Some passions quietly enrich a weekend trip to the zoo, and then some fixations rearrange calendars, rewrite budgets, and populate a browser history with articles about aquatic mammals at three in the morning. My devotion belongs to the latter category. Otters are my magnetic north. Their buoyant somersaults, clever paws, and unfiltered glee feel like distilled wonder made tangible. Each viral clip I watch is the universe tapping a finger on my shoulder reminding me to keep delight alive. When a video of wildlife educator Stephanie Arne surfaced across my feed, showing her submerged in a pool teeming with otters while she squealed with gratitude, it landed like a spark in dry tinder. Her words, I am so happy, this is the most amazing thing, shot straight to the wild-child part of my imagination. Ten minutes later airline tickets were claimed, lodging was booked, and a coveted Otter Swim reservation at a nonprofit called Nurtured by Nature waited in my inbox. My partner could only shake their head, equal parts entertained and resigned. Eight months stood between that impulsive click and the moment our flight banked over the glittering California coast, but longing stretched those weeks into something bigger than anticipation. It became a meditation on joy deferred yet firmly promised.
Otter enthusiasm might appear whimsical from the outside, yet beneath the surface lies something elemental. These animals embody curiosity without caution, play trimmed free of grown-up self-consciousness. They are kinetic permission slips telling us to tumble back into our instincts for wonder. In the same way birders parse plumage patterns or surfers chase the perfect break, I track every morsel of otter trivia I can find. I know that sea otters anchor themselves with kelp to nap, that river otters fashion snow slides as effortless commute routes, and that collective nouns range from romp to raft depending on species. I have read field studies detailing their vocal repertoire and the remarkable dexterity that lets them juggle stones. All of that research is delicious, yet it is still secondhand. What I craved was immersion so complete that the boundary between observer and observed dissolves like sugar in warm tea.
That dream gained coordinates the day I learned Nurtured by Nature exists less than an hour from San Diego International Airport. Social posts describe it as neither a zoo nor a theme park but an oasis where animal interaction is practiced as mindful connection. Reviews spoke of sloths, porcupines, lemurs, and, of course, a resident romp of small-clawed otters who politely yet irreversibly rearrange your sense of the possible. The organization’s mission amplifies the pull. Founded by Kevin and Wendy Yates, the nonprofit channels revenue from public encounters into free experiences for children facing severe health challenges, often in collaboration with the Make-A-Wish Foundation. That loop of generosity turns every admission fee into a vote for empathy. How could I resist placing mine?
Walking into an Eden of Unexpected Teachers
The morning of our appointment dawned crisp and golden, the kind of Southern California light that feels freshly laundered. We rattled up a country road lined by citrus groves until a hand-painted sign confirmed we had reached Nurtured by Nature. The property unfolded down a gentle slope dotted with native shrubs and shade sails. An open-air lobby welcomed us with nothing louder than birdsong and the understated hum of well-kept habitat pumps. A staff member greeted each guest by name, handing out sandals and soft towels that smelled faintly of lavender. The orientation felt less like a safety briefing and more like being ushered into a friend’s sprawling backyard after a long drive.
We began with a deliberate downshift in tempo. Turbo, a Galápagos tortoise with shell markings like a topo map, occupied the highest vantage on the property. From his rocky perch, he surveyed the valley as if recording time in centuries rather than minutes. Placing a palm on his domed carapace revealed warmth stored from the morning sun; he carried solar memory the way books carry storylines. My breath slowed to match his measured chewing of romaine leaves offered by our guide. It felt important to start the day aligned with ancient rhythm before vaulting into the kinetic antics that lay ahead.
The next stop delivered a jolt of desert energy. Two fennec foxes named Snickers and Doodle darted across a sandy enclosure under a canopy of woven reeds. Snickers materialized at my sneaker toes, enormous ears rotating like satellite dishes as soon as the rustle of mealworm containers sounded. He hopped straight into a handler’s arms with unabashed trust. Doodle, meanwhile, perched on a driftwood snail, gazing at us with a philosopher’s reserve. Their twin personalities threaded together a lesson on quiet observation versus jubilant participation. The staff narrated subtle tail twitches and whisker quivers, decoding fox language while weaving conservation facts effortlessly into conversation. SEO-savvy visitors might note that phrases like ethical fennec fox encounter and sustainable wildlife tourism found their way into the dialogue without feeling tacked on.
