Herd Support: On Writing & Alpacas

We have more in common than you’d think.

Last week, one of my dearest friends came to visit, a long-overdue reunion since I moved back to New Jersey in early 2024. We both love animals, so I took her to a local alpaca farm that’s become a bit of an annual tradition for me. I’d seen on the farm’s Facebook page that a few new babies had arrived, so I figured we’d get some adorable photos and have fun feeding the adults. (The don’t have top teeth so their fuzzy lips always tickle my hand.)

What I didn’t expect was a front-row seat to an alpaca childbirth.

I’d never seen a birth before—human, animal, or otherwise—and apparently, the universe decided it was time. Because there we were, along with about twenty other unsuspecting visitors, watching a mama alpaca give birth while several of the females gathered around her like the alpaca paparazzi.

Mom and baby girl alpaca, October 2025. Photo by Vicki VanArsdale.

At first, I thought, Oh, how sweet, they’re curious. But the farm owner explained that female alpacas instinctively gather around a new mother as she delivers. They sniff and hum softly, welcoming the baby—called a cria—into the herd. It’s not just adorable; it’s essential. Sniffing helps them recognize the newborn and assess its health. Since alpacas don’t lick their babies like many animals do, this ritual is how they bond.

Watching that circle of care unfold was one of the most unexpectedly moving things I’ve ever witnessed. There was something deeply spiritual about it—a wordless reminder that birth, creation, and community are all connected. It was the moment I never knew I needed.

And because I’m a writer (which means my brain immediately tries to turn everything into a metaphor), I couldn’t help but think: This is exactly what good writing communities do for each other.

Fun fact: alpacas are pregnant for about a year, give or take. That’s a long time to carry something unseen, to nurture it quietly and hope it turns out healthy. Sound familiar, writers? Some of our projects take that long, too, gestating in notebooks, evolving through endless drafts, before they’re ready to stand on wobbly legs and face the world.

When a writer “births” something new—a story, a screenplay, an essay—it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. We’ve labored over it, nurtured it, revised it until our brains hurt. And when it’s finally time to release that “baby” into the world, we need our herd. We need people who will gather close, sniff around (metaphorically, please), and hum encouragement.

Writers show up for each other. We read pages, give feedback, cheer each other through creative contractions and self-doubt. We know how vulnerable it feels to expose something that’s come from deep inside us. And like those alpacas, we don’t lick each other clean—but we do help one another stand, shake off the afterbirth of fear, and take those first wobbly steps toward the light.

That day on the farm, as the newborn cria lifted her head for the first time and the herd softly hummed around her, I thought about all the people who’ve done that for me, writing friends, mentors, readers, the folks at Story Summit and other creative circles. The ones who gathered close when I doubted myself. The ones who said, “Keep going.”

Watching that baby girl take her first breaths reminded me that creation, whether on the page or in a pasture, isn’t a solitary act. It’s communal. It’s sacred. And sometimes, the universe orchestrates the most unexpected scenes to remind us of that truth.

I didn’t plan to witness an alpaca birth that weekend. But I know I was meant to. It was a reminder that we’re all trying to bring something beautiful into the world, and none of us should have to do it alone.

This post was originally published on my Plot Twist Diaries Substack column.

p.s. Yes, I have pictures of t all.