A small red fish glowing almost neon against the black water of Maui. Thanksgiving already filled me with turkey and mashed potatoes. My friends and I had walked through the dark with our gear clanking against our legs, breathing in the warm, salty air. I had never fished before, but there was something comforting about the routine, threading the line, tightening the knots, and casting into the unknown. About thirty minutes in, I had yet to have a bite; the pier was quiet except for splashes of waves pounding into the shore. I remember thinking that the whole thing was pointless, especially given that we had just feasted. Suddenly, the line in my hands went tight, so abruptly it felt as if someone had grabbed the other end and pulled. Without thinking I began to reel in.

The adrenaline rose quickly, as if something inside of me was waking up. My friends started shouting, telling me to pull harder. All I could focus on was the tension in the line and the invisible thing that was fighting me. When the fish finally came into view, it glowed in the background of the black Hawaiian water. It wasn’t big, barely the size of my hand. I unhooked it carefully as it stopped its resistance; the hook felt too large and sharp in its mouth. I didn’t know whether to feel proud, guilty, or remorse.

That night didn’t stick with me because of the number of fish I caught or the first-time experience. It stayed with me because a side of myself that I had never met came to light. I had gone fishing expecting it to be something people do for fun, but instead I found myself with a blend of excitement and discomfort. Enjoying something that results in death, even a small one, felt confusing but not in a tragic way. It was more subtle, as it was me stepping over a line I hadn’t realized was there. The whole experience now raises many questions I had never thought to ask. What does it mean to cause the end of a life, even casually? How does realizing your power over another being shift how you view other forms of life? This isn’t about fishing; it’s about how ordinary moments can reveal parts of ourselves we didn’t know existed and how those parts stay with us long after the night is over. 

Anthropologists don’t claim this reaction as unusual; they describe the first-time a person kills an animal as a sort of threshold or milestone. It is a moment where childhood ends, but not because of age, but because you are met with responsibility. In many cultures with strong hunting traditions, this experience is almost treated as a small ceremony. Not because death is celebrated but because understanding your power over another living creature shifts something inside you.

Psychologists talk about the way the brain reacts to hunt and capture. The spike of adrenaline and sharp focus are ancient responses that are wired into the human brain. Fishing, which looks peaceful from a distance, taps into instincts that go back to before fishing was a hobby. But no scientific explanations fully matched the feeling of standing on that pier, holding something that had been alive seconds ago and knowing that I was the reason it wasn’t anymore.   

What remains from that night isn’t a lesson or a dramatic realization. It was something quiet. I walked onto the pier as someone who has only seen death from a distance. I walked off having crossed an invisible line. The experience didn’t make me a different person, but it revealed a part of myself that I had never encountered. Once you have seen that version of yourself, once you feel the line go tight, you don’t go back to who you were before.