The first time I said it aloud was in the waiting room of a specialist veterinary practice.

One of my rabbits had become unwell and had been referred to Evolution Exotics Referrals. While we waited, I looked at the qualifications displayed on the wall and thought about the knowledge, persistence and practical ability required to earn them.

I turned to my wife and said, “This might sound completely mad, but I think I want to become a vet.”

It felt like a sudden realisation. Looking back, it had been developing throughout my life.

The child who wanted to be around animals

Animals and nature were a large part of my childhood.

I grew up reading Beatrix Potter, watching nature programmes and spending as much time outside as I could. I loved the feeling that there was always something else to discover. Lifting a stone or turning over a piece of wood could reveal an entire hidden world of insects and other small creatures.

Nature rewarded patience. If I stayed still and watched for long enough, something might reveal itself.

My family kept small animals, including hamsters and guinea pigs. At different times, we also helped care for injured or vulnerable wildlife, including woodpeckers and starlings. I was fascinated by being close to animals that would normally remain beyond reach.

My parents were keen nature enthusiasts. On long car journeys, they would point out birds across the surrounding countryside. Seeing a red kite was always a highlight.

I remember watching them wheel above the treetops, appearing to float serenely on the wind. I later learned how severely their population had declined in Britain and how conservation and reintroduction work had helped them recover.

At the time, I knew nothing about the veterinary assessments, habitat work, monitoring, legal protection and public support involved in species recovery. I simply understood that seeing one felt significant.

Books also shaped my relationship with the natural world. Philip Pullman’s stories appealed to my interest in animals, exploration and questions about morality, authority and responsibility. They presented worlds in which animals were not merely part of the scenery. They possessed intelligence, character and voices of their own.

That idea stayed with me.

Feeling responsible for vulnerable animals

I was uncomfortable with unnecessary suffering from an early age.

I remember children pulling the legs from crane flies in the playground. Other children may have regarded it as curiosity or play, but I found it difficult to witness and tried to stop them.

My brother sometimes pushed rose thorns into woodlice and watched them continue to move. Children do not always understand the consequences of what they are doing, but I remember feeling sickened by it. I could not understand why something should be made to suffer simply because it was smaller and unable to defend itself.

I preferred observing animals. I wanted to know how they moved, behaved and interacted with one another.

Fishing was also an important childhood pastime. I enjoyed being outside, learning about the water and waiting to discover what might appear.

It also gave me one of my earliest experiences of causing an animal harm.

A small perch swallowed a hook before I could remove it and died. I had not intended to kill it, but my intention did not change the outcome. The fish would not have died at that moment had I not been fishing.

I still remember the guilt.

I later understood that lost line, hooks and other fishing tackle could continue to harm wildlife after an angler had left. Something I had regarded as an innocent outdoor activity was more complicated than I had realised.

It taught me an uncomfortable lesson. Caring about animals is not sufficient by itself. We also need knowledge, judgement and an honest understanding of the consequences of our actions.

Wanting to become a vet, but not understanding the profession

I had considered becoming a vet when I was younger, but my parents were not supportive of the idea.

Their objection was simple: vets kill animals.

There is truth within that statement. Veterinary surgeons sometimes euthanise animals. They make decisions that can involve pain, death and the limits of what medicine can achieve.

As a child, I did not have the knowledge or confidence to understand that euthanasia can also prevent suffering. I saw veterinary work as something emotionally difficult and morally confusing. Without encouragement or a clear understanding of the profession, I allowed the idea to disappear.

I moved towards subjects that appeared more accessible and achievable.

It would take years of experience before I could return to the idea with a more mature understanding of what veterinary responsibility actually involved.

Drifting towards technology and business

As I grew older, my attention moved towards technology, media and business.

The possibilities seemed almost limitless. Digital platforms could connect people, solve problems and make information widely available.

During my final year at university, I took out a small business loan to create a website where students could upload their work and showcase it to potential employers.

The business did not succeed. I enjoyed creating the platform, but I had not properly worked out how it would generate money.

Looking back, that revealed something about my motivation. I was much more interested in building something useful for other people than in turning it into a profitable company.

I later developed a successful career in digital marketing. I worked across websites, advertising, eCommerce and customer journeys. I learned how to study behaviour, identify problems, test improvements and measure whether a change had produced a meaningful result.

Those skills became particularly important during my time at Pall and Cytiva. The company’s use of Kaizen, a method of continuous practical improvement, changed how I approached problems.

Instead of accepting that a process was inefficient, we were encouraged to examine it, make a change and measure the result.

That way of thinking suited me. I am curious, practical and interested in understanding why something happens. I like applying solutions rather than discussing them indefinitely.

However, working within the life sciences industry also made me increasingly aware of the distance between my role and the scientific work happening around me.

I was helping people find products, use websites and respond to campaigns. I was not directly involved in the medicine, research or practical work those products supported.

Increasing a webpage’s conversion rate could be commercially valuable, but I began to question whether that was the outcome to which I wanted to devote the rest of my working life.

Wanting to be closer to the outcome

I wanted to see a more direct connection between my work and something becoming better.

