Halfway through the summer, I found myself near the top of Mount Mansfield. It was 5 a.m., the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountain ridges, and the damp morning fog was clinging to my clothes.
We sat in the parking lot, aspiring and practicing biologists curved like Cs over mugs of coffee as we waited out the fifteen minutes before our next mist-net check. In that quiet pause, I couldn’t help but marvel over how lucky I was to be paid for an experience like this.
This summer, I had the honor of serving as the Alexander Dickey Intern at VCE. Dickey was a young naturalist whose life was defined by curiosity, humility, and a profound love of the natural world. His story and reverent approach to ecological stewardship felt kindred to my own, and it was what initially inspired me to apply.
But even with our shared outlook on the natural world, my acceptance to this position initially felt more like a mistake than kismet. Of everyone I knew who deserved such a special opportunity, I felt the least qualified. I was bogged down by a limiting definition of success: x number of lab hours, y amount of fieldwork, z number of connections. Riddled with LinkedIn envy, I had done nearly zero fieldwork. And coming from New York City (where I helped rehabilitate pigeons, mainly), it felt like everyone else had an 18-year head start with outdoor experience.
But if my time at VCE has taught me anything, it is that being a good ecologist goes far beyond networking and experience. Two very simple ingredients go a long way in this type of work: passion and curiosity.
A genuine love of the natural world permeated every experience I had this summer, from loon monitoring to bird banding to weeding in experimental garden plots. Meeting people who love their work sprinkled magic onto whatever I was doing, no matter how mundane. I saw it in Eric Hanson, who, even after decades, still speaks about loons like they’re friends he never tires of visiting. I saw it in Desirée Narango, crouched in the dirt with us, her face lit up at the sight of an unusual beetle we’d found while weeding. Joy made everything feel purposeful.
Even better, no one batted an eye when I struggled to set up a tent orwhen I fell behind on a hike. Instead, I was encouraged, guided, and treated like I belonged. That sense of acceptance let me dig deep into the work I was doing rather than shrink away from it.
VCE was exactly what I needed to start my career: a soft place to land and a space to give shape and purpose to my interests. I started falling in love with unexpected things. I became interested in insect identification, staring at tiny details that once seemed invisible.
I learned to read landscapes more carefully: the quiet pocket of shoreline where a loon might hide, vegetation along a trail that made a perfect place for a mist net, the subtle signs of a bee hotel already occupied. More than anything, I learned the art of noticing … and how much life there is to pay attention to, if only you slow down.
One day, I sent my mom a photo of me holding a freshly banded bird. She texted back: “That’s the face of someone who’s found what they love to do.” I hadn’t realized it until then, but she was right. Somewhere during this summer, I’d stopped feeling like an imposter and began to feel like a real ecologist.
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