We continued along a winding path bordered by flowering salvia that buzzed with native bees. A juvenile Eurasian eagle owl awaited under a pergola draped with vines. She was still transitioning out of the fluffy down stage, tufts giving her the look of a mythic creature halfway between cradle and crown. Kevin produced a leather lure to demonstrate hunting behaviors while reminding us that these birds can detect a vole’s heartbeat from meters away. I was invited to stroke the downy contour feathers along her back. Touching an apex predator is a contradiction: you are gentle, it is formidable, yet the exchange blooms into shared vulnerability. Her golden eyes locked onto mine with a nonverbal question I could not fully translate, yet the electricity of that gaze hummed long after we stepped away.
Around the corner, Westley and Inigo waited in a sunlit run dotted with ficus shrubs. Agoutis often draw blank stares when described verbally, but encountering them face-to-face sets the record straight. They resemble long-legged guinea pigs clad in sleek mahogany fur that shimmers beetle green in the light. Grape halves proved an irresistible currency. One nuzzled into the crook of my elbow, chin wet with juice, while the other perched on my knee, assessing the speed at which I could produce the next treat. They were simultaneously delicate and confident, blurring the line between wild instinct and social curiosity.
Kiki the serval kitten turned the dial to pure velocity. Her handler knelt on a grassy patch, feeding slivers of fish to reward calm interaction. Servals are designed for vertical launch excellence; they can spring over three meters straight up to snatch birds mid-flight. Even at six months Kiki’s muscles coiled with that potential. Photographing her proved comic; each shutter click captured a phantom blur where she had been a heartbeat earlier. The exercise underscored a core truth: certain encounters are meant to be lived, not collected in pixels.
From there, we transitioned indoors, where climate-controlled quarters house species requiring stable humidity. Three-banded armadillos trundled across a padded mat like living bowling balls that had sprouted toenails. Nurtured by Nature is among the very few institutions worldwide that have successfully bred these armored curiosities. Staff taught us to cradle an armadillo by supporting the smooth shell edges, never prying them open when they rolled into protective spheres. Once released, they scurried in deliberate zigzags, sniffing shoe laces and investigating corners with surprising speed. The spectacle felt equal parts adorable and prehistoric, a tiny reminder that evolution has more design templates than we can comfortably imagine.
Then the atmosphere shifted into meditative calm. The sloth arrived wrapped around a caregiver’s torso like a sentient blanket. His freshly bathed fur carried the scent of eucalyptus soap. Each slow blink appeared to compress geological time into a single eyelid drift. We queued in respectful silence, laying fingertips on his back as though reading braille. A sloth encounter is mindfulness training disguised as wildlife tourism. It informs muscles to decelerate, thoughts to soften, and priorities to reorder themselves around stillness.
The comedic antidote came packaged as Cuddles the prehensile-tailed porcupine. She waddled over on surprisingly nimble feet, quills raised only slightly in anticipation rather than alarm. Offering fruit skewers felt like presenting tribute to royalty with a mischievous streak. She inhaled each morsel with a snuffling enthusiasm that left sticky blueberry stains on the concrete. The tactile contrast between her delicate pink nose and formidable quills defined her charisma.
A pair of lemurs emerged next, tails ringed like infinite barber poles. Gizmo, a red ruffed individual with a mane the color of toasted paprika, extended a velvet paw to clasp my index finger. His companion, a ring-tailed influencer in the making, posed for every camera in the group. Lemurs embody concentrated charisma. They trace their evolutionary lineage back to Madagascar’s ancient forests, yet seem utterly at ease starring in a hundred Instagram stories. Conservation messaging peppered our visit, highlighting how habitat loss threatens these primates. That information did not dampen the mood; instead, it infused our laughter with purpose.
