Echoes From the Wild: The Weight of Survival

Some stories arrive slowly—carried on the wind, hidden in the tall grass, revealed in quiet moments when nothing seems to be happening. This was one of those stories.

She walked alone into the golden hour, hunting for more than just herself.

It began in the air, somewhere between Uganda and Kenya. I pulled a folded magazine from the seat pocket and read that the cheetah population in the Masai Mara had dropped by nearly a third in just two years. Fewer than two dozen remained. Of the cubs born, most wouldn’t survive. It was a sobering read—one that left me wondering if we’d be lucky enough to even glimpse one.

We were. More than lucky.

She appeared that same afternoon, resting in the golden grass. A sleek silhouette against the wind, alert and still. And then, from the shadows beside her, two tiny cubs emerged—fluffy, silver-caped, wide-eyed. Their coats mimicked honey badgers, a natural disguise. They were playful, curious, and alive. For now.

We stayed with them. Not just for an hour, but for days. Dawn to dusk, we followed their movements, tracing paw prints across open plains and quiet thickets. There was something about her—her fierce devotion, her exhaustion, her hope. I couldn’t look away. Her struggle felt achingly familiar.

The cheetah mother hunted while the cubs waited, hidden in the grass. Each attempt was delicate, precise—her lean body slicing through the heat, her eyes fixed ahead. But the savanna is not forgiving. Her kills were few, and the tension grew with each failed chase.

There was one evening—a small kill under a thicket. She fed cautiously, her head lifting at every sound. Jackals circled. She chased them off, returned to her cubs, stood guard. There was no peace, only pauses.

On the third day, we woke before light. She hadn’t eaten in too long. We followed at a distance as she moved again—determined but drawn thin. And then, far across the open plains, we saw her run. A flash of speed, precision, and purpose. We stayed back, not wanting to crowd her moment. She brought down the impala swiftly and dragged the carcass beneath a tree, then looked back across the land she had crossed.

A moment of victory, heavy with the weight of survival.

And then, from the stillness beneath the tree, she called—
a soft, high-pitched trill that floated across the savanna.

The cubs came running.

Together again. The hunt behind them, the moment still.

They tumbled into her side, a blur of fur and joy and hunger. They fed. She rested. And for a moment, the fear fell away. Even the impala had been young. Nothing about it felt easy. But life in the wild never is.

I carry her with me still—this mother, whose every breath is a fight for survival. She hunts not just for food, but for the fragile thread of future generations. And she does it all under open skies, alone.

If you ever find yourself lucky enough to witness a story like hers, follow with reverence. Stay back. Let survival move as it must.

There are fewer than 7,000 cheetahs left in the wild.
Let this letter be a memory held—and a reminder. Even the fastest animal on Earth can’t outrun the threats we’ve created. But for now, she runs. And her cubs run behind her.

— Go with your eyes and heart wide open.
Until the next wild place,

LD