How to Talk to a Hunter (Or Anyone Else with Whom You Disagree)

How Intention, Presence, and Compassion Can Bridge Even the Deepest Divides

"Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.
Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.”

~Lao Tzu (trans. Stephen Mitchell)

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In a time of deep political, social, and cultural division, it can feel impossible to have a calm, constructive interactions with someone who sees the world differently—especially when the stakes are high. In this piece, I share a story that tested my values, my patience, and my ability to embody compassion in the face of something I found profoundly heartbreaking: a dove shoot. It’s not a story about confrontation or changing minds. It’s about the power of intention, the quiet strength of presence, and how we can choose to show up with integrity and compassion, even in the most challenging moments (and experience unexpected gifts).

Do you want to be right, or do you want to be effective? Do you want to bridge the chasm or enlarge it?

Before Farm Sanctuary’s northern California sanctuary closed and all the animals were relocated to their new homes, I used to spend a great deal of time there—volunteering, documenting the animals’ stories, and just lovin’ on all the furred and feathered residents. During one particular stay, I volunteered for a very difficult task that would become a touchstone for measuring my own communication skills.

Abutting one side of Farm Sanctuary’s property is government-owned land on which a “dove shoot” takes place each year. Hardly worthy of being called a hunt, this event consists of shooting birds either out of the sky as they fly to and from their roosting sites or while they perch in trees. Needing to stay in good stead with the local ranching community and dedicated first and foremost to the safety of their own animals, Farm Sanctuary had no recourse to stop the annual shoot from taking place, but it could post people to “patrol” the fence to make sure no birds were shot once they flew on their side of the property line and to potentially help any injured birds who fell on their land.

I volunteered for the patrol.

I braced myself for what promised to be two very challenging days where I would be watching live doves being shot out of the sky, one after another. I wasn’t there to protest. I wasn’t there to obstruct. I was there to play a very specific role on behalf of Farm Sanctuary and on behalf of animals.

And I was scared to death—scared of what I would see, of what I would feel, of how I would react, and of how I would perceive the men (and women and children) who would be killing these birds. I could feel my heart pounding, my pulse racing, and my stomach churning as a group of men dressed in camouflage arrived just before sunrise, bringing guns, coolers, folding chairs, and dogs into the large open field housing a few tall shrubs where birds roosted.

I assessed my options.

I knew that from my side of the fence, I could very easily communicate with my body what I couldn’t say with my voice: I could stand with my arms folded, my body tense, my face frozen in a scowl. I could watch these men with justified anger and righteous indignation, stoking my ire and cultivating my disgust. Feeling powerless to stop the slaughter, I figured I could at least let them know with nonverbal cues exactly what I thought of them.

As the sun rose and the men took their positions in the field, I made a decision to do just the opposite.

I decided to exhibit with all of my body and all of my mind the compassion that was lacking in the field that day. I decided to stand in a completely open posture—with my arms at my sides or behind my back—literally and figuratively exposing my heart.

I decided to keep my face soft and my stance light, and I created a mantra that I repeated in my head over and over and over during the course of the day:

May compassion fill your heart, my heart, and this field. May compassion fill your heart, my heart, and this field. May compassion fill your heart, my heart, and this field.

It was challenging, to say the least.

Every time I heard a gunshot or listened to the men laugh and cheer when a bird filled with shot fell to the ground, I kept repeating:

May compassion fill your heart, my heart, and this field.

As tears filled my eyes, I said it again and again—sometimes speeding up the cadence of my words as if the momentum of the repetition would increase the efficacy of it.

The way the dozen men were situated in this large field, I couldn’t see all of them, and only a few could see me in detail, but I’m certain they could see my open stance as I stood and strolled along the fence line. They were also no doubt cognizant of the fact that I didn’t shout at them or react, even when some of them made antagonizing comments.

I didn’t respond, I repeated my silent incantation, and I tried to remain open.

A Quiet Shift

At one point my friend, who at the time ran the sanctuary, drove up to bring me food and tea. One of the guys shouted from across the field, “Hey—I’d like to order some hot coffee! Can you get us some breakfast?” I shouted back: “All you have to do is say you’ll go home, and I’ll make you a delicious, hot breakfast—with coffee.” They laughed and said, “Touché.” And we all carried on from sunset to sundown: me, struggling to maintain my compassion; them, killing birds.

But as the day wore on, I could feel something shift—subtly but noticeably. As the sun moved, so did the men, and at one point, the shooter who had been across the field from me had moved over to the fence line exactly next to where I stood.

It was unnerving to be so close to what I perceived as the antithesis of everything I believed in, to see the human face of someone whose actions were anathema to me.

He sat on his cooler eating a sandwich, as I stood just a couple of yards away. I purposefully didn’t retreat. I squatted down to pet his dog through the opening in the wire fence and asked the man the dog’s name. He told me, and we had a brief exchange about something I don’t remember.

