28/07/2025
There was once a small village nestled beside a fast-moving river. One day, a villager noticed a baby floating downstream. Alarmed, they jumped into the water and rescued the child. But the next day, more babies came floating down the river.
The villagers quickly organized themselves—some were appointed to watch the river, others to pull the babies out, others to build shelters and care for the children. The village transformed into a rescue operation. It was exhausting, but they were doing good work. They were saving lives.
This went on day after day. The villagers became proud of their systems, their compassion, their efficiency.
Until one day, a woman began walking upstream.
"Where are you going?" the villagers cried. "We need you here! More babies are coming!"
She replied, "I’m going upstream to find out why these babies are ending up in the river in the first place."
The parable of the upstream river (that was shared with me by a dear friend) has continually played in my mind over these last 12 months. Because in the world of animal rescue, it speaks so deeply to the cycle of constant crisis and the slow wear of compassion fatigue.
Rescuers find themselves tirelessly pulling animals from neglect, abandonment, or abuse—day after day, heartbreak after heartbreak. The urgent need never seems to end, and in the noble effort to save lives, the soul can become threadbare.
But the parable gently invites us to pause and look upstream: What systems, beliefs, or societal wounds are allowing these animals to 'end up in the river' in the first place?
What if some of our greatest healing work isn’t just in the rescue, but in the education, the prevention, the policy change, and the shifting of consciousness around animal stewardship?
Compassion fatigue often stems not from the giving, but from feeling like the giving never ends. When we allow ourselves to step back, to ask deeper questions, to collaborate with others on upstream solutions, we not only care for animals—we care for our own hearts, too.
