The quiet work of gratitude
This year, more than ever, I’ve come to recognize that gratitude isn’t something you circle on a calendar. The privilege of living in Angel Canyon, the heart of Best Friends Animal Society, and working on behalf of the animals gives me cause to be thankful every day. The early mornings are especially clarifying — when the air has a little bite to it and I’m alone as the darkness of the desert night gives way to its daylight activity. With the smell of sagebrush in the chill, the croaks of the raven, the chittering of squirrels, and the rising sun lighting up the cliffs, being awestruck is a daily event. I know that soon, caregivers will break silence with the necessary work of looking after nearly 1,600 Sanctuary animals. Laughter will drift from the horse barn, feed buckets will clatter, and the dogs will bark their good-morning hellos. It’s that quiet moment just before the day begins when you look around and think: We get to do this.
Those things haven’t changed in my 29 years here. There are many new faces, but many are still the same — and that makes me happy. I know that kind of commitment is rare, and it humbles me whenever I spend time in the animal areas or check in on any of our extraordinary Sanctuary-based teams. The care and devotion that gave rise to Best Friends have never faded. In fact, they’ve echoed beyond the canyon and across the country, carried forward by people who believe in this work as deeply as we do here at home.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it really means to lead with gratitude. For me, it starts with paying attention not just to the progress we celebrate but to the people who make the work possible. Like the caregivers who stay late because a shy dog finally trusts them. Or the staff who raise their hands to spend weeks or months embedded in distant shelters that need support. The data and tech teams who log in early to troubleshoot a lifesaving dashboard. The people who answer emails, field tough questions, draft reports, load trucks, write stories, make calls, and clean kennels. And the advocacy and network partners who change laws and lives. Everywhere I look, people keep saying yes when the easier answer would be enough. And that is especially true for shelters and communities that, with a little help and support, are changing the future for animals in their community.
And then there are the leaders who pick up the flag, like the 22 governors of states that have officially declared, “We support no-kill.” Or the shelter director in a rural county who called and said, "We’ve tried everything. Can you help us?" and then opened every door, every record, and every kennel, so we could get in there together and make change.
This year has also been one of deep reflection. We’ve lost some extraordinary people who shaped my life, this organization, and the world. My husband, Gregory Castle, whose steadiness, intellect, and quiet humor made him the calm in every storm. My university mentor and professional inspiration, Sterling Church, who taught me that true leadership begins with listening. And Dr. Jane Goodall, whose light and conviction reminded us that courage and kindness are both a compass and a creed. I feel their absence every day, but I also feel the imprint they left. Grief and sadness don’t disappear, but gratitude has become the way to honor and carry them forward.
And that’s the thing I keep coming back to: Gratitude isn’t passive. For me, it’s taking time to recognize the ground gained for the animals before rushing to the next thing. It’s choosing to really see the individual changemakers, not just the outcomes on the page. It’s appreciating my enviable position of leading an organization filled from top to bottom with some of the best in our field. And more than anything, it means remembering that this work is a privilege. This place, this mission, and this scrappy, stubborn, wildly kind community remind me of that every single day.
We get to do this. And after a year full of change, loss, and hard-won progress, standing here together feels a little extra meaningful.
My hope for all of us — inside and outside Best Friends — is that we pause to reflect on all that is good in our orbit, especially when the world feels so loud.
Wishing you a season full of quiet moments, a cat or a dog in your lap, and the kind of gratitude that lasts long after the Thanksgiving holiday.
-Julie
