I. Introduction: The Paradox of Rescue
There’s a saying I first heard in nursing school: “Nurses eat their own.” It was a warning—about seasoned professionals tearing down the new, the eager, the ones still fueled by hope. But the nursing profession has nothing, and I mean NOTHING, on what I found in the world of animal rescue.
Rescue work is supposed to be about compassion. About coming together for something bigger than ourselves—saving lives that can’t advocate for themselves. But behind the feel-good social media posts, the adoption photos, and the GoFundMe links, there’s a darker truth:
This is a community that often turns on its own.
I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And I know I’m not alone.
When people like Mikayla Raines, founder of SaveAFox, take their own lives after years of online bullying—much of it from within the very “rescue community” they helped build—it’s a stark reminder that the animals aren’t the only ones in danger. Empathy-driven humans, the ones who pour every waking hour into their missions, often become targets the moment they’re visible.
This isn’t just a call-out. It’s a survival guide. A truth-telling for those who love too deeply and serve too fiercely to quit, but who walk every day with scars carved by those they thought were allies.
This is what it’s like to try to do good—and get devoured for it.
II. The Illusion of Community
Ask most people outside the rescue world what they imagine, and they’ll paint you a picture of compassion in action: volunteers working shoulder to shoulder, networking across states, banding together in emergencies, lifting each other up through shared purpose and heartache.
In theory, rescue is a community. In reality? It’s often more like a high school cafeteria—if the lunch trays were on fire and the cliques carried pocket knives.
There are good people—plenty of them. There are generous donors, hardworking fosters, and quietly consistent volunteers who do it for the right reasons. But those voices are often drowned out–or driven away–by the drama addicts, the self-appointed gatekeepers, the ones who thrive on division and chaos. And in this world, being good at what you do—or having the nerve to ask for support publicly—is often enough to put a target on your back.
You’re too successful.
You’re not transparent enough.
You’re not doing it the way they would.
You posted in the wrong group, or spoke to the wrong person, or used a hashtag they feel territorial about.
Suddenly, you’re not part of a community—you’re on trial in a kangaroo court with no defense and no exit. The very people who preach about saving lives turn on you like you’re the problem. And for what? Because you dared to speak. Because you dared to care differently.
The illusion is powerful. It keeps people believing in a system that doesn’t exist. It keeps newcomers naïve and old-timers silent. And it isolates the ones who actually do the work, pushing them further into the margins while the loudest voices claim the spotlight.
III. No Standards, No Safeguards
In professional fields like nursing, you don’t get to walk in off the street, declare yourself a nurse, and start calling the shots. You have to train, certify, prove competency, and be held accountable by governing boards. There are rules, protocols, and consequences.
Rescue? Not so much.
In rescue, the only real credential you need is a Facebook login and a flair for drama.
There’s no licensing board, no formal oversight. Most groups are volunteer-run, and in the absence of structure, it’s often who shouts the loudest or who’s been around longest that dictates the pecking order. And let’s be honest: sometimes the people most eager to “help” are also the most unqualified, unstable, or manipulative.
These are the people who rise—not because they’re the best at animal care, but because they’re always present, always loud, and always inserting themselves into the middle of everything. They’re in every comment thread, every private group, every fundraiser… not to support, but to control.
And because most rescues are desperate for help, they let it happen.
That’s how you end up with self-proclaimed “experts” giving dangerous advice, spreading lies about other rescuers, or gatekeeping critical resources based on personal grudges. There are no checks. No balance. Just reputations built on whispers and power hoarded like currency.
And heaven help you if you speak up. If you question the wrong person or suggest there might be a better way, you’re not seen as a reformer—you’re branded a threat. Suddenly, you’re on a list. You’re “not to be trusted.” Screenshots circulate. Alliances form behind closed doors. And once the mob decides you’re a problem, the truth no longer matters.
It’s not about doing right by the animals.
It’s about who gets to claim the moral high ground—even if they’re standing on a pile of bones to do it.
