The warmth is returning, and so are the rattlesnakes. Or maybe we’re all just waking up together—the sun warming skin, blood, and earth alike. On these first days of spring, I feel the pull to shed my clothes and step into the light, and I know the rattlesnakes feel it too. We sync up in these moments, drawn by the same quiet urgency to bask in the warmth.
We share an affinity for the heat.
I live in a rural floodplain. This land has been largely untouched since the 1980s, and my partner and I have kept it that way—wild, but just tame enough for us to carve out a small space of comfort. We built an enclosed yard with shade cloth, a place to sit, eat, shower, or soak. A place where rattlesnakes, too, find shelter.
For whatever reason, I’m not afraid of rattlesnakes. In fact, they were among the first animals I ever encountered.
As a child, I was drawn to the wild edges of the world. My mom would let me roam outside our apartment, and I’d climb over the stacked block wall into a wide-open field—brush and dirt, a used-up and forgotten space. It reminds me of the floodplain I live in now, the same quiet hum of nature beneath human noise.
I told wild stories about fighting rattlesnakes, spinning them bigger than life—because I had to be bigger than life. A tiny person in a big world with no siblings or real protection. Bravery was a performance, a kind of armor. But the truth? I never wanted to harm them. I was just taught that they should be killed.
So on a day like today, when I step outside, knowing there’s at least one rattlesnake sunning itself nearby, it doesn’t bring me fear. It brings me home.
Fear & Perspective
When I share stories or photos of the rattlesnakes on my land, the response is almost always the same: fear, hostility, concern. People ask why I allow them to live here. They assume I should want them gone.
But I moved into their floodplain, not the other way around. I happened to build a perfect little condo complex for them. And over the five years I’ve lived here, they’ve thrived.
People want safety. It’s an illusion. They tell themselves that as long as snakes don’t live here, they’re safe from snakes. But that’s not how the world works. I live on the same mound as at least six rattlesnakes, and I am still here.
Living With Them, Not Against Them
The desert teaches us to be aware. You don’t grab a rock with your bare hands—there might be scorpions. You don’t move wood carelessly—there might be snakes. You have to be mindful of where you put your hands, your feet, your energy.
Where are you? Come back into your body. Be present to what’s around you.
Living on top of a rattlesnake den forces me to move with awareness. I don’t fear a bite. I’ve read the research—rattlesnakes often don’t strike, and when they do, many bites are dry. Still, I know a bite could bankrupt me in a country where healthcare isn’t guaranteed. Safety isn’t guaranteed.
But I don’t live here for safety. I live here for aliveness. And the rattlesnakes remind me of that every day.
They keep me present. They keep me humble.