Harold the Hawk

The most wonderful things happen when you least expect it. I was so excited to get together with friends after what had felt like forever. I was a relatively new mom—our amazing little boy, Dirk, was turning 18 months—and we were starved for seeing our people. My husband and I had been in this crazy pattern of work, home care, and baby care.

Long story short: we were looking for a weekend getaway in Connecticut with four friends to relax and reconnect. We’d already picked a place when I decided to do one last search—and voila! Out of the blue, this really interesting home popped up. A quarry house. A mid-century modern structure nestled among trees and rock, and somehow still within reasonable driving distance.

It was intimidating at first—traveling with a toddler is a bit like running an obstacle course inside a moving train. But we figured one toddler was manageable, especially with Sadie, our trained service dog, with us. She’s an amazing big sister, and an even better travel companion.

So I shared the listing with the group, and just like that, it was decided—we were going to spend the weekend in the woods with friends, a toddler, and Sadie.

The Quarry House

We arrived first, and I have to say: we were in absolute awe. The quarry house looked like a film set. A true example of mid-century design—clean lines, raw material, everything curated but not contrived. It could’ve been a Mad Men location shoot, and I would not have been surprised. I joked that all it needed was a velvet robe or feather boa and a lowball glass to complete the vibe.

There really is something about architectural homes (see our favorites here). As the daughter of a civic engineer and master architect—still designing well into his 80s, bridging communist and capitalist design paradigms—I’ve always believed that space can shape how we feel. Some homes hold you. They speak softly but stay with you. This one did. There was calm and flow and serenity in the layout. Even the furniture had intention.

Then Came Harold

After everyone arrived, we shared a long meal and longer stories. The next morning, while we were planning breakfast and idly chatting, we heard an unusual ruckus outside. Sadie—who typically naps 20 hours a day—was suddenly alert. On the deck, we saw a few blue jays chirping aggressively and circling one specific tree.

At first we assumed the worst. A hawk must have attacked their nest. But something felt off. This hawk looked… uncoordinated. He was hanging upside down. Wings spread, doing very little in response to the dive-bombing blue jays. And then, with an awkward flump, he fell.

Not soared. Fell.

He flailed a bit, then glided clumsily down to a rock near the patio—maybe five feet from us. We all stood there, frozen. It was surreal, like watching a nature documentary unfold in real time. All he needed was David Attenborough narrating.

Some of us took photos. Okay—a lot of us took photos.

After a while, it became clear: this hawk was a fledgling. We don’t know for sure if he was male, but we imagined him as a he, and soon enough, the group landed on a name: Harold.

Harold the Hawk had, quite literally, dropped into our weekend.

The Wild Next Door

We weren’t sure what to do. Could we feed him? (No.) Could we help him? (Also no.) We reached out to a bird sanctuary and found the lovely people at A Place Called Hope. They told us what to look for and reassured us that Harold’s parents were likely nearby, keeping watch—and might return with food when we weren’t around.

It turns out we were Harold’s weekend daycare. We observed from a distance. His instincts were there, but his flight was still coming together. He was curious. Cautious. Hungry. We felt… connected.

The symbolism didn’t escape us. My husband and I had been spending a lot of time thinking about Dirk’s future—daycare, schooling, gentle handoffs to the world. Harold brought it all into focus: how tenuous that transition feels, even when everything is working right.

Watching Harold became the rhythm of the weekend. And yes—his parents did return. These moments were spectacular and subtle all at once. The grace of nature, unfolding without spectacle. And somehow, Harold never left. Even after a close call with the grill (which finally launched him into a short, successful flight), he came back. On our last morning, there he was: on the rock, stoic and still getting dive-bombed by blue jays, patiently waiting for the next meal to fall from the sky.

From Moment to Manuscript

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Harold. And just like that, I began writing. The story practically wrote itself. The pieces were all there—Dirk, Sadie, the quarry house, the blue jays, Harold learning to fly. The experience stuck to me, and I needed to give it form.

What happened next surprised even me: over the next six weeks, I poured nearly 300 hours into the book. Hyperfocus is one of ADHD’s rare superpowers, and I used every moment—during Dirk’s naps, late at night, anytime I could steal a sliver of stillness.

I illustrated it myself using the photos we took that weekend, tracing and transforming them in Affinity Photo and Designer. (Yes, I edited out the less age-appropriate details—like the half-dead squirrel Harold’s mom dropped off with pride.)

If you’d like to meet Harold—or share him with your family—he’s now available on Amazon, a children’s book rooted in real experience and drawn with real emotion. It’s written simply enough for early readers but layered for anyone who's ever had to let go a little, or hang on a little longer.

You Can Meet Harold Too

If you’re able to give a few dollars to A Place Called Hope—the raptor sanctuary that helps birds like Harold every day—please do. If you'd like a digital copy of the book, send us your email here after donating and we’ll gladly send you a free PDF version. It still looks great on an iPad—or during story time anywhere.

✨ Pick up your copy of Harold the Hawk on Amazon →

Beautifully illustrated, based on true events, and told with heart.