There was a time when birding felt like a constant forward motion.
More species. More distance. More early mornings. More gear.
More proof that I was doing it right.
Back then, I believed that this was growth. That intensity meant commitment, and that commitment was measured in numbers, lists, and effort. If I was tired, it meant I had pushed hard enough. If I came home with something new to add to my life list, the day was a success.
Somewhere along the way, though, things began to shift. Quietly. Without drama.
I didn’t stop loving birding. I didn’t lose interest.
I just… started doing it differently.
At first, I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
When change sneaks in unnoticed
The change didn’t announce itself. It arrived in small moments.
I noticed I no longer wanted to rush out the door before sunrise just to “maximize” a session. I started choosing closer places instead of farther ones. I found myself lingering with common birds rather than chasing the rare ones everyone else was talking about.
And then came the uncomfortable thought many birders never say out loud:
Maybe I’m not as serious about this as I used to be.
But that question carried an assumption—that seriousness has only one shape. That dedication must always look like more speed, more effort, more ambition.
What if that assumption is wrong?
What birding looks like now
These days, birding feels less like a task and more like a conversation. I’m not trying to extract as much as possible from every outing. I’m listening instead—watching how birds move through familiar places, how seasons subtly change their behavior, how much there is to notice when I stop trying to collect moments and simply allow them.
The questions I ask myself have changed too.
Not “What did I see?” but “What did I notice?”
Not “Was this productive?” but “Did this feel meaningful?”
This shift doesn’t make birding smaller. It makes it deeper.
Some of what I’ve come to value most in my own birding journey comes not just from what I observe in nature, but from how I’ve chosen to share that experience, too.
In one of my previous article How I built GoToBirding.com and How You Can Start Your Own Nature Blog – GoToBirding’s story (a place where I reflect on the roots of this site), I talk about why creating a space for thoughtful, experience‑based birding matters. Instead of chasing trends or rare sightings, GoToBirding was built around experience, respect for nature, and long‑term observation — values that mirror how my own birding has grown quieter, richer, and more intentional over time.
That reflection isn’t just about blogging; it’s about what kind of birding we choose to bring into our lives. For many of us, that means moving away from emphasis on checklists and toward a deeper connection with the world around us.
The quiet relief of letting go
One of the most freeing realizations came when I understood that birding doesn’t need to stay the same for an entire lifetime to remain valid. Interests evolve because we evolve. Bodies change. Schedules change. Priorities shift. That doesn’t dilute passion—it refines it.
Yet many birders feel uneasy when this happens. There’s an unspoken pressure to keep up, to stay sharp, to remain visibly enthusiastic in the same way forever. When that energy naturally softens, it can feel like something is slipping away.
But what if nothing is being lost at all?
What if this is simply the next chapter?
Birding after 40 is not about less
After 40, many of us become more selective—not because we care less, but because we understand value better. Time feels different. Attention feels precious. Comfort matters in ways it didn’t before.
That doesn’t make birding weaker. It makes it intentional.
You may notice fewer species in a day, but you notice more within each moment. You may walk shorter distances, but you see patterns you once rushed past. You may carry lighter gear, but you carry it with purpose.
This isn’t a step backward. It’s a recalibration.
The permission no one talks about
Here’s something many people are waiting to hear, even if they don’t realize it:
It’s okay if your birding slows down.
It’s okay if you don’t chase every rarity.
It’s okay if you care more about comfort than specifications.
It’s okay if some days you just sit, watch, and leave without ticking a single box.
You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself from ten or twenty years ago.
Birding is not a performance. It’s a relationship—and relationships mature.
A quieter, richer second act
We often think of passion as something that peaks early and then fades. But birding doesn’t have to follow that arc. For many, the second half is where it finally becomes spacious. Less noisy. Less driven. More grounded.
This phase may not produce the longest lists or the most dramatic stories. But it offers something else: presence. Understanding. A sense of belonging in the landscape rather than movement through it.
And that kind of birding tends to stay with you longer.
If this resonates with you
If you’ve felt a subtle distance from the way you used to bird, know this: you haven’t failed at it. You haven’t outgrown it in a negative sense. You’ve simply reached a place where doing things differently feels more honest.
And that honesty is worth protecting.
Closing thought
I don’t bird the way I used to.
I don’t need to.
What matters now is being there—fully, quietly, and on my own terms.
And if you bird differently now too…
that’s not something to fix.
That’s something to accept.
Lorand Vigh is a nature conservation professional and lifelong birder based in Serbia (Vojvodina). With over 30 years of field experience in birdwatching, habitat protection, and conservation management, he has worked on bird monitoring projects, habitat restoration initiatives, and cross-border conservation cooperation. GoToBirding is a personal project built on real field experience, sharing practical, science-based advice for birders and wildlife photographers.