To the Carers Who Have Loved and Lost

There are days in wildlife care that feel like miracles—when a joey takes her first hop, when a wombat finally eats on his own, when the eyes of a once-traumatised possum softens in trust.

And then there are the other days.

The days when all you can do is hold them. When the vet’s face says what you already know. When the tiny body in your arms grows still, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

This is the part of wildlife care no one prepares you for. The heartbreak. The second guessing. The sleepless nights replaying every decision, every symptom, every moment you wish you could rewrite.

You loved them. They were not just in your care—they were part of you. And when they left, they didn’t just break your heart. They took a piece of it with them.

Especially the neonates. The ones not ready to face the world without Mum. The ones whose cries echo in your chest long after they’re gone. We do our best—with limited knowledge, borrowed equipment, and an expense list that never ends. We learn, we adapt, we fight for every gram gained, every breath stabilized.

But sometimes, it’s not enough. And the guilt is relentless.

We bury them with trembling hands. We mark their resting places with stones, flowers, candles. We whisper their names into the wind and hope it carries our love to wherever they’ve gone.

We cry. In the car. In the laundry room. In the quiet moments between feeds. We cry because they mattered. Because they were loved. Because we promised to protect them, and sometimes nature doesn’t let us keep that promise.

But here’s what we must remember:

They knew love. They were held. They were sung to, spoken to, kissed gently on the forehead. They were not alone.

And that matters.

It matters more than we’ll ever know.

Because love, even in grief, is still the most powerful thing we have.

“Inspiring hope and healing for Australia’s wildlife, one rescue at a time.”