The Restorative Power of Birding

As I stood at my kitchen window, a small bird caught my eye. She was gray, with beady eyes and a pointy crest, like a mohawk on a punk rocker. A tufted titmouse, the busybody of the bird world and a frequent visitor to my birdfeeder, had come to investigate the wad of hair I’d placed into a wire suet cage hanging on a nearby tree. Hopping onto the cage, she tilted her head inquisitively, then tugged at the long strands of hair until she’d grabbed enough to fill her beak. After a moment, she flew toward the edge of the woods. As she disappeared into the trees, I felt uplifted and filled with hope. That hair she’d taken, my hair, had been lost to chemotherapy. Knowing she’d likely use it to line the inside of her nest, to repurpose it for new life, suddenly made that loss, one I’d been grieving intensely, begin to fade.

What I felt that day is something all birdwatchers have experienced at some point: hope. When I was a child, I fell in love with birds, hard. I sought out any bird books I could get my hands on. I’d spend countless hours with my head craned skyward. I’d set my alarm for dawn, even on weekends, to explore the local park at prime feeding time. Seeing a graceful snowy egret lift out of a stream at first light with a fish in its mouth is a precious memory, one I still return to when life gets stressful.

By adulthood, I’d become an avid birder. I filled pocket-sized journals with sketches of unfamiliar birds I’d encountered on my travels and hoped to learn more about. When I became a mother, birding became a way for me to recharge my batteries and find community. But when I was diagnosed with breast cancer 22 years ago, birding became much more than just a hobby: it got me through the biggest challenge of my life.

After cancer surgery, I could no longer seek out birds the way I’d done before. I was so weak from chemotherapy that some days I could barely lift my binoculars to my eyes. Lying in bed, feeling physically and mentally miserable, all I could do was gaze out my window, hoping for even the smallest encounter with the birds that visited in my backyard.

On a particularly painful day, a Great Blue Heron landed on a tree branch outside my bedroom window. As I watched this majestic bird try to find her balance, a sense of balance came to me. When she took flight, I soared with her in my mind and left my grief and anxiety behind. In that moment, I realized that birdwatching was its own kind of therapy. When I focused on birds, I no longer felt crushed by the ways my body and life had dramatically transformed. Instead, I felt a burst of joy.

Over the decades in which I’d taken school students birding as part of my work with a local nonprofit, I’d seen similar bursts of joy in them. When we’d stop by rivers or streams, I’d ask them to listen to the sound of flowing water mixing with birdsong. I’d watch as they’d poke along the muddy banks, turning over rocks glistening in the water. It was the first time many of them had really stopped to take in nature. “Look over there!” I’d whisper, pointing to a kingfisher moments before it plunged into the water and reemerged with a small fish in its beak. The students would ooh and aah, clamoring for a better view. In the classroom, they were often restless and distracted, but in nature, they were captivated and full of wonder.

I’d always considered what I did on these expeditions to be important, but what crystalized for me during my cancer journey was just how restorative birdwatching can be. When my cancer went into remission, I decided to blend my roots as an art therapist with my passion for birding in an effort to offer others a more clinically formalized version of the healing I’d experienced. Over the next several months, I trained in mindfulness-based stress reduction, obtained a certification in nature and forest therapy, and got a certificate in wellness counseling.

I began to call what I was doing ornitherapy—which, like nature therapy, entailed noticing and deepening our relationship with something beautiful and wild. A growing body of research supports the mental health benefits of birdwatching and listening to birdsong, including increased mental clarity, lower cortisol levels, and better heart health. With birds as our guides, we focus on the present moment, and if we’re intentional about allowing them to be the subject of our attention, we’re practicing a form of mindfulness.

My group ornitherapy sessions, which I tailor for cancer centers, survivor groups, and veterans suffering from PTSD, begin with a guided sensory engagement that incorporates mindfulness techniques, inviting participants to notice the patterns, colors, and textures around them. “Our intention on this journey isn’t just to identify the birds,” I say, “but to slow down and notice them, to acknowledge your emotional response to them. This kind of experience is often a gateway to self-exploration.”

In one particular session at the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico, I handed each participant a journal and invited them to take note of their current emotional state. Many shared that they felt stressed, anxious, and tired. “Next, I’d like each of you to write about a special bird you’ve encountered, or a particular bird song that brings you joy,” I prompted. People shared how birds had helped them move through illness and grief by providing unexpected moments of joy. One woman recounted how visiting the great-tailed grackles in her neighborhood park had helped her get through the heartache of a contentious divorce.