That might mean an animal recovering, suffering being prevented, a disease risk being reduced or a conservation programme having stronger evidence on which to base its decisions.

Marketing sometimes gave me a sense of achievement, but the outcome often felt indirect. The more senior I became, the further I sometimes felt from anything physical or tangible.

I tried to apply my skills to environmental work within the companies where I was employed. Later, I created my own marketing business to support charities and educational organisations.

There was valuable work within it, but I struggled to sustain the motivation needed to develop the business. Many charities had limited budgets and understandably viewed services such as website development and search engine optimisation as beneficial rather than essential.

The money side of running a business did not motivate me. In many ways, it seemed to spoil the part I enjoyed, which was helping someone solve a meaningful problem.

The strongest argument against changing career was that I already possessed valuable skills, considerable experience and a more direct route towards financial stability.

Veterinary medicine would mean returning to education, accepting substantial costs and beginning again in a demanding profession. Wildlife veterinary work is particularly competitive and provides no guarantee of security, influence or personal fulfilment.

But remaining in a career solely because I had already invested years in it also carried a cost.

Understanding what mattered through difficult experiences

Supporting my wife through severe depression changed my understanding of what mattered.

When somebody you love is seriously unwell, many of the measures normally used to judge progress begin to feel less important. Job titles, targets and professional status do not disappear, but they lose some of their authority.

The experience forced me to consider where I was putting my energy and what that effort was producing.

Much of my work was demanding, but I did not always experience it as directly positive or rewarding. I could spend weeks improving a campaign or digital process while feeling uncertain about whether the eventual outcome mattered to me.

That did not make the work worthless. It meant that I was no longer convinced it was the right use of my own limited time.

Therapy also helped me examine this more honestly.

For much of my life, I had made decisions based on what appeared sensible, achievable or expected. I was good at adapting myself to the path in front of me. I was less skilled at asking whether I had chosen the path deliberately.

Therapy gave me the opportunity to separate what I genuinely valued from what I had learned to pursue for approval, certainty or safety.

It helped me realise that meaning, for me, came from protecting vulnerable beings, applying practical knowledge and contributing to something beyond financial growth.

Finding nature again

Although my professional life had moved towards technology, my connection with nature had never disappeared completely.

Running and hiking brought it back.

Being outdoors gave me a sense of connection and perspective that I struggled to find elsewhere. A long run or walk allowed me to notice the landscape, the weather and the animals around me. It reminded me that life existed beyond deadlines and screens.

When my wife and I lived with her grandparents, they had dogs whom I regularly took running. Being active with them combined several things I valued: movement, the outdoors, companionship and responsibility for another living being.

I also found that animals which were usually nervous around people would sometimes approach or settle near me.

Perhaps I did not seem particularly intimidating. I am 5 foot 4 with curly hair, which may not create the most threatening silhouette.

Whatever the reason, I valued those moments of trust. An animal could not tell me what it felt in words, but its posture, movement and willingness to remain nearby communicated something of its experience.

I began to recognise how much I enjoyed learning that language.

What rabbits taught me

Keeping rabbits deepened that understanding.

Rabbits are often misunderstood as easy or uncomplicated pets. In reality, they are highly sensitive prey animals whose health can deteriorate rapidly. They frequently conceal signs of pain or illness, meaning that small changes in behaviour, appetite or posture may be important.

Caring for them taught me to observe more carefully.

I learned to notice differences in eating, movement, toileting and social behaviour. I learned that responsible care involved far more than affection. It required research, routine, environmental management and the willingness to seek professional help quickly.

They also taught me how rewarding it could be to earn the trust of an animal that was naturally cautious.

I could not ask them directly what was wrong. I had to pay attention to what they were communicating through their behaviour.

That responsibility brought me closer to the idea that had interested me as a child: helping animals whose needs and experiences are often overlooked because they cannot explain them in human language.

Philosophy and the prevention of suffering

Another important part of the journey began through watching the Kurzgesagt YouTube channel.

One of its collaborations introduced me to 80,000 Hours, which led me towards Effective Altruism. For around a year and a half, I read about its attempts to understand global problems and identify ways of reducing suffering as effectively as possible.

This introduced me to philosophy in a more practical form.

I began asking what made an action good, how suffering should be weighed and what responsibilities we have towards beings who cannot advocate for themselves.

I attended conferences, joined meetings and volunteered with several organisations connected to the movement.

I did not agree with every conclusion. Measuring impact is far more complicated than assigning a number to a career or a life. Nevertheless, the central question remained valuable:

How could I use my abilities to produce the greatest amount of genuine good?

Effective Altruism helped me understand that good intentions needed to be combined with evidence. My childhood instinct had been to protect vulnerable animals. Philosophy encouraged me to ask how that protection could be delivered responsibly and effectively.

At around the same time, my team at Cytiva was made redundant and much of the work was outsourced overseas at a lower cost.

Redundancy did not create my interest in veterinary medicine. It did, however, weaken the belief that remaining on a conventional career path would necessarily provide security.

For the first time, starting again did not seem significantly more uncertain than continuing.

