Don't Call Me Huntress

There's no ladies bracket in the woods

I was at a party a while back, trying hard to blend into the wallpaper. I’m no good at parties. They’re too people-y for my taste. But I do rub elbows with other humans from time to time, and after a couple glasses of wine, I can fake my way through small talk about the weather (without veering into cold fronts that trigger the rut), my weekend plans (edited to leave out the part where I’m ankle-deep in mud or elbow-deep in blood), and what I do for a living (write about being in the woods).

But the standard topics give me away. And at this particular party, while I was regaling a small group with tales from the field, one older gentleman gave me a knowing nod and said, “Ah… you’re a huntress.”

Sigh.

That word always cues a full-body cringe.

No hashtags. Just the moment of truth.

Maybe it’s because I’ve hunted in the dark, alone, sitting still in the woods before the first bird dares to sing. I’ve sat so long I forgot what it felt like to move. I’ve gutted deer with fingers too cold to bend, dragged them out one slow step at a time.

Huntress feels all wrong for that. Like wearing high heels in the backcountry when what you need are boots with good tread.

It doesn’t sound like something pulled from the woods. It sounds like something pulled from Instagram. All angles and aesthetics. A word made for women in tight pants trying to squeeze into a tighter narrative—where the selfie matters more than the kill shot.

It’s not that I don’t want more women in the field. I do. We belong here. But I don’t need a cuter version of hunter to hashtag, any more than I need my bow dipped in flamingo-pink Realtree.

I admit I have a hard time separating the word huntress from the influencer economy that’s sprung up around it. Scroll through the hashtag and you’ll find a curated feed of tight tops, perfect contour, glossy hair, and calculated treestand angles. Sometimes there’s a deer or turkey, but it often feels like an afterthought.

Most of it seems staged to catch the kind of male attention that turns into brand deals. Because let’s be honest—guys are the real target. And guys like pretty things.

I’m not here to judge how anyone looks in the woods.

Actually—let me be honest—I am judging a little. Because I don’t understand the need for eyeliner in a deer stand. I’m too worried about scent control to risk swiping on blush before daylight. When I’m hunting, I’m thinking about wind direction, fresh tracks, and bedding areas. There’s no mental energy leftover to think about how my mascara’s holding up.

I think I broke a nail.

And yet the hyper-feminized image of the #huntress is everywhere. And it doesn’t just shape how those women are perceived—it shapes how all of us are treated.

Men see manicures gripping rifles, crop tops in treestands, and they assume we’re all out here for the attention. That we’re fragile. That we need babysitting.

I’ve felt it—on hunts, at tournaments, on media trips. That subtle condescension. Like they’re doing me a favor by letting me tag along. Some of them think they’re being chivalrous, but it’s really just lack of respect wrapped in flattery.

And I blame the influencer economy for that, too. When women are taught to lead with appearance instead of ability, it warps the whole conversation. It undermines every one of us who’s put in the time, made mistakes, learned the hard way, and earned a place in the woods.

There’s nothing cute about this part. But it’s honest.

Huntress feels like a Title IX version of hunting.A side category, padded and pinked-up, because someone decided we couldn’t quite hang with the boys. Like we need our own label, our own lane, our own pat on the head just for showing up.

It’s patronizing. And it misses the point entirely.

Because hunting isn’t a gendered sport. The deer don’t care what we look like. The woods aren’t grading us on our waistlines (thank gawd). There’s no “ladies bracket” for patience, shot placement, or blood trailing.

Either you can hunt, or you can’t. Either you’re serious about it, or you’re not.

I’ve had guys mansplain shot placement to me—after watching me drop a doe at a dead-out run with open sights at 75 yards. I’ve had my scores double-checked at 3D shoots to make sure a woman could really beat the guys. I’ve sat in circles at hunt camps where I was talked around, like I had nothing to add to the conversation, even though I was the one there with the most experience.

That’s the part that stings. Because I’ve done the work, and I still have to prove I belong.

I deserve respect because I’ve earned it. I’ve got the deer heads on the wall and the meat in my freezer to prove it.

And I didn’t need a male chaperone or a babysitter to do it, either.

So please don’t call me huntress. I don’t need a cuter version of the word. I don’t need a softer version of the work.

I’m a hunter.

Full stop.

The woods don’t care what I’m called—but I do.

Because names shape narratives.

And I’m not here to play a part.

I’m just here to hunt.

I carry my own weight.