Resilient: Where the Hawks Still Soar
Schuylkill Haven, PA
2025, Senior, Creative Writing
There is a place tucked into the ridges of Pennsylvania called Hawk Mountain Sanctuary—a place not defined by borders or state lines, but by purpose, memory, and healing. My best friend—the girl I loved—introduced me to this sanctuary. Her name was Samantha. We first went there on a whim, just two teenagers looking for something to do that didn’t involve screens or city noise. What we found instead was something sacred—a sanctuary in every sense of the word.
We’d walk for hours, sometimes in complete silence, just listening to the wind and the birds. Other times, we’d point excitedly at the sky when a red-tailed hawk or a peregrine falcon gilded overhead. We didn’t realize it then, but we were building something deep: a bond not just with each other, but with the land beneath our feet and the sky above us. Hawk Mountain became our place. It was where we felt free, connected, and whole. Hawk Mountain is not a state or federal park, but a nonprofit organization with a powerful raptor conservation mission. All trail fees and membership dues go directly to support this mission, which includes scientific research, international training, and public education. The sanctuary protects the raptors who soar above its valleys, and in a way, it protected us, too.
But two years ago, everything changed. Samantha died in a car accident. One moment she was here—bright-eyed, laughing, planning our next hike—and the next, she was gone. The silence that followed wasn’t the peaceful kind we used to enjoy on the trails. It was empty, aching, and unbearable. At first, I couldn’t even think about returning to Hawk Mountain. The thought of walking those trails alone, where her footsteps used to echo beside mine, felt impossible. But grief is strange. It doesn’t follow a straight path. Eventually, something inside me said: “Go back.” And so I did.
The first time I returned, my chest was tight with anxiety and sadness. I parked the car and just sat there, unsure if I could face it. But I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other. As I started up the trail we used to love—the one that leads to the North Lookout—I felt her absence in every step. But I also started to feel something else: peace. Nature doesn’t try to fix you. It doesn’t give you answers. But it gives you space. Space to cry, to remember, to feel, and to begin healing. When I reached the top of the mountain, I sat on a rock and let the wind hit my face. The trees rustled gently, and a hawk soared overhead, effortlessly riding the air currents. It felt like she was there. Not in a ghostly or supernatural way, but in the quiet understanding that this place still held her essence. From that day forward, I returned again and again. Sometimes I brought flowers. Other times, I just sat in silence, watching the birds. I realized I needed to do something more permanent, something to honor her life and our shared love of this place. So I bought a membership to Hawk Mountain Sanctuary. I now pay the trail fees—not just for myself, but in her name. Every hike I take is a way of keeping her spirit alive.
In a world where so much feels uncertain and fragile, nature reminds me what resilience looks like. Trees grow back after storms. Hawks return after long migrations. And people, somehow, find ways to keep living after loss. Samantha is no longer here, but her memory lives in every trail I walk, every bird I see, and every breath I take under those wide, open skies. To keep her even closer, I got a red-winged blackbird tattooed on my back. It was one of her favorite birds—small, bold, and full of song. Its scarlet and gold wing patches reminded her of fire and freedom. Now, she flies with me wherever I go—through every storm, every joy, every trail. The tattoo isn’t just ink. It’s a promise. She’s still with me. Still flying.
What I’ve learned from Hawk Mountain is that resilience isn’t about never breaking—it’s about what you do after you’ve shattered. Nature doesn’t deny hardship. It weathers it. It adapts. It grows again. In many ways, the sanctuary itself is a symbol of this truth. Once threatened by deforestation and development, Hawk Mountain is now a thriving refuge thanks to people who care. Its mission isn’t just about preserving birds; it’s about preserving balance, life, and hope. That mission has become mine, too. I’ve started volunteering at clean-up days. I share what I’ve learned with others, especially young people who haven’t had the chance to connect with nature the way Samantha and I did. I tell them about the hawks and the blackbirds and the healing power of a quiet forest trail. I encourage them to listen—to the wind, to the birds, to themselves. Because sometimes, in the stillness, you hear what you need most.
Samantha taught me to love the wild. Hawk Mountain taught me to return to it, even when my heart was broken. Together, they’ve given me a kind of strength I didn’t know I had. I’m not “over” the loss. I never will be. But I’m growing around it, like roots wrapping around a stone. It’s part of me now. There’s a kind of poetry in the fact that the sanctuary she introduced me to became the place that helped me survive losing her. Every time I climb those rocky trails, I think of her hand in mine, her laugh echoing through the trees. I think of the hawks, how they rise again and again, unafraid of the wind. And I think of resilience—not as a loud, heroic act, but as a quiet, daily choice to keep walking forward. Nature has an incredible ability to absorb pain and return beauty. That’s what Hawk Mountain does. That’s what I strive to do. When I sit on the overlook and see a raptor lift into the sky, I don’t feel alone. I feel connected—to the earth, to her, and to something greater than both. Samantha may be gone, but her legacy soars with every wing above the mountain. And as long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep walking that trail. For her. For me. For the resilience we both found in nature.
Reflection
The idea for my piece was born from grief. After losing Samantha—my best friend and the person I loved—I found myself returning to Hawk Mountain Sanctuary, a place we discovered together. What started as shared hikes turned into sacred memories. In the aftermath of her passing, that mountain became a symbol of healing and resilience. I wanted to honor both her and the sanctuary that helped me survive heartbreak. My creative process was deeply emotional. I wrote from memory and feeling, letting the natural rhythm of our story guide the words. Revisiting our time together and the sanctuary’s mission reminded me how deeply intertwined our lives had become with nature. Every sentence was a step back up that trail, every paragraph a hawk in flight. Being creative allows me to process emotions I can’t always speak aloud. Writing this gave my grief a voice, and through that, I felt a sense of peace. I chose the written word because it's where I’ve always felt most honest—and because Samantha and I used to write each other letters and poems. This is, in a way, one last letter. Exploring the theme Connections to Nature: Looking Inside, Going Outside made me realize how healing those connections can be. Nature doesn’t erase pain, but it makes room for it—absorbs it, like the roots of trees. My message is this: Resilience doesn’t mean forgetting or moving on. It means carrying love and loss into the world, and finding strength in places that still bloom after disaster. I hope my story helps others see that nature is not separate from us—it’s part of us. And in it, we can always find a path forward.