The Moment Everything Became Liquid Joy
Three hours of animal meet-and-greets evaporated faster than fog under desert sun, yet they served as a prelude. The staff gathered us near a lagoon carved into the hillside, water so clear the white stone bottom looked hyperreal. We were briefed on otter etiquette. No sudden noises, keep splashing minimal, guard bracelets and rings to avoid theft by curious paws. Wetsuits zipped, hearts thudded, and cameras set to record on waterproof housings.
From the far gate came a chittering chorus. Six Asian small-clawed otters bounded forward, coats sleek and dark like just-oiled wood. The handlers released them with practiced ease. They hit the water with synchronized plunges that sprayed tiny rainbows in the afternoon light. My attempt to maintain decorum lasted half a second. A squeal that was equal parts giggle and gasp escaped me before I could bite it back. Rules forgotten, I slid into the shallows where warm sun met cool surface.
What followed occupies a memory shelf labeled impossible, if not for the video evidence. One otter skated across my lap, then snorkeled downward with a corkscrew twist. Another delivered an unsolicited mussel shell trophy, deposited it on my outstretched palm, and chirped in apparent negotiation. Kevin explained this was natural foraging behavior adapted into play; they test whether humans can be coaxed into trading for better loot. My partner laughed as an otter tugged gently at their ponytail, mistaking it for flowing river weed.
The sensation of meeting an animal in its medium is transformative. On land, we are visitors; in water, the playing field levels. Otters glide using webbed feet that paddle more deftly than our strongest freestyle stroke. Yet they circle back, choosing contact, nibbling at neoprene sleeves in curiosity. Their vocal repertoire clicked and whistled around us like an underwater symphony. I floated, arms wide, while two siblings clambered onto my chest momentarily using it as a springboard for a tandem dive. The experience blurred the boundary between observation and communion.
Time bent yet again. Ten minutes stretched into forever, yet ended too fast. As the handlers coaxed the otters back toward their den with meals of smelt, I felt gratitude settle like warm sand in my bones. The entire journey, from the impulsive reservation click to the final wave goodbye, crystallized a lesson. Obsession is not frivolous when it steers you toward a deeper connection. It is a compass set to joy. Within the sanctuary’s greenery, I witnessed how deliberate care for wildlife can dovetail with therapy for children, sustainable tourism, and adult awe that refuses to fade with age.
Walking back toward the parking lot, I inhaled the sweet mingling of citrus blossoms and unwarmed straw. Otter footprints dotted the edge of the lagoon, tiny imprints already softening under the breeze. They mirrored the marks left on my outlook: light, undeniable, destined to guide future wanderings. The trip had grown far beyond a bucket-list item. It had become a narrative of how curiosity, generosity, and a handful of playful mammals can collide to rewrite what we think travel is for. And somewhere in the world, another late-night dreamer may be watching Stephanie Arne’s viral clip, feeling the jolt of recognition I once felt, and plotting their flight path toward sunscreen, wetsuits, and the unforgettable company of otters.
Immersion in the Otter Realm
The first sight of the pool feels like entering an emerald dream where water and valley sky blend into one shimmering canvas. Crystal clarity reveals every ripple, every shifting beam of sun that sneaks through the tree canopy above the sanctuary. Visitors arrive in muted awe, shoulders instinctively sinking, voices lowering to whispers as if the hillside itself has asked for reverence. The keepers, trained naturalists who can read an otter’s mood the way sailors read clouds, release the animals with a quiet nod. Six river otters, four exuberant adolescents and two wise guardians known affectionately as the auntsspill into the pool at lightning speed, bodies like sleek commas punctuating the bright surface. Their entrance rewrites the moment. It is not simply swimming with otters. It feels closer to stepping behind the curtain of a living ecosystem, one curated for rehabilitation and research but alive with an untamed spirit.
The water envelopes every limb in cool silk. Edges of the visible world blur, the senses tilting toward new priorities: the hush of breath through a snorkel, the impossibly fast flutter of otter paws, the faint earthy scent that rises from their fur when sunlight warms it. Otters do not glide so much as rebound, twisting and banking as if gravity is a polite suggestion rather than a rule. Visitors learn within seconds that the pool belongs to them; humans are tolerated guests in an aquatic ballroom already choreographed by instincts millions of years old. When Comet, the most mischievous juvenile, begins spiraling around my ankles with deliberate curiosity, I feel history peel back. This is the same exploratory loop his wild cousins perform along riverbeds from Canada to Asia, a behavior older than languages.
