This “people-with-nature” perspective, she explains, isn’t new. It has long guided indigenous and rural communities whose daily lives are interwoven with the land and its rhythms. Studies show that biodiversity thrives on indigenous-managed lands and in places where people maintain strong cultural or spiritual ties to natural spaces — from sacred forests along South Africa’s Wild Coast to Canadian neighbourhoods where residents protect their favourite trees.

Such examples, she says, demonstrate that connection breeds care. “If we think of biodiversity loss as a straight line going down,” she says, “what we’re trying to do is bend that line, not only make it less steep, but make it go upwards making things better rather than just less bad.” The challenge, she notes, is scaling up these deeply local successes into a global model of coexistence.

Her research maps out the underlying causes of biodiversity loss — from overconsumption and inequality to policies that measure progress purely in GDP. “We can’t restore nature without addressing the systems that degrade it,” Reyers says. “This means thinking about governance, trade, even how we define wellbeing.”

Reyers’ perspective was shaped early in her career, when she worked alongside communities whose livelihoods depended on the same ecosystems conservation projects sought to fence off.

“I saw that you can’t tell people to protect biodiversity if they’re struggling to survive,” she recalls. “But when people have agency, when their knowledge and traditions are respected, conservation becomes something they do with nature, not against it.”

This thinking — the “people with nature” framing — seeks to reimagine the relationship entirely. It draws from indigenous knowledge systems as much as ecological science. “There are already pockets of the future around us,” she says, “communities where people and ecosystems thrive together. They’re small and marginalised, but they show what’s possible.”

Reminiscing about her mentor, Reyers stresses the importance of mentorship for young scientists. “It was rare then to have a woman to look up to. Meeting her changed everything. Mace was among the first to champion red lists — the systematic cataloguing of endangered species — but what stood out was how she led.”

The older male scientists around her were often intimidating, their confidence sharp-edged. She was different — brilliant, yes, and later made a Dame (the British honour equivalent to a knighthood, awarded for exceptional service to society) for her contributions to science — but also kind, disarmingly human. At first, Reyers was terrified of her. By the end, they would be laughing together over small mistakes and stories from the field.

Now, she says, it’s heartening to see a world with more diverse mentors — people young scientists can look at and think, I could be like that.

In an academic world that can so easily turn competitive, Reyers has tried to create something gentler: collaborative spaces where people can learn, experiment and grow together. “One of the things I’m proudest of,” she adds, “is that so many of the people I’ve mentored have become good friends. Watching them fly in their own careers has been incredibly rewarding.”

Reyers also recognises that many young scientists, especially women, face unique pressures — balancing family responsibilities, expectations, and the invisible weight of work. “Part of mentorship is just being sensitive to those burdens,” she says. “It’s been wonderful to see science itself begin to change, to see glass ceilings cracking, and to see space being made for mothers, fathers, families, and wellbeing.”

The journey has been rewarding, but there have been challenges and lessons to learn along the way. “Pace yourself,” she says — a lesson learned the hard way, by not doing it. By saying yes too often, taking on too much, burning out, and then crawling her way back just to repeat the cycle. Until, finally, she stopped.

These days, she’s intentional about teaching that same lesson — helping younger scientists learn what to say no to. “We work in such a mission-driven field,” she says. “It’s hard to close the laptop, pick up a book, or spend time with friends when it feels like there’s always more to do.”

For her, balance has become part of the work. So has hope — holding on to it when the news is bad, when progress feels slow, when the planet seems to be slipping further out of reach. “When I was younger, I thought I could save the world,” she says, smiling at the memory. “But you can’t do that alone, or by just working harder.”

Now, she leans on her community — a circle of scientists who remind each other to rest, to laugh, to keep hope alive. “Sometimes hope is a privilege,” she says. “People living through the crisis don’t get to choose it. We hold it for them.”

Hope, for her, isn’t quiet or passive. It walks, runs, breathes. It’s found in the mountain reserve a few kilometres away, where she sometimes escapes for air. “I used to spend weekends doing laundry and catching up on emails,” she says. “It was exhausting. Not much fun.”

She pauses, her voice softer. “Now, I still work hard. But I make time to live.”