Wildlife photography has given me some of the greatest moments of my life.
But it also comes with a truth I can’t ignore… most animals want nothing to do with us.
When I lift my camera, I know I’m stepping into their world uninvited.
Sometimes, I can feel it, the tension in a shark’s muscles, the way an anteater pauses mid-step, the coyote’s nervous yawn.
These are signs that my presence isn’t welcome.
And when I capture an image in that moment, it feels selfish. It feels like I’ve taken something without permission.
There are times it even feels dirty, like I’ve frightened an animal just for the sake of a photograph.
That doesn’t feel like conservation. That doesn’t feel like helping.
And yet… I keep pressing the shutter.
Because I also know that these images tell stories. They travel beyond the forest, the river, the ocean.
They remind people that these animals exist, here and now, in a world where so much wildness is disappearing.
An image can plant a seed of wonder, of empathy, of protection.
And when I see the animals reacting, when I sense their stress, I take just a couple of minutes to capture a few images, then I leave them alone.
Even if I know we could stay longer, even if no one else notices their unease, I feel it.
I choose to walk away.
My hope is that those few images will reach the right people, and maybe inspire the kind of change that protects both the animals and the wild places they call home.
I’ve also seen the other side… the encounters where the animal doesn’t mind.
Where they tolerate me, even seem indifferent to my presence. Those moments feel clean, honest, balanced.
They are a gift, not theft.
So I live in the tension, between selfishness and service, between intrusion and storytelling.
It’s the double-edged sword of wildlife photography.
And the truth is this… the wild doesn’t owe me anything.
But I owe it everything!
So if I can turn my imperfect encounters into stories that help protect them, then maybe, just maybe, the scale tips back toward giving more than I take.