Guidelines ensure the encounter is structured yet respectful. No shouting. Never pursue an otter. Keep fingers clear of playful wrestling matches that can erupt without warning. These rules, drafted from ethology and years of trial, allow the animals to lead. I catch myself wanting to squeal in delight when one brushes my elbow like a living breeze, but I swallow the sound, exchanging raw excitement for stillness. In that quiet discipline, another layer of wonder opens. The more I surrender to their pace, the more doors they reveal. One aunt, a larger female with silver along her whiskers, floats beside me long enough for me to feel the delicate pressure of her paw on my forearm. No clock in the world can measure how long that single gesture endures in memory.
The surrounding landscape amplifies the experience. Beyond the safety railing, the valley rolls outward in undulating terraces of ferns, vine maple, and distant orchards. The sun closes the afternoon with gentle gold, reflected twiceonce on the water, once on the slick otter coats that flash like polished stone. Somewhere farther upslope, a raven calls, its echo a reminder that this sanctuary is only a fragment of a wider mosaic of protected habitat. Conservation banners near the entrance speak of clean rivers, regulated fisheries, and the fight against illegal pet trade. The keepers mention that every dollar from these swims funds wetland restoration. Immersion here is not passive tourism; it is participation in a living strategy to safeguard the species.
Moments of Connection in Liquid Silence
A human heartbeat inside a wetsuit drumrolls as otters approach. They tug at loose swimsuit straps and inspect the bright plastic frames of dive masks with needle-sharp teeth, testing textures much the way a toddler gathers information. Comet nibbles the neoprene on my heel, then tumbles backward and rushes straight down the center of the pool like a jet dropped from sky to sea. Another juvenile experiments with buoyancy by balancing a small leaf atop its snout, surfing beneath it while maintaining perfect trim. Watching this inventiveness is like observing pure creativity in motion. The animals transform their home into an ever-shifting playground of obstacles, props, and games of chase.
Sound changes underwater. Instead of airy shouts, communication becomes ripples, quick exhalations, the dull thud of an otter’s body meeting the glass viewing wall as it banks a turn. Our small group, masked and snorkeled, hovers in place. We listen for clues, orientation coming from peripheral flashes. The pool curves, but it might as well be a great river bend for the energy contained inside. In one floating interval, I meet an otter eye to eye, only inches away. Large, dark pupils framed by a halo of whiskers regard me with what can only be described as informed curiosity. The animal opens its mouth, revealing petite, pointed teeth, then closes it without sound. We drift face-to-face for one heartbeat, a photograph etched directly into the mind.
I recall the staff’s repeated refrain: otters are adorable, but they are emphatically not pets. Their metabolic demands are sky-high, their diets precise, their social structures complex. An otter denied water to swim in will suffer catastrophic stress. Visitors hear stories of well-meaning people whose attempts to keep a single otter at home ended in heartbreak. This sanctuary exists to be the alternative, showing the public the dazzling side of the species while keeping the animals’ autonomy intact. Learning this on the same day as feeling an otter’s whiskers brush my knuckles fuses intellect and emotion. Wildlife education integrates with palpable experience, increasing the odds that each of us will leave determined to advocate.
The session lasts forty-five minutes, yet unspools like a dream where the usual laws of time are suspended. Periodically, a keeper free-dives to the bottom, retrieving enrichment toys, coaxing juveniles into short training drills that reinforce basic veterinary behaviors. Even these clinical moments look like playful exploration. A bright ring target floats below the surface; an otter nudges its nose through the circle, receives a small fish, then rockets upward in a string of silver bubbles. All at once, it seems obvious why so many cultures include water spirits in legend. To watch an otter accelerate from stillness to blur is to glimpse magic disguised as biology.