The waiting-room realisation

Against this background, taking my rabbit to a specialist veterinary practice became more than an isolated appointment.

I saw professionals using scientific knowledge, practical skill and careful judgement to help an animal who could not explain what was wrong.

Their work had an immediate purpose. The outcome mattered to the animal and to the people caring for it.

That was the connection I had been searching for.

When I told my wife that I thought I wanted to become a vet, I was not simply reacting to the qualifications on a wall. I was recognising something that had remained present beneath years of other work and responsibilities.

Afterwards came months of research, volunteering, work experience, financial calculations and doubt.

I needed to establish whether I liked the reality of veterinary work rather than the idea of it.

Veterinary medicine includes cleaning, restraint, repetition, uncertainty, difficult conversations and occasions when the desired outcome is not possible. There are cases in which euthanasia is the most compassionate option. There are also situations where financial, medical or welfare constraints affect what can be done.

Wildlife medicine introduces further complexity.

The needs of an individual animal may conflict with the health of a population or ecosystem. Intervention is not always appropriate. Treating or releasing one animal may create disease, welfare or ecological risks for others.

A wildlife vet is not simply someone who rescues animals.

The work can involve disease surveillance, pathology, biosecurity, population health, rehabilitation decisions, welfare assessment and support for conservation translocations. It requires collaboration with ecologists, researchers, animal keepers, landowners, government agencies and local communities.

That complexity has made me more interested, not less.

Finding the confidence to choose

The question I have repeatedly asked is why I could make this decision now when I could not make it earlier in my life.

Part of the answer is experience.

I now understand more clearly what I like and what I do not. I know that I enjoy practical problem-solving, learning how living systems work, working towards measurable outcomes and spending time around animals and nature.

I also know that money and professional status are not sufficient motivations for me on their own.

When I was younger, I lacked the knowledge and confidence to defend a decision that other people considered unrealistic. I did not fully understand my own values, and I relied heavily on external approval to decide whether an ambition was legitimate.

Years of work, therapy, relationships, loss, responsibility and occasional failure have given me a stronger sense of what belongs to me.

I no longer need absolute certainty before making a choice. I need enough evidence to justify taking the next step.

Changing career is not proof that I have finally discovered one perfect calling. It is a decision to move towards work that fits my abilities and values more closely, while continuing to test whether the reality supports that belief.

Giving animals a voice

The phrase I return to is giving animals a voice.

Animals already communicate, but humans do not always notice, understand or prioritise what they are telling us. A frightened animal cannot explain its history. A rabbit in pain may try to conceal it. A wild population cannot argue for the protection of its habitat.

Veterinary medicine can help translate some of those needs into evidence on which people can act.

My connection with this idea is also personal.

When I was younger, I did not always feel that I had a voice of my own. I learned to adapt, stay quiet or follow decisions made by other people.

Perhaps that is one reason I feel so strongly about beings whose suffering can be ignored because they cannot communicate in ways that people find convenient.

I do not want to speak over animals or pretend that I can know everything they experience. I want to develop the scientific and practical skills needed to observe them carefully, identify their needs and make their welfare harder to disregard.

Why wildlife veterinary medicine?

My ambition is not limited to treating individual wild animals. I want to contribute to protecting species and restoring healthier ecosystems.

Veterinary expertise can form one part of reintroduction and species-recovery programmes. Vets may assess whether animals are healthy enough to be moved, reduce the risk of disease transmission, investigate causes of death and monitor how released populations adapt.

The red kites I watched from the car as a child demonstrate what sustained conservation work can achieve.

Their recovery was not the result of one profession or intervention. It required legal protection, habitat management, reintroduction, monitoring and public support.

That is the type of collaborative work I hope eventually to support.

My marketing experience is not irrelevant to this path. Conservation programmes need good science, but they also need people who can communicate findings, build support and help communities understand why a project matters.

My previous career may allow me to connect evidence, implementation and public communication more effectively than if I had followed a purely scientific route from the beginning.

Choosing the difficult path deliberately

Changing career does not guarantee that I will find permanent fulfilment.

No profession can carry the entire weight of a person’s identity or wellbeing. I may also discover that my eventual role looks different from the one I currently imagine. I could move towards research, conservation medicine, wildlife population health, rehabilitation or an area I have not yet encountered.

The path will require years of study, difficult financial choices and the humility to become a beginner again. There will be mistakes and moments when I question whether I have made the right decision.

What matters is that I am now testing the choice through practical experience instead of relying on an idealised picture of the profession.

I would rather investigate the possibility honestly than remain in a safer career and spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened.

The conversation in the veterinary waiting room was the moment the idea became visible. It was not where the story began.

It began with Beatrix Potter, nature programmes, red kites above the trees, animals recovering in cardboard boxes, insects beneath pieces of wood, dogs running beside me and rabbits teaching me to pay closer attention.

It also began with experiences of suffering, including times when I could not prevent it and times when I did not yet have a voice of my own.

I now want to use that history to help protect animals, reduce avoidable suffering and support the recovery of wildlife and ecosystems.

This website is a record of what happens next.