Sometimes, I feel like a person stranded at the world's edge, hand outstretched, pleading for change. But it’s not coins or bills I’m after. The change I seek isn’t something you can hold — it’s something you choose. Everyone who knows me knows I’m captivated by magic—not the kind with rabbits in hats or sleight of hand, but the vanishing kind. Vanishing places. Vanishing creatures. And, if we don’t act, vanishing people.

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I tell humanity's story of survival again and again—hoping this will be the moment someone stops, tilts their head, and listens. Listens long enough to ask why. Why is this happening? Why does it matter? Why do we keep walking past the very thing that’s calling out for us to care? Instead, they hurry on, eyes low, hearts locked. It’s easier to pretend that oceans stay where they belong. Easier to believe that what’s far away can’t touch you.

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But denial won’t hold back storms or the sea. Indifference won’t stop an ecological genocide inching forward with every once-in-a-hundred-year storm or drowned island, every silenced species, and every name we now say with sorrow. Names like Helene, who churned the Atlantic into a frenzy. Names like Katrina, whose wrath drowned a city that believed itself untouchable. Names like Superstorm Sandy, who reminded us that water doesn't need permission to invade. These storms weren’t flukes. They were warnings. Warnings ignored by those who could still walk on dry ground.

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I used to think people would care if I got angry or yelled loud enough. I gave up anger and yelling to make people change—not because I lost the fight, but because I realized that fear and fury don’t open hearts.

 

Stories do. Hope does. I’m still learning how to tell it better, how to turn the grief of loss into the power of action. But I will keep telling it—over and over—and believe that someone will stop, listen, and change.

 

I get it.

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The islands I love are small. We’re far away. We’re out of sight, out of mind. But tell me this — when has "small" ever meant powerless? Ants move mountains. Seeds split stone. Ripples become waves. And one day soon, we will be a wave too large to ignore.

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We don’t have to wait for that day.

We can choose change now.

We can learn from Helene, Katrina, Sandy, and all other climate-induced catastrophes.

We can save the islands. And if we save them, we might save the world.