When data can reveal a human truth

 

There are times when I review my data simply for pleasure. Not everyone would call that fun, but for me, there’s real satisfaction in looking back at the wildlife numbers I’ve gathered on my patch since I first began tracking them.

Whenever I revisit the dataset, my attention is immediately drawn to the gaps. Little voids that tease my more obsessive tendencies and make me wonder what stories were lost. The biggest gap was in 2018, when I collected no data for three months. A fallen tree trunk had crashed into the stanchion of the old stone bridge, forcing its closure for repairs. During that time, I couldn’t reach my patch. It felt strange and, frankly, unsettling to lose my weekly visits. Smaller gaps over the years come down to bad weather or illness, but the two-month gap in 2011 belongs to a darker chapter, a resurgence of my anxiety to a state where my focus was entirely on ensuring I could make it to work each day.

Table showing the average recording survey time on my patch

An important part of who I am, something I no longer hesitate to share, is that I have Generalised Anxiety Disorder. Thankfully, mental health no longer carries the stigma it once did, and I make sure the students I work with understand that these struggles can happen to anyone, and that a fulfilling life is still entirely possible. I won’t go into the details of what lies beneath my anxiety; therapy and introspection have given me clarity, but those details are for me alone. What matters is that I’ve come to accept that my anxiety is part of who I am. It doesn’t define me, but it has shaped my personality and my life in irreversible ways.

I had my first recognisable anxiety attack at 16, and a small breakdown in the final year of university. Strangely, my patch became part of my recovery. At its worst, my anxiety manifested as an odd mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia, seemingly contradictory, yet somehow, I managed both at once. Sometimes they alternated; sometimes they arrived together, leaving me avoiding being indoors but unable to stray too far from home.

My visits to the patch began in 2002 as a way to keep my ecological skills sharp and to coax myself out of the house. I started simply walking around and taking in the air, but the scientist in me soon began making notes, casual observations at first, without a strict method. In 2004, as my love for the patch deepened, I established a clear protocol and began recording every species I encountered. By the end of 2025, I had visited the site 982 times, spending a total of 797.7 hours there, the equivalent of 33 full days immersed in nature.

Nature has always been a powerful healer for me and can be for many others. Time outside is actually prescribed now by doctors to treat stress and depression. Just 30 minutes in nature can lower cortisol levels, lift mood, and boost immunity.  My patch has carried me through sad and difficult times, and it helped me hold on to my sanity during COVID. I’ve grown enormously as an ecologist, coming to know so many species with an almost intimate familiarity. And yet, those gaps still catch my eye. I regret not being just a little stronger, not managing even a couple of visits during those hard moments. But the truth is: those gaps tell my story just as much as the data tells the stories of the birds and animals I record.