When Jane Goodall died, the world didn’t just lose a scientist; it lost a moral compass. She had an uncanny ability to make people believe that what they did—however small—mattered. That conviction wasn’t sentimental; it was tactical. She understood that movements endure not on outrage alone but on the steady fuel of purpose.
I first met Jane nearly fifteen years ago, and her influence on me has only deepened with time. She always said she wanted her legacy to be Roots & Shoots, her youth program that helps young people see themselves as part of the solution. To her, that was more enduring than any research paper or photograph of a chimpanzee. She wanted to build generations of problem-solvers.
Hope, in Jane’s mind, was never passive. It was a method. When confronted with bad news—a forest lost, a species pushed closer to extinction—she would ask, “What gives you hope?” It wasn’t rhetorical. She expected an answer. And she would wait for it. She was comfortable with the silence that followed, the kind that forces you to truly reckon with the question.
For her, hope was the bridge between knowledge and action, and she practiced it with the rigor of a scientist.
I’ve thought a lot about that lately. In conservation, we tend to measure success in data: tons of carbon, hectares of forest saved, or species’ rankings on the latest IUCN Red List. Jane measured it in perseverance. She knew that visible wins, however small, sustain people through slow, grinding work. Clean a polluted stream and you see the fish return. Restore a forest and you feel the air cool. These are feedback loops of hope—tangible reminders that action changes outcomes.
At Mongabay, I’ve tried to carry that lesson forward: to show not just what’s collapsing but what’s being rebuilt, and by whom. Jane’s insistence on hope wasn’t escapism; it was accountability. She treated cynicism as a form of surrender. I’m not quite there yet, but I understand now what she was trying to teach.
When I was in St. Louis recently, her face was everywhere. That surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. She left the kind of imprint that doesn’t fade. The best way to honor her isn’t with words or awards but with work: mentoring someone, protecting a patch of forest, or giving a young person the chance to act. That’s how Jane would have wanted it.
I spoke about this, and more, with Mike DiGirolamo for The Mongabay Newscast.