Lasting Echoes of a Wild Baptism
When the guides finally clap softly to signal the end, a ripple of reluctant acceptance spreads among both species. The otters allow themselves to be gathered, although a few juveniles require extra wrangling, looping out of reach twice more, as if checking whether the invitation might still be open. As soon as their paws touch the wooden deck, the atmosphere changes. The fever of motion quiets. Humans are left bobbing gently, hearts still racing, suddenly aware of gravity and the chilly afternoon breeze sliding across damp shoulders. Yet within that physical coolness burns a new internal heat, something like gratitude meeting awe.
Later, in the changing hut, we exchange stories with strangers who just moments ago shared the most intimate of wildlife encounters. Someone admits they cried underwater, salt tears mixing seamlessly with pool water. Another describes how an otter’s small paw pad felt like a wet leather coin in their palm. I think about how the valley looked before we stepped in, how it looks now, and marvel at the difference wrought by experience that is invisible to the eye but colossal to the spirit. Outside the hut stands a donation kiosk, its screen looping images of river restoration crews planting willow stakes, drone footage of waterways after pollution mitigation. I tap a quick contribution, suddenly impatient to convert emotion into measurable help.
On the path back to the parking lot, the late light slants low, staining leaves amber and auburn. The hush that follows such an encounter feels almost sacred. Walking feels slightly different, lighter, knees bending with springiness borrowed from otter musculature. I replay highlight moments in slow motion: the swirl of Comet beneath my toes, the blessing-like touch of the aunt’s paw, the muted chorus of group laughter that surfaced whenever two otters decided to tussle right in front of us. I study the landscape, noticing details that would have slipped past me earlier: the spiral pattern inside a fern unfurling, the faint scent of river mud beneath cedar bark. The otters have inadvertently sharpened my field of perception.
That night, hours after leaving, I lie in bed and still feel suspended, as if the mattress were water and I could kick off to rise toward moonlight rippling across an imaginary ceiling. The encounter becomes a story I rehearse silently, words rearranging until they settle on a truth that fits: I was baptized by otter, initiated into respect for a species whose grace eclipses human invention. No photograph fully succeeds at conveying the texture of an otter’s curiosity or the electric jolt when wild eyes meet your own. The real souvenir is quieter, nested inside the chest, breathing alongside every future memory. Each time I close my eyes, I see that liquid grin returning, inviting anyone brave enough to listen to rivers, to guard wetlands, to protect the secret worlds where otters dream.
A Garden Path to Unexpected Connection
As we dried off from our earlier aquatic adventure, the spell of the otters still lingered, dancing on our skin like the memory of laughter. But the day, rather than winding down, was quietly shifting its tone. We changed into dry clothes, warmed by the sun and the gentle breeze that threaded through the trees, and stepped onto a new pathone not paved by splashes and squeals, but by the quieter breath of the earth and the steady pulse of furred and feathered souls. The winding garden trail led us into the second act of this living narrative, a chapter defined by curiosity, compassion, and communion.
We were greeted once more by Belt, the two-toed sloth, who had just emerged from a calming bath. Still slightly damp, he clung with slow, dignified poise to one of the trainers, exuding a timeless wisdom. His presence was a balm, grounding and serene, and when I reached out to run my hand through his coarse, damp fur, I felt a ripple move through him, not abrupt or visible, but like a subterranean shiver of joy. It was not just tactile; it was spiritual. Being near Belt felt like standing at the edge of a still lake and watching ripples echo from a distant splash, a reminder that even in stillness, much is happening beneath the surface.
Our next encounter introduced us to Cuddles, a name that might seem ironic for a porcupine but turned out to be stunningly accurate. She had a particular sparkle in her gait, scurrying across the enclosure with an urgency that betrayed her spiky exterior. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Click-clacking across the floor with tiny claws, she was drawn to us like a puppy to its favorite toy. When handed pieces of apples and bananas, she nibbled with a dainty grace, then gently nudged our hands with her nose, asking no, demanding seconds. Her quills, contrary to expectation, remained respectfully flat, and her energy was full of gentle insistence and bright-eyed wonder. There was something marvelously paradoxical about her: armored yet affectionate, careful yet carefree.
