Fear of Missing Out

A new kind of spring

@juliakiaphotos

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I’ve had the same answer for as long as I can remember. I wanted to be a dad.

I wanted to be a lot of things. A BMX rider, rapper, chef, poet, history teacher, hunter, hippy, grad student, writer, husband, and dog trainer. Time passes and dreams change, I guess. Hell, I even succeeded in a few of those hopeful endeavors. But I never wanted to be anything in the same fierce and fervent way that I wanted to be a father. Then suddenly I was one. Right at the start of my turkey season.

May is my favorite month outside of the fall stretch. It’s well documented that the “ber months” are my time. The days between August and the New Year. But May is special, too. I love it. I love the abundant opportunity and promise. I love the weather. I love the whole vibe, really. May is spring’s November.

I don’t sleep much in May. I hunt turkeys from 4:00 a.m. until I either kill one, give up, or the noon bell chimes. I pick mushrooms and wild leeks. I take an epic camping trip with my buddies from college. I run my dog. I fish. I stack firewood. That’s my typical May—busy, tired, and all-in on the great outdoors.

This May was atypical to say the least. On the day the rent came due, our son was a week old. I’d barely scouted turkeys and had no real plans to hunt. I had no clue what size or condition the leeks were in. Nor the mushrooms. I postponed my annual camping trip. I planned to miss a whole lot of my own normalcy this year, and that was just fine.

I anticipated feeling some fear of missing out. FOMO, as they say. FOMO about my buddies going camping without me. FOMO about not turkey hunting as much or even at all. FOMO about not being able to post my annual photo of pretty pickled leek jars on the internet. But you know what? My friends and I will camp again someday, I think I still have a leg and thigh from last year’s gobbler in the bottom of the freezer, and we didn’t eat enough of our 2025 leeks to even justify the mosquito bites.

While I certainly desired to be in the woods and on the river for every sunrise and sunset, nothing could have made me actually feel that FOMO I’d been worried about. I didn’t miss a single damn thing that I won’t get to feel again next May. I missed out, sure. But I loved every minute of it.

In trade for a month-long stretch of gobbling turkeys and fresh, spring air, I received the best feeling in the whole wide world. I became what I always wanted to be. I became a father. I sat and stood and laid beside my wife as she brought our beautiful son into this world. I watched, awestruck, as she showcased more grace, beauty, and power than I’ve ever seen in any living thing. I fell in love all over again, and again after that.

When we got home from the hospital, it was turkey season. My gun and vest were ready. My brain drifted to the soft, spring woods. It felt different, the pull to play outside. I waited a few days and eventually went hunting, but my priorities had shifted. Killing a bird was on the back burner.

One very tired turkey hunter

My FOMO for dewy logging roads and Adirondack foothills was transformed into a strong desire to just be. To be home. To be quiet. To be mindful. I swapped my vest for a diaper bag, my copy of “The Tenth Legion” for “The New Father”, and my camouflage for sweatpants. The only similarity between turkey hunting and the so-called newborn trenches was military-grade sleep deprivation. Energy drinks at 3:00 a.m. Peanut butter and jelly. And it was bliss. Pure, hard-earned bliss.

I once became a leek picking, dog training, spring loving turkey hunter. Just as I now became a father, alongside my wife becoming a mother, my parents becoming grandparents, and my bird dog becoming a real pain in the butt.

Everything changed. My turkey hunts and foraging and fishing trips just weren’t important this year. And that version of FOMO never came. I spent a few sleep-deprived mornings in the spring woods. I lucked into a few dozen morels. I ran the dog when I could. And then I hurried home, for fear of missing out.