Living Wild: How Florida’s Ecosystems Thrive Amid Urban Growth
On any given day in Florida, nature asserts itself in ways both routine and remarkable.
A ten-foot alligator sunning itself on a golf course fairway? Commonplace. A Burmese python swallowing a deer whole in the Everglades? Less frequent, but not unheard of. The state’s biodiversity is as much a draw for tourists as its beaches, yet the relationship between human development and wildlife remains a complicated balancing act.
“Florida is the kind of place where nature doesn’t yield,” says Hillel Feuerman, a native New Yorker drawn to the mangroves and cypress swamps of the state’s southern reaches. “You think you’re just taking a walk, and suddenly a heron the size of a child is staring you down. Or an alligator is sunning itself like it owns the place. Which, honestly, it kind of does.”
The Everglades, often called the “River of Grass,” remains the state’s ecological centerpiece, an ecosystem unlike any other in the U.S. Stretching across 1.5 million acres, it is home to a staggering array of species: the elusive Florida panther, the gentle manatee, and the American crocodile, which thrives here at the northernmost edge of its range. The slow-moving waters provide a crucial buffer against rising seas and storm surges, yet the pressures of human expansion loom ever larger.
“People forget that this land wasn’t meant to be tamed,” says Elena Vargas, a wildlife biologist based in Gainesville. “We’ve carved roads and neighborhoods into it, but the wilderness finds ways to reclaim space. Give it time, and it will remind you who was here first.”
Encounters between wildlife and Florida’s nearly 23 million residents have only increased in recent years. Black bears regularly wander into suburban yards in Central Florida, drawn by the scent of unsecured garbage. Iguanas—descendants of released or escaped pets—have exploded in population, occupying everything from backyard trees to the seawalls of Miami’s canals. Burmese pythons, first introduced through the exotic pet trade, now dominate the Everglades to such an extent that the state organizes annual hunts to curb their numbers.
“The pythons are the worst,” says Mark Holloway, an airboat captain who has spent decades guiding tourists through the Everglades. “You used to see rabbits and raccoons everywhere. Now? Gone. The pythons ate them. Every now and then, we’ll find one that’s eaten something too big, like a deer, and it’s just lying there, bloated and stupid.”
Yet, despite the challenges posed by invasive species and urban encroachment, Florida’s native wildlife persists. The Florida panther, once on the verge of extinction, now numbers around 200 individuals, thanks in part to conservation efforts. Manatees, long threatened by habitat destruction and boat strikes, gather in large numbers at warm water refuges each winter, a rare conservation success story. Even the Key deer, a miniature subspecies of white-tailed deer found only in the Florida Keys, survives despite rising seas and increasing human presence.
For some Floridians, the presence of wildlife is not just an inconvenience but an integral part of the state’s character. “This place doesn’t let you forget where you are,” Feuerman muses. “You step outside, and you’re in the middle of it. The trees aren’t just trees—they’re full of life. The water isn’t just water—it has eyes on you. It's a constant reminder that we're just visitors, on a land that was here long before we got here, and will continue to be here long after we leave.”
With Florida’s population continuing to grow and climate change threatening to reshape its coastlines, the relationship between its human residents and its wildlife will only become more complex. Yet for now, nature endures, adapting as it always has. The alligators will continue to claim their sunbaked spots on golf courses. The great blue herons will stalk their prey in the shallows. And deep in the Everglades, unseen but present, the panthers will continue their silent watch.