Then the lemurs arrived, as if summoned by some silent call to mischief. One moment, the enclosure was calm, and the next, it was bursting with leaping acrobatics and high-speed choreography. A ring-tailed lemur with striking black-and-white markings darted through the air with balletic flair, bounding from perch to platform with a grace that could only be called cinematic. In contrast, Gizmo, the red ruffed lemur, preferred a more tactile engagement. He reached for our hands with long, delicate fingers, holding on with surprising firmness as he peered into our faces with eyes full of stars. There was intelligence behind those glances, an unmistakable spark that told you he wasn’t just curious was evaluating, understanding, maybe even empathizing. These were not animals performing for us; they were storytellers, and we had been folded into their unfolding tales.
Playfulness, Presence, and the Language of Trust
Just as we were beginning to settle into the rhythm of quiet observation, a new energy entered the space in the form of kangaroos. Boomerang and Buckaroo, despite their noble-sounding names, approached us with an endearing mix of diplomacy and clownish charm. At first, they moved with cautious elegance, as if judging the room, weighing their audience. But the moment bananas were introduced, they transformed into gleeful jesters. Their mouths, surprisingly gentle, tugged at the fruit in our palms, and their rough tongues tickled with each nibble. They leaned into our hands with relaxed confidence, their twitching ears attentive to the sounds of our quiet delight.
What struck me most was their authenticity. These kangaroos weren’t here to entertain; they were here to engage, to explore, to share a mutual curiosity. Their velvet muzzles, sensitive and soft, brushed against fingers, and they allowed themselves to be scratched and patted as though we were long-lost companions. That level of trust, cultivated through patient interactions and emotional safety, felt sacred. Each animal we met was a mirror of care, reflecting the energy given to them by those who nurtured their lives and behaviors.
As we wandered further, we came upon a shaded glen where a pair of agoutis chased one another through grass dappled with sunlight. Their bounding strides resembled animated deer from a storybook, all bounce and exuberance. We sipped water and let the shade cool our skin while the agoutis’ playfulness lifted our spirits. It was a moment of pure easiness schedules, no structurejust the freedom to witness joy in its raw, unscripted form.
Westley and Inigo, familiar from earlier in the day, circled back like old friends. They sidled up with sleepy satisfaction, clearly remembering us. When I reached down to scratch behind their ears, they leaned in with closed eyes and sighs that seemed almost human. Somehow, in the span of a few hours, our bond had grown from distant fascination to something deeper. These weren’t just memorable interactions were connections, rooted in presence and mutual respect.
Then came a reunion that felt mythic. The Eurasian eagle owl, whom we had met at the beginning of the experience, returned in a golden haze of late-afternoon light. Her feathers shimmered with hues of burnished bronze and ash-gray, her eyes scanning the horizon with a quiet, commanding grace. Kevin held her calmly, a picture of practiced trust and respect. As he spoke about her care, her growth, and the specialized knowledge required to help her thrive, it became clear how much intentional love and labor had gone into every relationship here.
When the owl permitted us to touch her once more, the moment was laced with reverence. Her stillness wasn’t passivity; it was a sovereign patience. Her talons gripped Kevin’s glove with strength, but her composure spoke of comfort, even trust. Each feather felt impossibly soft, almost like fur, and the experience of touching such majesty without fear left a lasting mark. She was regal, not because of theatrics, but because of the silent power she exudedpower earned through mutual understanding, not dominance.
A Living Sanctuary of Joy and Restoration
As the day drew to a close, we were joined once again by Kevin and Wendy, who carried with them a peace that only comes from living a life of deep purpose. They asked about our favorite parts of the experience, not out of routine, but with genuine interest. They listened attentively, their faces alight with the satisfaction of sharing something meaningful. And then they shared with us the deeper roots of the place we had come to admire.
Nurtured by Nature, they explained, wasn’t born from a business plan but from a quiet, radical idea: that animals and humans could help heal each other. It began with children, many of whom were battling illnesses that robbed them of joy, adventure, and play. Through a partnership with the Make-A-Wish Foundation, Kevin and Wendy turned their property into a place of magic and refuge. Here, joy is not manufacturedit is rediscovered. And it is felt not just by the children who visit, but by the animals who seem to come alive in response to this pure, reciprocal affection.
