was excited, but nervous. Would I feel silly with my small binoculars and clearly brand-new guide book next someone with a long-range scope, SPF 50 hat, and tactical cargo pants?

Turns out, I was right about the accoutrements (think practical athleisure meets tactical wildlife gear), but I was wrong about feeling silly. I saw at least 10 new birds, learned many new tips (it’s hip to call binoculars “bins”), and met 16 incredibly passionate locals who were eager to let me peer through their scope at a Ridgway’s Rail — a bird I’m told is a rare sight and a good addition to my “life list”. The majority were decades older than me, but there was a handful of 30- and 40-somethings in the mix as well.

The outing’s guide, 62-year-old Dawn Lemoine, has been birding for five years after retiring from IT Project Management at Chevron. In that short time, she’s recorded 431,885 birds and can identify all of the 389 birds on her Life List by sight. A small woman with short gray hair, Lemoine wore colorful roadrunner earrings that Sunday and flitted between attendees like a wren, deftly identifying birds by sight, doling out nuggets of bird wisdom (“Gulls are tricky”), or pointing out a pied-billed grebe she’d released the week before after rehabilitation. Her enthusiasm was palpable, and the collective excitement upon spotting a new species was contagious.

“I believe birds tell us what’s going on on our planet. They’re the harbingers, the canaries in the coal mine,” Lemoine said, explaining how joining the birding community has made her more environmentally conscious. But it’s about mindfulness for her, as well. “If I was by myself, I could sit and look at a blue-winged teal for half an hour. There’s a lot of beauty concentrated here.”

I left the marsh more enthusiastic about my beginner birder status than before. If I’ve convinced you to give it a try, here’s what I recommend (based on admittedly limited experience):

• Get a decent pair of binoculars and a guide book. You can use Google, but for me, my phone is a Pandora’s Box of non-mindfulness. I try to use it only when I’m stumped.
• Research a few good local spots to check out. Coyote Hills was my favorite so far.
• Be patient. Sometimes you won’t see many birds or you’ll see the same ones. Try new places and wait for the seasons to change. It makes the thrill of seeing a new one that much sweeter.
• Bring a pen and notebook. Or keep track on Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s app eBird, a collaborative biodiversity community science project Dawn introduced me to. It helps if you, too, just really like lists.
• Put yourself out there. Try one of the field trips. You’ll meet people and birds you never would otherwise.

And, listen. If birds freak you out (I don’t agree with you but I get it – they’re literally dinosaurs), then skip birding and take away this: anxiety sucks. It’s probably going to take a combination of things to help. But don’t give up. Keep seeking out help and trying new ways to ease it, and you might surprise yourself.