SCOOP

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As I sit here reflecting, having just submitted our response to the

NSW Veterinary Practice Regulatory Framework Reform, I find myself

reflecting about much more than legislation, policy, regulation or

consultation questions.

I find myself thinking about the journey that brought us here.

The people.
The patients.
The late nights.
The losses.
The lessons.
The moments that shaped who I am, what I believe, and the hospital we have built.

A veterinary career is not built in a straight line. It is built through long days, hard decisions, mentors who lift you up, colleagues who stand beside you, families who support from behind the scenes, and teams who keep showing up even when the work has taken more from them than most people will ever know.

It is built through the clients who remind us why we do this work.
The animals who stay with us forever.
The team members who give more than their job description will ever show.
And the moments, both beautiful and heartbreaking, that leave a permanent mark.

There have been incredibly difficult times along the way.

Cases that have broken us.
Cases that have changed us.
Cases that have left scars we still carry.

There are some experiences in veterinary medicine that do not simply pass. They change how you practise, how you lead, how you sleep, how you trust, and how you see the profession you once entered with hope, purpose and a deep love for animals.

But still, we keep going.

We keep showing up because animals still need care.
Because families still need support.
Because regional communities still need someone to answer the phone after hours.
Because wildlife, strays, rescue animals and unowned animals still arrive with nowhere else to go.
Because when a frightened animal is carried through the door, the people inside the hospital will do everything they can.

Behind the doors of a veterinary hospital, there is a side of the profession most people never see.

People see the consult room.
They see the vaccination, the surgery estimate, the emergency fee, the discharge instructions, the bill.

What they often do not see is everything happening behind that moment.

They do not see the nurse sitting quietly with a scared animal at 2am, willing it to make it through the night.

They do not see the vet who has already worked a full day, then stays back because another emergency has arrived and there is no one else available.

They do not see the receptionist doing their best to stay calm and kind while speaking with someone who is frightened, angry, grieving or overwhelmed.

They do not see the team trying to care for wildlife, strays, injured animals, abandoned animals, owned pets, emergency cases and grieving families — often all at once.

They do not see the vet who goes home after euthanising someone’s beloved pet, then lies awake wondering whether they said the right thing, did enough, explained things clearly enough, or could have carried just a little more.

And they do not see the sacrifices that are carried home.

They are carried by partners who manage dinners, bedtimes and school routines alone because an emergency arrived at the end of a shift.

They are carried by children who learn that Mum or Dad might miss bedtime, sport, school events, birthdays or family plans because an animal was critically unwell and there was no one else to help.

They are carried by families who live with the emotional aftermath of this work — the exhaustion, the silence after a traumatic case, the tears in the car, the phone calls that interrupt weekends, and the pressure of knowing that a hospital cannot simply close its doors when the day becomes too hard.

Every member of a veterinary team has a family, a life, a body and a heart outside the hospital.

Vets, nurses, receptionists, animal attendants and support staff all make sacrifices that are often invisible to the public. Their families make sacrifices too.

And sometimes the cases veterinary teams carry are not just medical cases.

They care for animals injured in car accidents while their owners are being taken to hospital.

They care for pets whose elderly owners have suddenly been admitted to hospital and have no one else to help.

They care for animals caught up in domestic violence situations, where the pet may be part of a much bigger story of fear, grief and safety.

They care for seized animals, neglected animals, abandoned animals, injured wildlife and animals removed from circumstances that no person with a heart can easily forget.

They see the impact of trauma on animals.
They see the impact of trauma on people.
And then they are expected to absorb it, document it, treat it, comfort everyone involved, and keep moving to the next patient.

That work leaves a mark.

It affects the person who held the injured animal.
It affects the nurse who cleaned the wounds.
It affects the receptionist who took the distressed phone call.
It affects the vet who had to make the hard decision.
It affects the families who receive those people at the end of the day, when there is nothing left in the tank.

Veterinary medicine is beautiful.
It is meaningful.
It is a privilege.
But it is also heavy.

And for too long, the people carrying that weight have been told to be more resilient, when what they really needed was a safer, fairer and more sustainable system.

This is why reform matters.

This cannot just be another review.
It cannot be another report that sits on a shelf.
It cannot be another moment where the profession tells the truth about what is happening, only for nothing meaningful to change.