IV. When the Claws Come Out
The first time I asked for help, I expected support. Encouragement. Maybe even a few kind words from people who understood what it meant to fight tooth and nail for animals in need.
What I got instead was a firing squad.
Our fundraiser was simple: we were raising money to build an aviary—a safe space where parrots could fly, feel the sun, and heal in a more natural environment. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t personal. It was for them. The birds.
But the moment I posted in a bird-focused group to spread the word, the claws came out. And not from trolls or strangers—from other “rescuers.” People who claim to care about the same mission.
“She’s just trying to remodel her house.”
“She’s asking for money to take care of her own pets.”
“Didn’t she ask for donations for new windows for her house?”
(For the record: the windows in this house are still the same ones it came with. And any repairs we’ve made over the years—every seal, screw, bird-safe modification, even the things that torpedo the house’s resale value—have been paid for out of our own pockets. Not one dime of donor money has ever gone into this house. Not one. EVERY dime of donor money has gone to one of two goals: caring for birds here and improving their lives, or our outreach program which has helped many birds and their families weather tough times.)
But facts didn’t matter. The lies spread faster than the truth ever could. Groups like Crazy Bird Ladies and Parrot Posse took turns dragging us through the digital mud of their Facebook cesspool. Suddenly I was being accused of things I had never said, had never done, never even thought about doing. It was as if the moment we dared to step into visibility, they decided we needed to be cut down.
And the worst part? They didn’t come at us with questions. They came with judgments already loaded—spread through screenshots, side conversations, whisper campaigns, and public posts dripping with faux concern. All under the mask of “just looking out for the animals.”
Very few people were looking out for us.
I wasn’t the first. I won’t be the last. But I learned something then that every rescuer eventually does:
In this world, the moment you make a ripple, the sharks start circling.
And they’ll chew you to ribbons with smiles on their faces—because in their minds, they’re the heroes.
V. Why This Happens: Power, Ego, and Projection
You’d think the cruelty would come from people outside the cause. But in rescue, the most vicious attacks often come from inside the tent—from people who claim the same mission, wear the same labels, and post the same hashtags.
Why?
Because for some, it’s not about the animals at all.
It’s about control.
It’s about ego.
It’s about identity—and what happens when someone else’s presence threatens to unravel the carefully curated image they’ve built around themselves.
Some people stumble into rescue with good intentions but never deal with their own trauma. Others come seeking praise, validation, or authority. And when they find out rescue is hard work, without applause, thankless, messy, and relentless… they look for other ways to get their dopamine hit.
That’s when the power plays begin.
You’ll see it in who gets access to networking groups. Who’s “approved” to ask for help. Who’s given the benefit of the doubt—and who’s immediately branded a fraud or a threat.
It’s a hierarchy based not on merit, but on allegiance.
And if you’re not playing their game, their way, by THEIR rules?
If you’re too independent, too ethical, too vocal, or—heaven forbid—too successful?
You become the enemy.
They’ll accuse you of being in it for attention while chasing their own social media stats.
They’ll say you don’t care enough about animals while sitting behind a keyboard doing nothing to help them.
They’ll project their worst fears and insecurities onto you, then frame it as “concern for the community.”
And they’ll do it in packs—because if there’s one thing these people hate more than doing the work, it’s seeing someone else do it well.
This isn’t about accountability. It’s about control masquerading as virtue. And the ones who suffer most aren’t just the humans—they’re the animals who lose out when real rescuers are driven out, burned out, or pushed to the brink.
VI. The Human Cost: Not Just Burnout
It’s easy to talk about burnout in rescue like it’s just being tired. Like it’s something a good nap and a day off could fix.
But burnout in rescue isn’t just physical exhaustion. It’s soul-deep. It’s watching an animal die in your arms while people online debate whether you “deserve” donations. It’s caring more than your body can handle, doing more than your budget can support, and getting shamed for not doing more anyway.
