The Universe Sent Me a Baby Owl - June 3, 2026

What do you do when you’re recovering from surgery?

Well, apparently, you stockpile photo adventures like a squirrel preparing for winter and then write about them from the safety of your bed.

This blog takes me back to June 3, when I was on a very serious mission: find a baby owl.

Not just any owl. An owlet.

A tiny, fluffy, branch-hopping, heart-stealing little baby owl who had been on my photography bucket list forever. No pressure, universe. None at all.

I started my search at one local park, full of hope, camera ready, 600mm lens attached, wildlife photographer confidence activated.

And… nothing. The first park was a complete no-go. No baby owl. No adult owl. Not even a suspicious feather floating dramatically in the breeze. Rude. So I moved on to another urban park, because wildlife photography is basically 10% camera settings, 10% patience, and 80% wandering around muttering, “Where are you?” under your breath like a woodland detective.

I was walking around when suddenly I heard it. A Great Blue Heron flew overhead and let out one of those prehistoric squawks that sounds like it came straight out of Jurassic Park.

You know the sound.

That deep, wild, absolutely unhinged dinosaur scream that makes you stop in your tracks and think, Excuse me, did a pterodactyl just file a noise complaint?

Naturally, I followed it. Because when a dinosaur bird announces itself in the middle of a photo adventure, you do not ignore the assignment. I tracked where the heron landed, wandered around a bit more, and was just about ready to leave when I spotted her.

A gorgeous Barred Owl.

And I mean gorgeous.

She was sitting peacefully on a broken branch, looking like she owned the entire forest, the park, and possibly my soul. I only noticed her because I had my 600mm lens, and once I spotted her, other photographers started noticing too. Suddenly, what had been a quiet little owl moment turned into a small gathering of photographers.

Because apparently, in the wildlife photography world, spotting an owl is like sending up a flare. One minute you’re alone. The next minute, there’s a full owl appreciation committee forming behind you.

The mother owl sat beautifully on her branch, calm and watchful. But then I noticed something.

She kept looking over to her right. My left. Again and again, her gaze shifted in that direction.

And then I heard it. A tiny squawk. A small, raspy little sound coming from somewhere below.

My whole body went on alert. That was not just any sound. That was baby owl energy.

I moved over slowly and started searching. Branches, leaves, shadows, more branches, more leaves. I followed that tiny screech like it was a sacred treasure map being delivered by the forest itself.

And then, BAM.

There she was. A baby Barred Owl. Looking at me through the branches. I swear, it was like lightning went through my body. Pure joy lightning.

The kind that starts in your chest and shoots straight through your arms, your legs, your camera, your heart, and whatever part of your brain still thinks you are a calm and reasonable adult.

There she was. This tiny owlet, tucked among the branches, staring out at the world with those dark, curious eyes.

And somehow, she was looking right at me.

I struggled to get a clear shot through the branches, because of course she was not sitting on a perfectly open, beautifully lit branch like a professional model with a portfolio to update.

No, no.

She was tucked in the chaos.

Twigs in front of her face. Leaves in the way. Branches crisscrossing everywhere like nature had personally installed an obstacle course between me and my dream photo.

But then something amazing happened.

She started moving. It was almost like she knew. Like she understood that I needed just a little help.

She shifted from one spot to another. She looked toward me. She looked toward her mom. She walked along the branches with that awkward, beautiful baby owl confidence. She transferred from branch to branch, giving me little windows of opportunity to capture her.

And every time she moved, my heart nearly exploded.

Her mom watched from a separate tree, calm but attentive. It felt like she was giving her baby a little independence while still keeping that quiet, protective mother’s eye on her.

A little space. A little freedom. But never too far away. It was beautiful to witness. Both of them were absolutely stunning. The mother, wise and watchful. The baby, curious and brave, learning her way through the branches.

Of course, no wildlife photo adventure would be complete without the classic photographer’s curse: the bird butt shot. I have photographed many bird butts in my time, ducks, gulls, crows, songbirds, all proudly turning away from the camera at the exact wrong moment. But this was special.

This was my very first owlet butt. A tiny, fluffy, baby owl backside.

Honestly, not the shot I had dreamed of… but also somehow completely adorable. Wildlife photography keeps you humble, and apparently, sometimes that humility comes with feathers and a very round little owl bum.

After taking several dozen photos, I finally decided it was time to leave them be. The other photographers I had chatted with had disappeared, the light was getting low, and the park was beginning to settle into evening.

I could have stayed there all day. Honestly, I could have brought a lawn chair, snacks, a thermos, and declared myself a permanent resident of Baby Owl Branch Headquarters. But part of loving wildlife is knowing when to step back. So I did. I left with a full memory card, a full heart, and the kind of joy that stays with you long after the moment has passed.

What made it even more powerful was the timing.

I had gone out after work with one goal: find a baby owl. It had been on my bucket list forever. And there she was, right before I was about to have a pretty big surgery.

It felt like the universe knew.

Like it looked at me and said, You’re going to need something beautiful to hold onto. Something magical. Something that reminds you that even when life feels scary, there are still tiny miracles tucked in the branches.

And then it gave me a baby owl. That day, I was searching. I was hopeful. I was tired, probably a little anxious, and carrying the weight of what was coming next. And nature met me there. With feathers. With branches. With golden evening light. With a baby owl who seemed to say, You’re going to be okay.

Now, from the safety of my bed, as I recover from surgery, I get to return to that moment. I get to look through those photos and feel that joy lightning all over again.

That is the gift of photography.

It lets us gather the magic when we find it, tuck it safely away, and bring it back out when we need it most.

And on June 3, the universe gave me exactly what I needed.