PhD student describes how growing up in Colombia inspired her to pursue a career in wildlife
My earliest memories are of sleeping beside shelves of medical supplies, in a single room that served as both our home and the only clinic for miles, in the rural mountains of Colombia. After her divorce, my mother, an auxiliary nurse, moved to a remote mountain town with my two older brothers and me. With no house, the underfunded public hospital offered her the only shelter available: the clinic itself. It was humble, but it became our home.
Urgent knocks at our door often came in the middle of the night. Patients arrived with injuries, fevers or premature births. Because I was the youngest, my mother often took me along when she traveled to distant communities—on foot, on horseback or in the back of a truck. I became her small assistant, carrying supplies, holding flashlights, calming frightened children.
She was the only healthcare provider for miles, responsible for everything: clinical care, school vaccinations, vector control, births and emergencies. Without veterinarians, she was even called to treat sick or injured animals. Salaries were irregular, and several months could pass without pay. Rural families showed their gratitude with vegetables, fruit or jars of honey that kept us fed. We grew our own crops too, blending the life of nurses with that of small farmers.
What made my mother extraordinary was her passion for education. Despite no formal studies beyond her nursing training, she read voraciously and became a teacher to many. After treating a patient, she explained how to prevent illness, improve hygiene or care for newborns. She taught expectant mothers about healthy pregnancies, guided families on nutrition, and helped bring countless children into the world. She led income projects for single mothers and sanitation campaigns in schools that had never seen running water. In our town, she was more than a nurse; she was a guide, a leader, a source of hope.
I still remember carrying a newborn while my mother asked me to wrap him in a blanket. We had no electricity, only the faint glow of a candle in the small room. The mother, exhausted and alone, had just given birth. My mother, calm and focused, worked with quiet determination. In that moment, I understood what she had been teaching me all along: in the real world, actions speak louder than words.
Today, my work in wildlife, rabies research, and public health carries her legacy forward. My research often takes me to landscapes much like those of my childhood—remote, rural, resilient. In every investigation and presentation, I hear her voice reminding me that science, like healthcare, must be rooted in empathy and service.
If I have learned one thing, it is that empathy and divulgation are as essential in science as any instrument or dataset. Knowledge alone is never enough; its value lies in sharing it. My mother’s footsteps on mountain trails taught me that lasting change begins with trust, earned with one conversation, one visit, one act of care at a time.
Wildlife Vocalizations is a collection of short personal perspectives from people in the field of wildlife sciences. Learn more about Wildlife Vocalizations, and read other contributions.
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