I stood up and stayed close by, all the while trying to fill my heart with as much compassion as I could muster.

Then he turned to me and said, “This must seem awfully crazy to you.”

I quietly responded, “I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.” And we both fell silent.

As the sun began to set and the men started to pack up their things, he turned to me again and said goodbye. I responded in kind and wished him well, and he walked away—not haughtily, just quietly…and waved a wave goodbye.

I was stunned, and my heart was bursting.

I had vowed to fill the space we had shared that day with the compassion that I perceived was lacking, and in return my heart was filled with the same. It was palpable.

Unexpected Gifts

The next morning, I went out again and kept the same stance, which was even more difficult because this time they had brought children with them: a young boy and a young girl. I didn’t stay long this time—I was needed elsewhere—so another volunteer took my place. I was relieved I didn’t have to see more birds get shot, but in a strange way I was disappointed to lose the chance to plant more seeds of compassion in that field. I tried to do so from afar with each distant gunshot I heard.

Later, the volunteer who had taken my place told me that a couple of the guys had asked why I wasn’t out there that second day and indicated that they had been moved by my presence the day before. She told me that when they were leaving, one of the guys asked her to convey his best to me—all of which confused her very much since she had no idea what had happened the day before.

She said that they were genuine in their well-wishes and that the whole exchange was very strange; she said she felt no hostility from them at all. If anything, she said, it was almost as if they were embarrassed by their reason for being in that field.

My friend, who had witnessed many dove shoots over the previous decade she had been managing the sanctuary, said they shot many fewer birds that weekend than she had ever seen.

Perhaps there were fewer birds to shoot; I don’t know. I certainly don’t take any credit for that. Nor do I believe I had a profound impact on any of these men.

What I am certain of is that I was the model of compassion that I wanted to be—that I profess to be, that I encourage others to be, and I felt it in my bones. I verbally and nonverbally manifested kindness, nonviolence, and magnanimity, and they were returned to me in kind—merely by virtue of my embodying compassion, if not by my compassion’s recipients.

In expressing, exhibiting, and exuding compassion, I experienced compassion.

If I had expressed, exhibited, and exuded anger, outrage, and judgment, I would have experienced anger, outrage, and judgment.

Not only would that not have felt very good, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. My sadness during the dove shoot was apparent; I didn’t have to shout at the shooters to make that clear. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop those doves from being killed or to make those men go home, but what was in my power was how I chose to comport myself and how I chose to communicate my sadness.

Photo credit: Stefan Gogov

The Things We Carry

Whether online or in person, whether from strangers or friends, we all experience hostile comments, insensitive jokes, passive-aggressiveness, myths and misconceptions, biases and bigotry, and learning how, when, and if to respond to them is one of the key components of effective communication.

As I demonstrated in my story above, communication is not simply about what we say, or even our body language. It starts with what we think and how we perceive. And that is my most salient suggestion for compassionate communication: create intention.

Communication starts long before we even open our mouths. How we perceive a person, a situation, or ourselves has an impact on how we engage.

My decision to see the dove shooters as vessels into which I could pour my compassion rather than as enemies or adversaries shifted my perception of them, my behavior, and thus our interaction.

This approach can be applied to any and every situation we’re in and to every person we encounter. Simply calibrating our thoughts toward one intention over another will affect the outcome.

Having a clear intention about your goal and making that goal about truth rather than outcome will make you a successful, effective communicator 100 percent of the time. It’s the difference between approaching someone and thinking,

“What can I say that might make them change their mind?” and approaching someone and thinking,

“What can I say that will reflect the truth?”

Whenever I’m about to talk to someone—whether in a public lecture, an interview, or a private conversation—I have a little mantra I say in my head, and it goes like this:

Put the words in my mouth, the love in my heart, and help me tell the truth with integrity and compassion and without attachment or expectation.

Creating an intention mantra of your own will help you let go of expectations about how others will react and what they will do with the information you share. None of that is yours.

Maybe your intention is to be open, nonjudgmental, magnanimous, understanding, patient, and sincere.

Calibrating that in your mind first—especially before a potentially difficult or emotional encounter—will make all the difference in terms of how you interact, how you engage, and how you are received.

And may it be so. 🙏

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This article is an excerpt reprinted with permission from my book The Joyful Vegan: How to Stay Vegan in a World That Wants You to Eat Meat, Dairy, and Eggs

Amazon | Bookshop | Signed Copy

More Resources for You!

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👉 Listen to Food for Thought – Inspiration for living compassionately, sustainably, and healthfully (18 years strong!)

👉 Travel with me! I host animal-friendly, luxury, all-inclusive vegan trips around the world, specifically curated to ensure high-quality, high-touch premium experiences. Check out our upcoming trips, and let me know if you have any questions.

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