Our profession cannot continue living in fear of systems that damage the good and break the best.

Regulation should protect animals and the public. Of course it should. But it must also be fair, proportionate, clinically informed and psychologically safe.

A system that treats every difficult outcome, every complaint, every communication breakdown or every moment of client distress as though it may be professional misconduct does not create better animal welfare.

It creates fear.
It creates defensive medicine.
It drives people away from complex cases, after-hours work, regional practice and, sometimes, the profession entirely.

We cannot afford to keep losing good people.

We cannot keep losing vets.
We cannot keep losing nurses.
We cannot keep losing receptionists, animal attendants and support staff.
We cannot keep expecting exhausted, high-performing, deeply caring people to carry impossible burdens in silence.

And government cannot continue relying on private veterinary practices and not-for-profits to absorb every gap in the system.

Strays.
Wildlife.
Seized animals.
Unowned animals.
Animals injured after hours.
Animals from disasters, fires, floods, welfare situations and community crises.

These are public-good responsibilities, but too often they are quietly shifted onto private veterinary teams already stretched beyond capacity.

The expectation is that because we care, we will absorb it.
Because we love animals, we will find a way.
Because we are there, we will make room.

And we do.

But goodwill is not a funding model.
Compassion is not an infinite resource.
And love for animals does not protect people from burnout, trauma, financial pressure or mental illness.

This profession is full of high achievers. Many are perfectionists. Many are neurodiverse. Many carry their own physical and mental health challenges while caring for everyone else’s animals, families and grief.

It is also now a female-dominated profession.

Many veterinarians are working mothers. Many are trying to hold together clinical work, leadership, study, business ownership, emergency rosters, school drop-offs, after-school pick-ups, sick children, pregnancies, breastfeeding, miscarriage, fertility treatment, maternity leave, and returning from maternity leave before they feel ready.

Some are expressing milk between consultations.
Some are breastfeeding between surgeries.
Some are answering emergency calls with children in the car.
Some are leading teams while grieving losses no one else can see.
Some are returning to work still physically and emotionally recovering, because the roster is short, the hospital is full, and there is no one else.

And through all of this, veterinary teams are also expected to withstand public criticism, online attacks, social media pile-ons, trolling, threats, defamatory comments, unrealistic expectations, financial anger and the constant fear that any difficult interaction could become something much bigger.

This is the reality behind the smiling photos, the puppy cuddles and the “dream job” people imagine from the outside.

Veterinary teams are not perfect. No profession is. But the vast majority of people in this industry are here because they care deeply.

They care about animals.
They care about clients.
They care about doing the right thing, often at significant personal cost.

But care alone cannot hold up an entire system forever.

A veterinary hospital is not just a business.

In regional areas especially, it is often emergency infrastructure, animal welfare support, wildlife care, disaster response, biosecurity support, and a safety net for the animals and situations that fall through the cracks.

And right now, too much of that safety net is being held together by goodwill, unpaid labour, exhausted people, and a profession already under enormous pressure.

As we submit this reform response, we do so with hope.

Hope that veterinary hospitals will be recognised as essential community infrastructure, especially in regional areas.

Hope that veterinary nurses, technicians and support teams will be recognised, regulated and empowered in ways that reflect the work they already do.

Hope that complaints processes can become fair, proportionate and humane.

Hope that wildlife, strays and public-good animal care will no longer be funded by guilt, goodwill and unpaid labour.

Hope that government will understand that animal welfare depends on workforce welfare.

Because if we do not protect the people caring for animals, eventually there will be fewer and fewer people left to do the work.

And in the words carried forward through Sophie’s Legacy:

We are only human.

Your cat may have nine lives, but our vets, nurses, receptionists, animal attendants and veterinary teams only have one.

For too long, this profession has carried too much in silence.
Too many veterinary lives have been lost.
Too many teams have been stretched beyond what is reasonable.
Too many people have kept showing up while quietly breaking.

This reform is overdue.

Not because veterinary teams want sympathy, but because meaningful change is now essential — for animal welfare, for access to care, for regional communities, and for the people who dedicate their lives to this work.

Please be kind to your veterinary team.

They are doing their best.
They are carrying more than most people will ever see.
And they are only human.