What 5 months taught me…

There have been many moments in my life where I have competed, played, and worked toward success so that others would be proud of me. My worth was built on whether or not I was one of the best. That, in itself, is a story for another day.

But this journey at Bushwise, my assessment drive, was different. This was for me.

For the past five months, I have been learning, preparing, and practicing for this assessment. Over that time, I have been proving to myself, over and over again, that I am more than my successes and more than my failures. I have learned that I need to take each challenge one step at a time. As one of our trainers says, “The best way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.”

As the assessment day came closer, about a month out, I expected to feel more ready. I thought I would have the knowledge, and all I would need to do was refine my skills. I believed that all the early mornings and long days out in the field would bring a sense of calmness.

But the opposite happened.

The more time I spent out here, the more I realized how much I didn’t know. The doubt that came with that realization was something I was all too familiar with. But this time, it felt different. There was an energy to it, something almost electric. It didn’t push me away—it pulled me closer.

I wanted to learn it all.

I wanted to know the birds and recognize their calls without hesitation. I wanted to understand mammal behavior on a deeper level. I wanted to feel connected to everything that lived and moved within the bush.

It was only in the week of my mock assessment drive that I felt, for the first time, that I might have enough knowledge to give a well-rounded three-hour game drive. The weeks leading up to it had been filled with focused learning—birding, track and sign, and tracking. It was during that time that I became a Level 2 tracker, something I am incredibly proud of.

And yet, even then, the doubt didn’t disappear.

When the day of the assessment arrived, I carried all of it with me—the knowledge I had built, the pride in how far I had come, and the quiet uncertainty that still lingered beneath the surface.

There is something about sitting in that driver’s seat, knowing that everything you have learned is about to be tested, that brings a different kind of awareness. The bush felt alive in the way it always had been, but now I felt responsible for how I interpreted it and how I shared it with others.

At times, things flowed. The birds called, and I recognized them. Tracks appeared, and I could begin to tell their stories. Moments connected, and I could feel my training supporting me.

And then something shifted. Without fully realizing it, I stopped trying to prove myself. I stopped reaching for perfection and instead allowed myself to be present in the drive. I observed, I listened, and I shared what I understood. For the first time, it didn’t feel forced. It felt natural. It was the best drive I had given to date, not because I knew everything, but because I trusted what I did know.

When it was over, I didn’t feel uncertainty. I felt something much deeper. I hugged my best friend and cried, not because I was overwhelmed by the drive itself, but because of everything it represented. I was a field guide, I was who I always wanted to be. I thought about who I was in January, and who I had become in that moment. The growth felt real in a way I hadn’t fully allowed myself to see before.

When I received my feedback, I learned that I had passed, but I had missed the IFGA qualification by 2%.

For a moment, that number felt heavy. It sat with me in a way I didn’t expect. There was a part of me that immediately focused on what I hadn’t achieved, rather than everything I had done to get there. It took time to step back and see the full picture, to understand what that moment truly meant.

Five months ago, I knew nothing. I stepped into this world unsure of myself and unsure of what I was capable of. Now, I had just completed the best drive I had ever given as a field guide. When I allowed myself to really sit with that, the weight of the 2% began to shift. It didn’t disappear, but it no longer defined the experience.

What stayed with me was the growth. The early mornings, the long days, the doubt, and the choice, over and over again, to keep going. I didn’t become a field guide because I was perfect. I became one because I was willing to learn, to struggle, and to continue even when I felt unsure.

There was no feeling like it.

If I have learned anything through this journey, it is this: you don’t need to know it all. You just need to keep going, one bite at a time.