Jane Goodall Was My Taylor Swift
Fitting in has never come easily to me. Growing up, my small circle of friends kept me from feeling like a complete outcast, but I was still usually the odd one out. In 2007, when my nine and 10-year-old classmates were belting out High School Musical, Hannah Montana and Hillary Duff, I was idolizing Dr. Jane Goodall.
That fall, I first learned about the world’s most beloved primatologist in a slim paperback simply titled Jane Goodall. Maybe I picked it up because my middle name is Jane, or maybe it was the image of a silver-haired woman face-to-face with a wild chimpanzee that stopped me in my tracks. Whatever the reason, while others my age were reading about how to impress their crush in Seventeen, J-14 or Teen Vogue, I was building stick forts, playing with bugs, naming tadpoles and climbing trees—and reading about Goodall achieving her dream while working with animals.
I vividly remember flipping through that book in my Grade 4 classroom, mesmerized by faded images of Goodall sitting among chimpanzees and sketches of her reading in the trees. I felt an immediate connection. We both loved wildlife, stuffed animals and being outside. We were both drawn to the idea of “saving the world.”
In my early teens, that impulse grew into action. While my friends were watching trending YouTube videos and obsessing over their MSN profile pic, I was the kid picking through school garbage bins to separate recycling from trash or running around the neighbourhood searching for raccoons, convinced I could befriend one and bring it home. Meanwhile, I devoured the iconic yellow-bordered pages of National Geographic, dreaming of adventures in faraway places—just as Goodall once had. My bedroom wall was plastered with hoarded glossy spreads of elephants, waterfalls and sharks, constant reminders that one day, those photographs could be my own.
Like Goodall, I was in my early 20s when I first set foot in Kenya on a volunteer trip—though six decades after her formative footprints. Both of us were instantly bitten by the travel bug, captivated by the creatures we’d only ever seen in books.
In 2018, Goodall was in her mid-80s, travelling the globe, promoting conservation and mentoring young environmental leaders. Meanwhile, I was finishing an undergraduate degree in studio art, specializing in photography. Like her, I was often underestimated. I lacked a knack for math and science but remained fascinated by biology and the natural world. Knowing I would never excel in a science-based career, I pivoted to what I loved instead: photojournalism. This became my form of advocacy, a way to protect wildlife and celebrate the planet through imagery and words rather than data and research. Following in Goodall’s footsteps, I could still study wildlife and explore conservation through a different lens. Although our paths diverged, she remained my role model, reminding me that if you fight for something, work hard and never give up, you’ll always find a way.
In 2022, I was living in Costa Rica, where I spent time caring for monkeys. I slept on a bed in a cage, in the middle of the jungle, to protect myself. I also volunteered with primates in Cambodia. Neither were chimpanzees, and I can’t say I understood their behaviour, but it was another connection I found to my idol, my hero, my inspiration.
On October 1, 2025, I wrote Goodall’s obituary for Canadian Geographic. Somehow, I had gone from a quiet, remote intern to the digital and travel editor for one of Canada’s top magazines. I credit my career success to Goodall.
When things felt impossible, I thought of her perseverance. When I hit a wall, I told myself to fight the same way Goodall did. And I know I am not alone. Goodall’s legacy has, and will continue to, ripple through countless lives.
Even now, I still stop to pick up birds who’ve collided with windows, baby mice who’ve strayed from their nests or small mammals who have been struck by cars, giving them a place in nature to rest. I may still feel like the odd one out, more at ease in the woods with animals than in a crowded room. But knowing Goodall felt the same way gives me comfort. Her legacy reminds me that being different is often the very thing that allows us to leave a mark on the planet and that every small act, however quiet, can shape the world around us.
