By Will McCarry
February 3, 2025
For this scientist, the ‘real work’ is in listening
7 min
When presented with a choice, she always chose the adventure.
But as an intern just out of graduate school, she found herself on a Caribbean island, facing down a group of angry fishermen who called her “the devil.”
Speaking to Conservation News, Wear talked about the highs and lows of her career working to protect nature — and the unexpected alliance she forged that forever changed how she views her role in conservation.
Conservation News: Let’s talk origin stories. How did you get started in conservation?
Stephanie Wear: I think some scientists feel sheepish admitting they are drawn to the fun stuff — coral reefs, sea turtles, tropical islands. But for me, that was the big dream. I had a lot of wanderlust in my early career, and wanted to see the world and have a positive impact while doing it.
When I got the chance to move to the Virgin Islands after grad school, I saw it as an opportunity to explore a potential career in marine conservation. So I scraped together enough to cover my student loans by working for a tech company just outside of Washington, D.C., for eight months and set myself up at this eco-camp where I volunteered for a local NGO in exchange for meals and housing — a tent, basically.
While I was there, I applied for what I thought was a sea turtle internship with The Nature Conservancy. But when I arrived, the interviewer completely changed gears. Instead of sea turtles, he asked if I’d be interested in developing a country strategy for the Virgin Islands. I figured, why not?
A month later, I packed up and moved from one island to another, joining 12 other interns crammed into a local hotel. By the time I arrived, though, the same guy had changed his mind again. “Forget the country strategy,” he said. “Now we’re working with the government to design a new marine park and write the management plan for it. Can you do that?” And of course, being me, I said yes.
That’s a huge undertaking for an intern.
SW: I was very much thrown into the deep end. I had to learn to swim, fast.
Early on, I attended a public meeting where the government was announcing the establishment of the marine park. As I walked in, I spotted the head of coastal zone management, who I’d only met once. She greeted me warmly and said, “I’m not going to put you on the spot. Don’t worry, all you have to do is say hello.”
I stepped into this room packed with rowdy fishermen — because of course, it was all fishermen at a meeting about a marine protected area. And they were furious, clearly feeling left out of the process and convinced that the government was about to ban them from fishing entirely.
As I sat there, regretting my decision to wear a Nature Conservancy polo (essentially painting a giant bull’s-eye on myself), the meeting quickly spiraled out of control. That’s when one of the government officials turned to me and said, “At this time, we’d like to turn the conversation over to Stephanie from The Nature Conservancy, who’s going to be leading this process. Stephanie, would you like to say something?”
What in the world did you do?
SW: I stood up, introduced myself and said we wanted this to be an inclusive process — one where the community was involved and their voices were heard. I felt pretty good about it.
But then, this fisherman stood up. I was new to the island, so I had never seen or met him before. He was in his 60s, barrel-chested, with a white beard that made him look a bit like Santa Claus — if Santa was a scary, hard-living fisherman with bloodshot eyes.
He pointed right at me and said, “You are the devil, and The Nature Conservancy is evil.”
I think I may have run for the hills.
SW: Believe me, I thought about it. There I am, basically a brand-new intern, and I’ve become Public Enemy No. 1.
But here’s the wild thing: When I walked out of that meeting, I wasn’t discouraged — I was hooked. In that terrifying moment, something clicked. Instead of fleeing, I felt this intense determination to keep going, to try to figure out how to work with people like that fisherman and his colleagues — to figure out how to find common ground and move forward.
Stephanie Wear and a local fisherman in the Virgin Islands.
That was clearly a pivotal turning point. How did it shape the way you think about conservation?
SW: I’d gone into conservation thinking in very binary terms. I had studied coral reef ecology and assumed that my scientific knowledge would provide the answers — that if I just used the right data or information, everything would fall into place and designing the park would be straightforward.
But that meeting, and the years that followed, completely reshaped my perspective. I began to understand that conservation wasn’t just about the science — it was about people. The science was there to guide me, to make sure we weren’t doing harm, but the real work was about listening, collaborating and giving communities a voice and ownership of how their natural resources were managed.
How does this inform how you approach your job now?
SW: Those early days stayed with me and gave me a huge appreciation of the complexity and the challenges faced by our teams working on the ground (or in the water). As head of the Moore Center, my goal is to use science to make work easier for people working in the field.
In practice, that means putting local people and their needs at the center of everything — embedding their voices and perspectives within the science from the very start, so that we can avoid misunderstandings or conflict down the line. I’m proud when my team at the Moore Center can create opportunities for communities to have a meaningful role in science, where they’ve often been excluded.
It’s important to remember that we don’t always have to agree, though. In fact, there were plenty of times I didn’t when working with the fisherman to establish that park. But I realized it wasn’t about me or what I thought was best — it was about what the community decided to do and helping them achieve it.
Wear speaks at the ribbon cutting ceremony of the new marine park.
Did you ever run into that fisherman again?
SW: The next time I saw him was at another meeting — not unlike the one where I’d been dubbed the antichrist. I thought, “Okay, I got this.” I sat nervously waiting for the end of the meeting, when I steeled myself, walked up to him, and said, “Hey, remember me? I’m the devil.” That cracked a smile on his very serious, intimidating face.
I sensed an opening, and I asked if he’d consider sitting down with me to talk about the park. “Sure,” he said. “Come to my fishing dock at 11 a.m. on Monday.” So I showed up. And he was kind and gracious, and also scary as hell as he told me about the stark realities of being a fisherman there, including tales of literal murder.
By the end of that day, I knew he was going to be critical in advancing the marine park effort. I had listened to him share his concerns, and I convinced him that his voice was important, that we needed him in the room, and I committed to making sure he would see his views and values reflected in the outcomes. From then on, he came to every single meeting I held. By the time the park was officially established, he was introducing me to government officials and saying, “She is the reason we have this park.” It was incredibly generous of him, though I was just one part of the team that made it happen. In the end, he was not just an advocate for me, but for the park itself.
It sounds like you developed a kind of friendship.
SW: You know, it’s funny you say that because I wondered about it myself for a while — what did the relationship mean to him?
A few months after I left the Virgin Islands for a new job — on to the next adventure, — I got a call from his wife. I had only spoken to her once before, so I was surprised when she said, “Steph, I’m just calling to let you know that he is in the hospital.” The fact that his wife thought to call me — it hit me hard.
He passed away a few days later. That moment brought into sharp focus what our relationship had been: a genuine friendship, a true connection.
Will McCarry is a staff writer at Conservation International. Want to read more stories like this? Sign up for email updates. Also, please consider supporting our critical work.
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