Every creature on the grounds, from Belt the sloth to the agoutis and kangaroos, has a storysome of rescue, some of careful breeding, all held within a framework of ethical care. The habitats aren’t just functional; they’re emotional sanctuaries. The staff are not caretakers in the traditional sensethey are stewards of trust, building relationships not through control, but through consistency, patience, and love. The result is a place unlike any other, a sanctuary not just of species, but of spirit.
Walking toward the exit, I felt a reluctance that surprised me. My legs weren’t tired, but my heart was heavy with the knowledge that this moment was ending. I wanted to hold onto every sound, every smellthe earthy scent of fur, the patter of feet on shaded paths, the hush of leaves overhead. These were sensory imprints I didn’t want to fade.
As we passed the otter enclosure once more, I saw them huddled together in a pile of dream-heavy fur. One lifted its head for the briefest of moments, eyes meeting mine with sleepy recognition, before nestling back into the group. And I understood something then. I had come all this way to meet them, to witness their magic. But it wasn’t just about the otters. It was about everything they represented power of presence, the beauty of stillness, and the unexpected ways joy can find us when we choose to slow down and truly see.
I left with more than memories. I left with a reawakened part of myself, a piece that had grown quiet under the weight of routine but had now stirred back to life. And in that quiet awakening, I found not just delight, but belonging.
The Awakening: Rediscovering Wonder Through Wildlife
The morning after our visit to Nurtured by Nature felt like waking from a dream that still clung to the edges of my consciousness. There was a striking clarity that didn’t feel accidental. Every detail from the day before shimmered vividly in my memory, not just as snapshots but as emotional imprints. The soft, almost surreal brush of a lemur’s velvet nose, the hypnotic spirals of otters as they danced underwater, the subtle crunch of eucalyptus leaves beneath our stepsall of it returned in waves. These weren’t just sensory impressions; they were quiet revelations. I had expected an enjoyable outing with animals, something fun and lighthearted. What I experienced, however, was something far more expansive. It touched something deep and timeless.
As I sat in the soft quiet of our rental cottage the following morning, coffee warming my hands and heart alike, I instinctively reached for a notebook. I had to preserve the sensations before they began to fade, as such experiences often do. The more I wrote, the more I realized the magnitude of what we had encountered. These moments weren’t just rare, they were essential. In a world oversaturated with instant gratification, digital noise, and the fatigue of modern life, encounters like these return us to something primal, something lost but not irretrievable. They bring us back to awe.
Over the weeks that followed, I found myself sharing our experience with increasing intensity. It wasn’t just enthusiasm; it was conviction. Friends, co-workers, extended familyanyone who’d listen heard about the four-hour encounter as though I were describing a pilgrimage. Because, in a sense, I was. What we discovered at Nurtured by Nature was not merely a curated animal experience but a glimpse into an alternate reality, one where kindness flows easily, trust forms without barriers, and wonder is the rule rather than the exception. This wasn’t a spectacle or novelty. It was true. A different kind of truth, quieter but more profound.
The animals we met weren’t props in an orchestrated show. Each creature was introduced by name, with a backstory, a personality, and a sense of individuality that refused to be reduced to biology or behavior. There was something sacred in the way the staff interacted with the with reverence and responsibility. And that shaped how we, as visitors, engaged in turn. We weren’t there to consume an experience. We were being invited to participate in something much more delicate and meaningful. In that mutual recognition between species, between human and animal, was a kind of healing.
Rewilding Empathy: A Model of Purposeful Connection
What stayed with me the most wasn’t just the physical memory of swimming with otters or the feather-light grip of a sloth’s claw. It was the emotional landscape that those moments opened up. There is a deeper purpose at the core of Nurtured by Nature, one that quietly reshapes your understanding of connection, compassion, and service. This sanctuary is not a zoo, not a petting farm, and not an attraction in the traditional sense. It’s a conduit for empathy.
The mission behind the organization is radical in its simplicity. Kevin and Wendy, the hearts and minds behind Nurtured by Nature, have crafted a space that centers healing, particularly for children facing life-threatening medical conditions. These are children who live with burdens most adults can’t imagine, yet in the eyes of an otter or the gentle nudge of a porcupine, they are simply beingsworthy, joyful, and present. The interactions these children have with animals are not recreational. They are deeply therapeutic. And they are offered at no cost to the families. These are not charity handouts. They are dignified, compassionate gifts rooted in love and integrity.