It’s grief without end.
It’s trauma without therapy.
It’s service without safety.
And it doesn’t always end with someone quietly stepping away.
Sometimes, it ends like it did for Mikayla Raines—a young woman who gave her heart, her home, her life to the animals she rescued. A woman who built a globally recognized sanctuary, only to be torn apart by the very community she helped inspire. Her death wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a warning.
Because no matter how strong you are, how thick your skin, or how righteous your cause, there’s only so much venom a person can absorb before it sinks in.
I’ve had fleeting moments where I wondered if it was worth continuing. Where I questioned everything—my mission, my methods, my capacity to keep going in a space so quick to punish love and so slow to protect it. Battling health problems, aging, and trying to keep things together during the hardest time of my life was rough.
But I’ve been lucky. I’ve had a thick hide, a stubborn streak, and a circle of friends—some from the most unexpected corners of my life—who remind me why I started and who I’m doing this for. THAT is what has kept me going.
But not everyone gets that lifeline.
Too many amazing rescuers have quit.
Too many have gone silent.
And some—some—never come back.
We lose them to despair. To depression. To death. And every time it happens, the community wrings its hands and posts tributes, never acknowledging how complicit it was in pushing them over the edge.
It shouldn’t take a funeral to start being kind.
VII. What Needs to Change
It doesn’t have to be this way.
Rescue could be a sanctuary not just for animals, but for the people who care for them. It could be a place of mentorship, collaboration, and shared purpose. But it won’t become that until we start holding ourselves to higher standards—on purpose, not just in crisis.
Here’s where the healing starts:
1. Establish Ethical Standards and Conduct Agreements
Groups should have codes of conduct not just for animal care, but for how they treat people. Harassment and gossip should lead to consequences.
2. Implement Transparency with Accountability
If transparency is demanded from fundraisers, it should apply to group admins and moderators too.
3. Stop Letting Personal Grudges Guide Animal Outcomes
Gatekeeping resources due to ego or vendettas hurts animals. Period.
4. Create Mental Health Support Systems
Rescuers need trauma-informed peer groups, debriefing space, and permission to ask for help without shame.
5. Call Out the Bullies—Even When They’re “Popular”
Seniority and popularity shouldn’t shield cruelty. Speak up, even when it’s hard.
6. Celebrate Collaboration Over Competition
We’re not rival brands. We’re lifelines. Let’s act like it.
This isn’t a purity test. It’s a call for maturity. We ask for better from pet owners. It’s time we asked for better from each other.
VIII. Still Standing
I’ve been through the fire. More than once. I’ve been lied about, smeared, targeted, dismissed. I’ve watched people twist my intentions into something ugly simply because they could. I’ve stood in the crosshairs of people who call themselves animal lovers while treating human beings like garbage.
And I’m still here.
Not because I’m unbreakable.
Not because I’m special.
But because the animals are worth it.
Because for every coward hiding behind a keyboard, there’s a creature waiting for a second chance. For every bully who has attacked me, there’s a parrot who learned to trust again. For every whisper campaign, there’s a squawk, a song, a spark of life that says, “Keep going.” We’ve saved lives. We’ve kept families together. We’ve been a force for healing of broken, abused bodies and shattered lives.
And because, despite the poison in parts of this so-called community, there are SO MANY good people. Many of them aren’t even in rescue circles. They’re friends from other parts of my life—gamers, artists, fellow survivors—people who see through the noise and believe in what we’re building. People who give without strings, who uplift without ego, who understand what it means to serve something bigger than themselves.
They remind me why I started.
They remind me why I stay.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been targeted… if you’ve been pushed out, torn down, or made to feel like your love for animals somehow disqualifies you from community—you are not alone.
You are not weak.
You are not the problem.
You are part of a growing resistance to cruelty masquerading as care.
And if you’re still standing, even after everything?
Then you’re exactly the kind of person this community needs.
Let’s build something better.