If you’d asked me back at university, I would’ve told you—without a hint of self-doubt—that I was “an animal person, not a people person.” I didn’t see myself as the humanitarian type. I admired those who threw themselves into human rights work, but I was convinced my strengths lay elsewhere: in understanding the silent language of animals, not the complexities of human nature.
For years, I clung to that belief. My career choices, my approach to work, even my self-perception—all filtered through the idea that I was wired differently from those so-called “people people.” I was the vet who’d rather face a cranky kelpie than a cranky client.
But somewhere along the line—maybe after enough late-night house calls, or after seeing the same worried faces at the door—I started noticing a shift. I realised my job wasn’t just about treating animals. It was about understanding the people who loved them. I began to see past the facades, the bravado, the nervous jokes, and the awkward silences. Beneath it all were people doing their best in a world that’s increasingly hard to navigate—especially when it comes to affording good care for their pets.
The more I listened, the more I related. I’m not living in a big house. I’m not jetting off to Bali every year or putting kids through private school. I’m just another John Citizen, trying to survive in a society where every interaction seems transactional, where value is measured in dollars and “success” is a moving target. Starting a business from scratch, with no business background, has been equal parts humbling and brutal.
Trying to get this bird off the ground—PMV—has taught me an invaluable amount about not only people, but myself. The journey’s been full of surprises, and I strive to keep growing as a person alongside the business. It’s also been a difficult learning experience when it comes to interacting—or attempting to interact and work—with ancillary businesses. More often than not, those partnerships haven’t worked out, and it’s highlighted just how crucial it is to surround myself with people who genuinely share my core values and compassion.
Take my cousin Jo, for example. She’s currently helping answer the phone for me—not because there’s anything in it for her financially, but out of genuine care for people and animals. That’s the kind of person, and those are the kind of relationships, that PMV will always seek out and nurture. I’ve learned the hard way that this depth of compassion and alignment is rare—not just in the veterinary profession, but in society more broadly. For PMV, it’s non-negotiable.
PMV, right now, is just me. It’s an extension of who I am—warts and all. I’ll be honest: it’s not a profitable enterprise yet, and that’s a taboo thing to admit as a business owner. But I’m at peace with it. I have faith that, one day, things will balance out. What I won’t do is sacrifice my values or start treating compassion as a commodity.
Job satisfaction means something different to everyone. For me, it’s knowing that I’m providing honest, appropriate care—the very best my education and experience can offer—without unnecessary corporate interference or letting finances dictate my decisions. That sense of purpose is non-negotiable. It’s not just a nice-to-have; it’s essential. Job satisfaction is what keeps my mental health in check, sustains my motivation for the long haul, and brings genuine happiness to the work. Take that away, and nothing about running this business is sustainable for me—no matter what the bank balance says.
So, yes, I started out thinking I was just an animal person. But the truth is, I care deeply about people too. Maybe not in the way I once thought I was “supposed” to, but in a way that feels real and honest. My role now is to help people take the best care of their pets that they can, in a way that’s fair and accessible. That’s the intangible value I never expected to find in this work—compassion, understanding, and a genuine connection that goes both ways.
PMV is my way of bringing a bit of calm and care into a world that could use a lot more of both. And as long as I can keep doing that, I reckon I’m on the right track—even if the numbers don’t always add up.
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