To support this mission, Nurtured by Nature offers tours to the general public, creating a financial model that’s both sustainable and ethical. Every paid visit directly funds opportunities for children in need to have these same experiences. It’s a powerful, transparent equationan exchange where joy and generosity intersect. Knowing that your admission fee contributes to a child’s moment of laughter, a parent’s quiet breath of relief, or a memory that transcends a hospital room imbues the visit with an extra layer of meaning.
In our world of fleeting attention and performative acts of kindness, this model is refreshing. It strips philanthropy of ego and replaces it with purpose. It reminds us that wonder can be a form of medicine and that healing doesn't always come from prescriptions or procedures. Sometimes, it comes from the damp nose of an otter, the warm weight of an armadillo curled in your lap, or the silent understanding exchanged with a tortoise who’s lived longer than your oldest relative.
Even now, back in the humdrum rhythm of everyday life, I find myself reflecting on the subtle lessons from that day. There was a quiet dignity in every encounter, a deliberate slowing down that I’ve tried to carry forward. I notice the birds outside our kitchen window. I feel a new softness when my dog lays her head on my lap. I listen more closely to the rustle of leaves, the nuance in another person’s silence. It’s as if that visit recalibrated my internal compass, pointing me toward a more attuned, present way of being.
Living with Open Eyes: Carrying Wonder into the Everyday
The otter swim remains etched in my memory, not because it was flashy or outrageous, but because it crystallized everything the experience was about. I remember the jolt of cool water, the surprising weight and quickness of otter paws, the squeals of delighthuman and animal, harmonizing into one joyful symphony. But I also remember the quieter moments. The eagle owl’s solemn, almost ancient gaze. Turbo the tortoise is taking each step with a kind of meditative grace. The way each trainer spoke not at us but with us, as though we were co-participants in something sacred.
Since returning home, my boyfriendpractical, skeptical, rarely sentimentalhas become unexpectedly reflective. He often brings up specific moments from that day, recounting them with a kind of reverence I rarely see from him. It’s changed both of us. We’ve started researching local wildlife sanctuaries. We’ve signed up for volunteer shifts at a nature center. Not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. We left Nurtured by Nature filled up, and now we feel compelled to give back.
If I could offer advice to future visitors, it would be this: come open. Don’t fill your mind with checklists or photo goals. Let your expectations dissolve. Just be present. The magic happens in the small, nearly invisible momentsthe flick of a tail, the way a sloth curls into a nap, the eye contact from a creature who somehow seems to see you more clearly than most people do. Resist the urge to capture everything. Let some of it be fleeting. That ephemerality is part of the gift.
Not everything needs to be remembered through a screen. Some things are meant to linger quietly in your body, surfacing when you least expect it, like a forgotten scent that suddenly carries you back. That’s the nature of true wonder. It becomes a part of you. It changes you slowly, gently, but unmistakably.
Nurtured by Nature is not simply a destination on a map. It is a profound reminder that the world is still full of quiet miracles. That even in our most distracted, cynical moments, there are places designed to reawaken our senses, to rewild our hearts. It asks nothing of you but your openness. And in return, it gives everything. It gives joy. It gives a connection. It gives clarity.
The morning after our visit, as I closed my notebook, I noticed something unexpected. On the last page, in the bottom right corner, I had written only two words. I don’t remember writing them. They must have emerged from that strange, liminal state between waking and dreaming. But they were true then, and they remain true now: thank you.
Conclusion
In a world rushing past wonder, Nurtured by Nature invited us to pause and truly feel. This wasn’t just an animal encounter, was a return to our most awake, connected selves. Each paw print, whisker twitch, and shared moment bridged the gap between species and stirred something dormant within. The memories linger not just as images but as inner transformations. We left changedgentler, more attentive, more alive. And that change endures. It lives in how we now notice birdsong, offer stillness, and protect what’s sacred. Some experiences fade; others take root. This one bloomed into lasting gratitude and a new way of seeing the world.
