The Weight of Advocacy and the Need to Breathe

I’ve spent the past few months speaking up—for the bruised, the broken, the babies left behind. Kangaroos have consumed my every waking thought. Not as distant symbols, but as beings I’ve held in my arms. Gentle. Family-bound. Misunderstood.

The massacre in Canberra plays on repeat in my mind. Justifications wrapped in cold policy do nothing to ease the images: kangaroos hunted down, joeys bludgeoned. Some don’t even die quickly—left to suffer from shattered bones, torn muscles, and silent agony because their killers missed. I try to understand what goes on inside someone’s head to murder a sentient being. I think of the trauma workers carry in abattoirs—the way it fractures souls. That doesn’t get measured in industry reports.

I’ve written emails. Posted blogs. Pleaded with pet food companies. Repeatedly met with glossy statements like “It’s ethical,” “It’s sustainable.” But what kind of ethics allow suffering to be monetised?

Then came the kicker—Ruby the Roo, the smiling mascot rolled out by Tourism Australia in a campaign to draw overseas visitors. A cartoon kangaroo bouncing through glossy ads while the real ones bleed in silence. What a joke. It felt like a slap. Do they not see the grotesque contradiction? How can we dress kangaroos in smiles while leaving their real bodies bloodied in the dirt?

And it’s not just the murder dressed up as culling—it’s the cruelty that shakes your faith in humanity. The kangaroo with an arrow lodged in its neck, still breathing. The one dragged behind a car with a rope around its throat, clinging to life as someone laughed behind the wheel. The mobs mown down by hoons who veer off the road just to hurt what’s harmless. Hit-and-run drivers who leave behind shattered bodies and confused joeys standing alone beside their dying mothers or the joey left in its mothers pouch. These aren’t accidents. They are acts of violence—deliberate, senseless, and far too frequent.

To every person who shows up in the aftermath—who cradles those joeys, carries the wounded to safety, picks through the trauma with bare hands and breaking hearts—I see you. I hold nothing but respect and gratitude for the ones who do this work, quietly, relentlessly, because it's the right thing. Thank you for standing between cruelty and compassion when so few do.

And so, the tears fall. Not once, not twice. They just flow—quietly, persistently, throughout the day. Hanging laundry. Bottle feeding. Writing in stolen moments between tasks. It’s like grief has taken up residence just under the skin. I know others feel it too. We hold so much, and there’s rarely space to let it out.

There's a word people use: compassion fatigue. I’ve never liked it—it feels clinical, like something to fix. But what I feel isn’t fatigue. It’s heartbreak, over and over. It’s witnessing so much pain and not knowing how to stop it. It’s rage, softened by exhaustion. It’s love, stretched thin.. Rage softened by sheer depletion.

I have babies depending on me. They deserve all of me. And lately, I haven’t felt like I’m giving them my best. So, I’m stepping back from advocacy—not forever, just long enough to catch my breath.

To anyone else feeling this: you're not weak. You are full to the brim with caring, and there’s no shame in pausing. Breathing. Letting the weight settle for a moment so it doesn’t crush you.

I’ll be back in the advocacy space soon. Refreshed, more strategic, and hopefully more powerful. But for now—I’ll be in the quiet, feeding bottles to babies with legs too long for their bodies, and hearts too tender for this world.