As we brushed aside tallgrass and cattails and arrived at a quiet marsh, I watched participants relax into their bodies. They pointed excitedly at harried shorebirds. A few, catching sight of a tanager’s bright plumage, marveled as he took flight. Those at the front of the group raised a finger to silence the rest of us as a lone blackbird sang in the distance. About an hour into our trek, we stopped for lunch, and I asked everyone to take out their journals again and offered a prompt: “If you could be one of the birds you’ve seen or heard today, which one would it be and why?”

“I identify with the turkey vulture we saw a while back,” one woman said when it came time to share. “It was being mobbed by a blue jay. I know what it’s like to feel attacked.”

“I’d be a hummingbird,” someone chimed in. “I like how feisty they are.”

“I’d be a red-tailed hawk,” said another participant. “I’d love to glide on the wind like they do, feeling free and peaceful.”

“Using the same one-to-five scale from earlier, write down how you feel and see if anything’s changed,” I said. “Then, if you’d like, share one word that describes how you’re feeling in this moment.”

“Calm,” said one participant.

“Connected,” said another.

“Joyful,” said a third.

I felt it too. As we walked through the woods, exploding with green, I felt the ground crunch underneath my feet. I breathed in the scent of rich, earthy soil, and listened as the birds came alive with song.

An Eco-Anxiety Balm

Ornitherapy can lessen the grip of anxiety, depression, and other emotional issues, but I’ve found that one of its greatest strengths is its ability to gently help us confront a larger, more global crisis: climate change.

I’ve spent almost two decades volunteering as a data reviewer and state coordinator in Pennsylvania for eBird.org—the global online database providing a current snapshot of bird populations and real-time trends—and I’ve seen the dreadful impact of climate change on bird life. Since 1970, North America has lost more than three billion birds—almost 30 percent of the total bird population—to a combination of habitat loss, pesticides, free-roaming cats, and declining biodiversity. When I see the numbers, I begin to feel hopeless. When I dwell too long on the fact that cerulean warblers no longer nest in my region, my mood plummets—but that’s when I turn to my bird teachers.

For many people, just thinking about climate change is paralyzing, but ornitherapy can help us face the problem in a way that cultivates hope without diminishing urgency. Just being in nature, whether a park, garden, or backyard—even with the loss of plant life and bird habitats—can release us from the grip of climate anxiety and increase our appreciation for nature’s gifts. Nature and birds soothe us, and it’s from this calm space that we can begin to think about taking action.

On days when I feel sad and ashamed about how hostile my species has been to the natural world, I step outside and take notice of my surroundings: the leafy trees, the wind against my skin, and the sweet duets of tiny chickadees. I gently close my eyes and stand still, just listening. I allow my mind to settle into the present moment. It’s not an easy task, and it usually takes several minutes to get there, but once I do, I give myself permission to savor what I notice. My mind may wander, but each burst of birdsong brings me back to the present moment.

After a few moments, I open my eyes and lift my head, and I’m seeing the world through fresh eyes. The colors are bright and explosive. I find new excitement in shapes that have always been right in front of me. I begin to walk with a keen awareness of how I’m moving and how it stirs the birds around me. I notice how they adjust their tail feathers to balance, and I begin to think about the ways I can create balance in my own life—and in the wider world. These birds are a compass, and in the face of so much destruction, a testament to survival.

Is There an Ornitherapist in You?

One of the wonderful things about birdwatching is that anyone can engage in it at any time. Unlike other animals, birds exist in almost every human habitat. They’re accessible to everyone. If you’re interested in identifying the birds you see, there are many free apps to help you, some involving community-science projects suited for any birding level. I recommend checking out the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s eBird database, the Merlin Bird ID app, the Great Backyard Bird Count, and iNaturalist. But my best advice is this: just focus on deepening your connection with birds.

Start by sitting in one spot and notice what’s happening around you. Bring a small notebook or journal, and describe what you see with words, shapes, or drawings—whatever inspires you. Once you’ve found what we birders call a sitspot and have spent a little time there, the birds will likely adjust to your presence and come closer. Get to know a bird that’s common in your area. Learn how it walks, looks, feeds, flies, eats, and drinks. Invite a friend, neighbor, colleague, or family member to go on a walk or share a view of a birdfeeder with you—and, of course, you can do this with clients. Whether you’re alone or with others, you’ll feel a deeper connection to the natural world and begin to foster a sense of caretaking for it, just as you might for a loved one.

ILLUSTRATION © ANITAPOL