There’s something fascinating about animal tracks in fresh snow, especially when they meander before settling into a direction, like they did here. It’s as if the deer paused mid-journey, reconsidered, and then thought “nah” and chose again.

I stood there for a while, totally mesmerized by the patterns. At my neighbor’s, the paths they took were ruler-straight, but in my backyard the animals seem to do things more like moi: a few tentative steps, a few loops as though something(s) caught their attention—or maybe doubt took hold—then a steady line forward, seemingly confident for a stretch, until suddenly without warning a sharp right turn and on they went. Do you think the deer explained its sudden change in direction to the others nearby? Nope. It simply kept moving.

We like to imagine that our lives are more linear—that we’re more decisive, more certain, but most of us move through the world in exactly this way—pausing, circling, second-guessing, choosing again, stopping, and then changing direction entirely, especially when we follow our hearts rather than the expectations or paths of others.

What the snow makes visible is what usually stays hidden: the hesitation, the reconsideration, the moments when our intuition overrules the plan we had.

Safe to say, the deer wasn’t troubled by its changes of direction; it just adjusts and keeps going, which might be the best reminder for us that these tracks offer: forward motion doesn’t require clarity or certainty, only the willingness to keep moving, even when the path takes us somewhere we didn’t expect. That’s usually the best part of the journey.