When WildTeam first set up WildHub, it looked, from the outside, like a WildTeam project. But anyone who’s spent time there, really spent time there, will know that behind the scenes it was always Thirza who was shaping what WildHub became.

Thirza has always believed, deeply and stubbornly, in a simple idea: if you give good people a way to find each other, talk honestly, share ideas, ask for help, and offer support, they’ll do extraordinary things together. Not flashy things. Not headline-grabbing things. But the quiet, hard, human work of getting through conservation without burning out, without feeling alone, without losing faith in each other.

Conservation is a brutal space to work in at times. Emotionally. Politically. Practically. WildHub was never about pretending otherwise. It was about giving people permission to say, “this is hard”, and then watching others step in with experience, kindness, challenge, humour, and perspective. That belief – that people, if trusted and connected, will lift each other – has always been Thirza's. More importantly, she believed in the people themselves, not just the concept of “community”.

That matters, because community isn’t something you design on a whiteboard. You can’t control it. You can’t manufacture trust. You can only create the conditions and then get out of the way. That’s what Thirza has done, day in, day out, often invisibly, while the rest of us benefited from a space that felt unusually human for an online platform.

In 2025, WildTeam – like many charities – ran into a much harsher funding reality. The environment shifted. Funds tightened. And WildHub, by its very nature, has always been hard to fund. It doesn’t fit neatly into project boxes. It isn’t about outputs you can count in a spreadsheet. It’s about relationships, confidence, shared learning, and mutual support – things funders say they value, but rarely fund properly.

We couldn’t find a sustainable financial path to keep running WildHub within WildTeam. That was painful. Personally painful. WildHub mattered to me, and Id seen the difference it made to conservationists around the world. But reality doesn’t bend just because something is important.

What happened next says everything about Thirza.

Rather than letting WildHub fade away, she said, in effect: I’ll take this on. Not because it was easy. Not because it was safe. But because she believes in the community, and in what it already is – and what it could become if given the chance.

Thirza chose to set up a new Dutch charity and take WildHub forward independently. From my perspective, that wasn’t just brave – it was exactly right. WildHub deserves to stand on its own. It deserves independence. And it deserves to be led by the person who understands it most deeply, and cares about it most consistently.

I won’t pretend there isn’t sadness on the WildTeam side. Letting go of something you’ve helped bring into the world is hard. But there’s also real relief, and genuine happiness, because WildHub now has a better chance of success than it ever would have had if we’d tried to hold onto it while stretched thin.

WildTeam can now refocus on what it has always done best: vocational training,. That focus matters for our own sustainability, and for the people we serve. And WildHub, freed from being “one part of something else”, can evolve on its own terms.

Running WildHub is not simple. It takes time. Emotional labour. Technical work. Moderation. Care. It takes someone who notices when people are drifting away, who senses when conversations need nudging, who protects the tone without policing voices. You can’t automate that. You can’t fake it. You need someone who genuinely gives a damn.

That person is Thirza.

Many of you already know this because you’ve interacted with her as a conservation catalyst, a listener, a challenger, or a quiet supporter in the background. Others may just experience WildHub as a friendly, supportive place that somehow feels different from the rest of the internet. If that’s you, this is what’s behind it.

Of course, WildHub is also its members. Always has been. A community is the sum of its parts, not the platform or the policies. The generosity, honesty, curiosity, and willingness to help each other comes from you. What Thirza has done is make it safe for that to emerge, and strong enough to last.

So this is, above all, a thank you.

Thank you to Thirza, for believing in people when that belief required real personal risk, not just good intentions.

Thank you to the community, for showing what conservation looks like when competition gives way to collaboration, and isolation gives way to connection.

Thank you for the learning, the support, the disagreements handled with respect, and the moments of levity when things felt heavy.

I’m genuinely excited to see where WildHub goes next. If its past is anything to go by, its future will be thoughtful, human, and quietly powerful.

And if you have a moment, consider posting a message, a note, or a simple word of encouragement for Thirza. She never asks for recognition – that’s not who she is – but she cares deeply about this community and the people in it. Speaking now as a community member rather than a founder, I’ll say it plainly:

Thanks, Thirza . And thanks to everyone who makes WildHub what it is.