Sketches of Survival: How I Turn Art Into Advocacy

Wandering through nature has always been one of my greatest joys—but drawing comes close. Since middle school, I’ve been an artist of sorts: doodling in the margins of notebooks, sculpting in pottery class, and eventually diving into woodwork and illustration. My knack for it showed early, but more importantly, so did my love for it.

These days, I’m almost entirely self-taught. The few drawing classes I took in school didn’t do much beyond reinforcing what I already knew. After graduating high school and trying to figure out what to do with my life, drawing remained a constant. I built worlds, characters, stories—and over time, those worlds grew. However, no matter how far I wandered creatively, I always returned to animals and nature. Whether it was a mythical folklore beast or a real-life bird, I loved drawing creatures. Dragons still hold a special place in my heart, but now I find myself sketching real animals more often than not.

My style has evolved, and my skills have sharpened—but drawing isn’t just about creating something beautiful anymore. Somewhere along the way, my love for nature and my desire to protect it fused with my art. I started drawing rare and endangered species. I began titling pieces with intention, writing descriptions that carried weight. I started asking: How can I use my art for conservation?

That question led to the birth of a project I now call Endangered Motivations.

It’s catchy, sure—but it’s also deeply personal. Let me explain.

Why I Draw the Wild

Let’s start with the short version: I stink at drawing humans. Animals are more fun—and they come more naturally to me.

The longer version? I’ve always been a nature-loving “Greenpeace child,” raised around animals and deeply connected to the natural world. That love seeped into every part of my life, including my art. Even my mythical creatures are usually animal-based, inspired by real-world anatomy and behaviors.

I’m also a deeply emotional, empathetic person. With or without my mental hurdles, I feel genuine compassion, sadness, and sometimes anger at how animals and nature are treated. I don’t see them as “just animals.” I see them as living, breathing beings who deserve love and respect.

For example: When I was little, I once ran into the road to “rescue” a cat that had just been hit by a car—absolutely convinced I could save it. (It was very much gone, but my sweet, determined child brain didn’t know that.) My family was horrified, but I think you get the point: I’ve always felt a deep pull toward helping the voiceless.

As I’ve grown older, that pull has only intensified. The world feels heavier, more chaotic, more cruel—but my love for it hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s grown stronger. I watch how people interact with nature, and I either want to leap through the screen to strangle someone or join their efforts to protect what’s left.

I’ve often felt stranded—limited by my physical disabilities, mental health, and location. My desire to help wildlife kept growing, but so did my frustration and grief at feeling powerless. Eventually, I realized I could help. I just had to do it in my own way.

So I turned to the one tool I knew best: My Art.

Behind the Canvas

My drawing process is hilariously simple, no matter the medium. I work in two formats: traditional (pencils, pens, markers) and digital (drawing programs). The steps are nearly identical.

It starts with sourcing—choosing what to draw. I used to rely on randomizers: one for animals, one for color palettes. I’d generate anywhere from two to ten animals (though I always picked the first one), and a five-color palette to match. They’re great when I need a nudge or want to let the universe decide.

Next comes the glorious mess: sketching. I go through three stages:

• Stage One: Blocky sketches of doom. Basic shapes, angles, and anatomy.

• Stage Two: Refined, scraggly mess. Details emerge, facial proportions take shape, and I ask myself, “Where do the eyes go?”

• Stage Three: It actually looks like something, now. Anatomy is solid, expressions are clear, and yes—hair finally appears

Then comes one of my favorite parts: the lineart. I trace over the chaos, clean it up, and turn it into something crisp and intentional. The sketch layers disappear, and suddenly, it looks like a real drawing.

Finally: coloring. I love and hate this step equally. With traditional media, it’s a gamble—either the piece comes to life beautifully, or it turns into a muddled mess. Sometimes both. That’s why I’ve leaned more into digital art lately. If something looks off, I can just delete the layer and try again. No need to start from scratch and relive the rage spiral.

And trust me—traditional rage spirals? Not pretty.

Endangered Motivations in Action

I draw for the same reason I write: to honor the wild lives that share our world. That love—steady, curious, and often urgent—is what sparked Endangered Motivations. It began with a single sketch, just one idea for an image. But that image carried weight. It asked for more.

The series grew from that moment. Each piece is designed to evoke empathy, urgency, and curiosity—not just admiration, but a deeper pull. I want viewers to feel something personal: This is beautiful. How can I learn more? If the artwork stirs even a flicker of connection, that’s a beginning.

To make that connection real, I balance emotional resonance with scientific accuracy. I study each species closely, referencing anatomical details, conservation data, and field observations. But I also listen—to the emotional tone of their stories, to the silence that surrounds them. These aren’t just drawings. They’re portraits of survival.

Art That Speaks for the Voiceless

My artistic process, though started and fueled by the same emotions that created my series, is also deeply rooted in curiosity. Sometimes it’s sparked by a single bee or flower. Other times, it’s a sudden need to sketch a bird mid-flight, or recreate the curve of a snake’s spine. Whether it’s a detailed study or a chaotic burst of inspiration, my art always begins with wonder.

Whether I’m sketching a turtle, a fox, or a fish, I want the viewer to pause and feel something—curiosity, concern, maybe even kinship. I want the artwork to spark questions: What species is this? Where does it live? Why haven’t I seen it before? Not everyone will dive into research or advocacy, but if the art plants a seed—if it nudges someone to learn, to care, to notice—that’s enough. That’s the beginning.

Art can speak for the voiceless. It can bridge the gap between what we see and what we choose to understand. And if it’s done right, it can turn passive admiration into active care.

I may not be able to rescue every creature or rewrite every story—but through art, I can honor them. If even one person feels a spark of connection, curiosity, or care, then this work has done its job.

You can explore the full Endangered Motivations series [here].

Thank you for listening to the wild with me.

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