Every night, acts of cruelty and negligence leave countless native animals suffering on our roads, in our landscapes, and at the mercy of human apathy. But while we demand outrage and action for our wildlife, we often overlook the silent, hidden toll this crisis takes on the people working tirelessly to save them—wildlife carers.

"This is Elsie. Her mummy was tragically killed in a hit-and-run on a lonely stretch of road. Found days later, clinging to life, Elsie was brought to Amaris Wildlife Sanctuary, where she was nursed through heartbreaking days of crying for her mum. The emotional toll on her carer was immense, but today, Elsie is a picture of health and a wild girl once more."

Compassion fatigue, often described as the "cost of caring," is a very real and often overwhelming challenge that carers face. The signs can creep in slowly: feeling emotionally drained, struggling to connect with the joy of rescue work, or even becoming numb to the heartbreak we’re exposed to every day. It might look like irritability, exhaustion, or an unrelenting sadness that’s hard to explain, or tears that begin to flow for no apparent reason.

Carers see it all—cruelty, pain, apathy, hatred. The endless calls about hit-and-run victims, the helpless joeys left in a mother’s pouch, the shattered lives of creatures who deserve so much better. We carry their suffering, their stories, and the heaviness of knowing we can’t save them all. And when we lose animals we’ve nursed, loved, and held close, the grief can feel unbearable.

For some carers, the weight becomes too much to bear. Suicide is a tragic reality in this field, as the relentless exposure to suffering, combined with a lack of support, can push even the strongest among us to the brink. This is why it’s so vital to acknowledge the emotional toll of this work and to remind carers that it’s okay to feel the weight. It’s okay to cry, to mourn, to scream into the void. It’s okay to take time out. Rest is not weakness; it’s a necessity. Wildlife carers cannot give their best to the animals they care for if they’re running on empty. Breaks are not just a way to recharge—they are a lifeline.

"Marnie was left in her mummy's pouch after a night of shooting, discarded on a pile like rubbish. Her tiny cry was heard by a passerby, leading to her rescue and care at Amaris Wildlife Sanctuary. Nursed through nights of heartbreaking cries, startled by bright lights, and terrified by loud sounds, Marnie’s journey was one of resilience. Now, she’s a proud mum to three beautiful girls, living the wild life she was always meant to. Yet again, her carer bore the emotional trauma of helping this baby heal."

And yet, where is the outrage when carers themselves are neglected by the very systems meant to support them? The case of Tracy Dods is a deeply troubling example. A dedicated wildlife carer, Tracy faced relentless challenges and was ultimately prosecuted and found guilty by the RSPCA. Instead of receiving the support, advocacy, and protection she deserved, Tracy was abandoned by the organisations meant to uplift carers. Her story is a devastating reminder of the systemic failures that compound the emotional toll of this work, leaving carers isolated, unsupported, and betrayed by the very bodies that should be their allies.

Compassion fatigue is not a sign of failure—it’s a sign that you care deeply. If you find yourself struggling, reach out. Talk to someone who understands, find a supportive community, or even just take a day to breathe. Self-care isn’t selfish; it’s how we ensure we can keep fighting for the animals that need us most.

But outrage shouldn’t end there. Where is the broader outrage for the people working on the frontlines of wildlife care? Why are carers often left to battle burnout without adequate mental health support, funding, or validation? We, as a society, must do more—not just for the animals, but for the incredible individuals dedicating their lives to protecting them.

Wildtalk was a lifeline for wildlife carers—a rare organisation that truly understood the emotional and mental toll of caring for injured and orphaned animals. They provided a safe space to discuss the raw realities of compassion fatigue, grief, and burnout, offering resources and understanding when no one else could. Wildtalk didn’t just acknowledge the pain carers face; they actively worked to support those carrying the weight of cruelty, loss, and apathy every day. But now, with Wildtalk closed due to lack of funding, this critical support system has vanished. Where is the outrage over the loss of such a vital resource? Who is stepping in to fill the void for carers left struggling, often in isolation? The closure of Wildtalk is not just a loss; it’s a devastating reminder of how far we still have to go in prioritising the wellbeing of those who dedicate their lives to protecting our wildlife.

As the outrage over the "wombat lady" fades into the distance, we must keep the momentum alive. Let’s redirect that energy into a positive, constructive movement to help both our wildlife and the carers who fight for them. Let’s raise our voices for change, demand better funding, mental health support, and systemic reforms to ensure carers are not left to bear the burden alone.

Let’s raise our voices, not only for the kangaroo, possum, wombat, bird on the roadside but for the person who stays up all night bottle-feeding the joey, crop feeding the bird, mending broken wings and legs of those that survived. Let’s foster outrage, compassion, and action—for the animals and their carers alike.

Where Is the Outrage? The Silent Struggle of Wildlife Carers

Where Is the Outrage? The Silent Damage Caused by Members of the Public (MOP’s)

Where Is the Outrage for Our Hit-and-Run Wildlife Victims?