Something about the red fox and the squirrel in my yard has been sitting with me—like it might mean more than what it looked like on the surface: survival, preparedness, adaptability, and swift intuition all moving through one unexpected moment.
The squirrels in my yard are a menace. They hang upside down on the suet feeder, eating everything meant for the woodpeckers and everyone else.
Early in the morning, when I’m trying to settle into the quiet, inviting silence of a new day, I sometimes shift into a screaming meme version of myself. I find myself yelling at them: Get off! Get down! Stop! It’s that fragile moment between dark and light, and I’m already triggered by tiny, furry chaos.
On this particular morning, the squirrel had already swung the tubular feeder enough to empty all the seed onto the ground and was happily feasting on sunflower seeds and whatever else had spilled out.
That’s when I looked up and noticed a red fox trotting up the hill toward the feeding area.
And without much hesitation or awareness of the fat squirrel still eating, a sudden moment of survival unfolded.
The squirrel was launched into the air—five feet up—spinning in a full 360-degree rotation before landing in the pachysandra. The fox began circling, searching, as if the moment had shifted into something instinctual and primal.
It was sudden and mesmerizing at the same time.
Before I even thought, I was up, flinging open the door, yelling in a very motherly tone, “Knock it off!” My voice startled the fox. He paused, looked at me, then ran up the hill across the street—only to stop and stare me down from a distance.
Meanwhile, the squirrel—the same “jerk squirrel” I had been yelling at moments before—shot up the tree, backing himself into the crook where branch meets trunk. I swear he placed his little paws on his chest and panted, as if recovering from sheer panic.
I looked at the fox and said, “He’s a jerk squirrel, but he’s my jerk squirrel. Leave him alone.”
I haven’t seen the fox in a few days since then, but the squirrel continues his usual antics.
The fox, however, has made himself very comfortable here. I’ve seen him curled up on my doorstep, resting like he belongs.
Lately, I find myself distracted by the animals and the natural world surrounding my home. The interconnection feels constant and alive—the coyote, fox, turkeys, squirrels, birds, butterflies, hummingbirds, cardinals, woodpeckers—all of them seem to arrive like reminders to slow down.
And I wonder about that. About what it means to share space like this. About the energy of now. About how it affects all of us on this earth.
How do we love each other better in a way that is more connected, more whole, more rooted in presence? I wonder.
Spiritually, the squirrel represents preparation, adaptability, and playfulness. Known for gathering and storing food, it reminds us to be resourceful, to prepare for the future, and to balance responsibility with joy in the present moment.
The red fox symbolizes adaptability, intelligence, and swift intuition. In many traditions, it appears as a guide—helping us navigate complexity, think differently, and trust inner knowing when situations shift quickly.
And maybe that’s what nature was showing me—that survival isn’t only instinct outwardly, but a deeper listening inward to adaptability, preparedness, and the wisdom we often overlook in ourselves—and that, in those unexpected moments, we also lean on each other in ways we don’t always plan for.
If this piece resonated with you, maybe your heart is asking for a little support too.
Sometimes one meaningful conversation can shift something we’ve been carrying for a very long time.
I offer 1:1 intuitive wellness coaching sessions for women navigating change, emotional overwhelm, healing, and life transitions. You don’t have to figure everything out alone.
If you’d like to connect, you can reach me at: kristen@kristendarcy.com
