Standing in conservation spaces today, it might appear that I belong here quite naturally. After all, I am a professional bird taxidermist, conservationist, educator, wildlife communicator, and lifelong bird obsessive. From the outside, it may look like a seamless fit. But that sense of belonging did not come easily, and it certainly was not handed to me by the systems that often decide who gets to speak for nature, and whose voices are deemed credible enough to be heard.
I want to begin further back, before titles, panels, or any sense of legitimacy, because it feels important to say this plainly and early on: it is okay to take up space in conservation, even if you are not a scientist.
Figure 1. Author with her completed work of a Red Kite.
As a child, I wanted to be a vet or an oceanographer. With dolphin posters plastered across my bedroom door, an annual subscription to Animal Hospital, and a bed crowded with every kind of animal teddy imaginable, it was clear that animals were central to my world. On a family trip to Florida, I went on a dolphin cruise—something I had dreamed of for years. While everyone else stood on deck watching dolphins leap alongside the boat, I sat inside the cabin, crying uncontrollably. When my father came to find me, bewildered, I told him the truth: the dolphins didn’t know how much I loved them. I was overwhelmed by empathy and connection, by an emotion far too large for a child to know where to put.
That feeling—the intensity of loving the natural world—never left me. What did change, however, was my understanding of whether I was allowed to belong to it.
Figure 2. Robin work by author.
At school, I was not academic. Biology, maths, and the sciences felt like an uphill struggle that never quite levelled out. Tutoring only reinforced what I already feared. The day I realised I would not become a vet felt like my first heartbreak. In that moment, I quietly decided that nature was no longer for me. If I could not succeed academically, I must not belong at all, and so I slowly disconnected myself from the natural world.
For several years, I tried to conform. I leaned into creative hobbies, eventually studying fine art and sculpture at university, but existed in a state of quiet unhappiness. I did not feel grounded in who I was, only aware of an underlying emptiness. Eventually, in a moment of desperation, I spoke to my tutor, who asked me a simple question that would change everything: What are you interested in?
The answer tumbled out before I could stop it. Birds. Animals. Anatomy. Biology. Nature. I remember bracing myself for laughter, for dismissal, but instead he suggested taxidermy.
Taxidermy brought everything together in a way nothing else ever had. It combined anatomy, biology, behaviour, plumage, physiology, and sculptural practice into something tangible and real. For the first time in years, I felt a spark of excitement. Someone had listened to me, truly listened, and taken me seriously. That feeling—of holding something uniquely yours, something others may not immediately understand—is powerful. It becomes your anchor, your reason for continuing.
I taught myself through repetition and persistence. I practised endlessly, often working with rodents from pet shops in poorly ventilated shared studios, which, unsurprisingly, did not make me particularly popular. Over time, I specialised in birds that had died of natural or accidental causes. Through taxidermy, I reconnected with nature in an intimate, embodied way. I was no longer observing wildlife from a distance; I was learning its weight, shape, smell, fragility, and complexity.
Figure 3. Java Finches work by author.
The industry itself, however, was far from welcoming. Taxidermy was—and largely still is—male dominated, and I encountered rudeness, exclusion, and overt misogyny. Those experiences would later echo even more strongly when I entered the conservation space as a non-academic.
Like many scientific fields, conservation suffers from academic gatekeeping. Expertise is often narrowly defined by degrees, credentials, and institutional ties, and without those markers, your voice can quickly be treated as secondary, or dismissed altogether. As the climate crisis accelerates, this way of thinking is not only limiting but deeply dangerous.
Figure 4. Barn Owl work by author.
People care about nature when they can connect to it. Storytelling, creativity, craft, and embodied knowledge are not “soft” alternatives to science; they are essential companions to it. When conservation communication relies solely on jargon and statistics, it risks alienating the very people it needs to reach.
As a taxidermist, I work intimately with wildlife. I can identify transitional plumages, sex birds by the length of their primaries, and recognise pathology through touch and observation. I know anatomy because I have held it in my hands. This knowledge is not abstract or theoretical; it is lived. Gatekeeping tells us there is only one valid way to know, and in doing so, it silences artists, craftspeople, local communities, and Indigenous knowledge holders. When we gatekeep knowledge, we also gatekeep solutions.
This environment inevitably breeds imposter syndrome, something I have struggled with for many years. I did not enter conservation through a single invitation or defining moment. Instead, I showed up repeatedly—sharing my work online, insisting that taxidermy had relevance, and placing myself into conversations that were never designed for me. I have been rejected countless times. I have been told I do not belong, that my visibility is superficial, that I cannot be a conservationist if I “cut up dead birds”. Imposter syndrome does not mean you do not belong, more often, it means you are doing something brave.
Alongside this, I wrestle with perfectionism. Nature is perfect, endlessly complex and refined, and I have chosen a profession where I am constantly striving toward an impossible standard. I speak about this because I know how many others feel it too. Rejection, self-doubt, and the pressure to create flawless work are not personal shortcomings; they are symptoms of systems that were never built to include us.
The biggest chance anyone ever took on me was me. I listened to that quiet, persistent interest and nurtured it, even when it felt strange, lonely, or misunderstood. So I will leave you with the same question that changed my life: What are you interested in?
If the answer does not align with the life you are living, it may be time to listen more closely. Your brain is your home—make it a kind place to live. It is okay to be different. In fact, we need it. Conservation is not one-dimensional, and the fabric of life is woven from many threads. Creativity may be one of the most important ones we have left.
Figure 5. Author with award-winning work at the Guild of Taxidermists.
If you are interested in contributing to the #BOUdiversityBlog, please get in touch with us via this form which ensures anonymity for those who seek it.
Featured image credit: CCO PD pixabay.com
© Elle Kaye for all other images.
