Tag: nature

Chasing Bees, Finding Home: A Week in Costa Rica

Growing up on a farm, I never imagined I’d end up in Costa Rica chasing bees. Back then, farm life felt like something I needed to outgrow. I thought if I let myself love it too much, I’d never leave. So, I didn’t let myself love it.

Funny how life circles back.

As a biology teacher, I’ve taught biodiversity more times than I can count. But fieldwork is different. This summer, thanks to the support of Math for America (MfA), I had the opportunity to join an Earthwatch Expedition in Costa Rica. Earthwatch connects volunteers with scientists working on urgent environmental research around the world. Our team was based at Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Reserve, where mornings were misty, and hummingbirds hovered close by. Most days, we traveled down to San Luis, where the sun shone brighter, the flowers bloomed louder, and bees buzzed everywhere you looked.

Our work was simple on paper: catch bees, observe biodiversity, and support researchers studying how farming practices shape these ecosystems. Some days we swung nets and missed entirely. Some days we caught shimmering orchid bees that looked like tiny flying emeralds. Some days, nothing at all. That’s fieldwork. Either way, we always had stories to share over dinner.

Throughout the week, we met farmers living through the small, steady shifts of a changing climate—adjustments to weather, soil, and seasons that don’t make headlines but shape livelihoods over time. Their stories pulled me right back to my own childhood. Back then, planting and harvesting felt like something to leave behind. Now I understand it differently.

One afternoon we visited Alyssa’s family farm, perched high with one of the best views I’ve seen—mountains wrapped in clouds, flowers everywhere, bees and other insects moving through it all like they’ve always belonged there. It reminded me of home in a quiet, unexpected way.

As an introvert, this kind of setting—living, working, and sharing meals with a team for a week—can feel like a lot. But I surprised myself. Even in the long days and shared spaces, I found small pockets of quiet that felt grounding. A moment alone with the view. The soft hum of bees filling in the silence. Conversations that felt easy and genuine because we all cared about the same things.

Our final night was spent wandering through the forest looking for bioluminescence. We didn’t see much—nature doesn’t work on our schedule—but some tiny frogs, insects, and a few soft glows still found us. Enough to remind me that wonder doesn’t always need to announce itself.

While most of the group went out for drinks to celebrate, I stayed back to pack and reflect. On the bees, the forests, the farmers. On how different it feels to teach science versus live it. On how unexpected it is to feel grounded in a place you never planned to find yourself.

Morning came with hugs, goodbyes, and one last pura vida before heading home.

I didn’t just bring back souvenirs. I brought back a reminder of why I teach, why I care about sustainability, and why science matters—not just in classrooms, but in fields, forests, and communities.

Also, yes, I brought home coffee. A lot of it.

And who knows—after this, I just might end up back on a farm when I retire. Maybe one with bees, coffee, and no Wi-Fi. Full circle, indeed.

Pura vida.

I’m especially grateful to Frannie and Evie, two brilliant young scientists who made this fieldwork feel both serious and joyful. I also feel lucky to have shared this week with our team of educators: Danilsa, Derek, Lauren, Diana from New York, Diana from Maine, Susan, JoAnn, Cesar, Errol, and Chris. I learned something from each of them—about science, about teaching, and about the kind of good humor and heart it takes to make a week like this unforgettable.

Uphill and Against the Wind: Finding Strength in Running, Hiking, and a Shifting World

What does resilience really mean? Lately, I’ve been thinking about how we respond to crisis—both personally and globally. Whether it’s a marathon, a grueling hike, or the accelerating climate crisis, one thing is clear: resilience isn’t accidental. It’s something we build, something we choose.

Reading Naomi Klein’s The Shock Doctrine made me see resilience in a different light. The book lays out, in unsettling detail, how disasters—whether natural or manufactured—often reshape societies in ways that don’t always benefit the people most affected. While communities are still reeling, policies are rewritten, resources are privatized, and somehow, those in power always seem to land on their feet while everyone else scrambles to rebuild. It made me wonder: When things get tough, who gets to recover? Who gets left behind? And how do we build resilience that is fair, sustainable, and real—not just for individuals, but for entire communities?

This past year, I’ve felt that question in my own way—on the pavement, on the trails, and in the slow climb toward climate action. The NYC Marathon reminded me that no matter how well you plan, unexpected challenges will test you. The body does what it wants, the course throws in surprises, and suddenly, it’s less about executing a perfect race and more about adapting, problem-solving, and pushing forward in a way that’s sustainable.

Hiking teaches the same lesson, but in a different way. I think about those long trails where the elevation gain sneaks up on you—when you’re an hour in, your legs are burning, and the peak still looks impossibly far away. If you rush too fast, you burn out. If you don’t pace yourself, you risk not finishing at all. Hiking teaches patience. You learn to read the terrain, adjust your footing, and conserve your energy when needed. Progress isn’t always a straight path—sometimes you hit a false summit, sometimes you descend before climbing again, and sometimes the hardest stretches are the ones right before the view opens up.

And that brings me to the climate institute I attended at Columbia University. Listening to climate scientists and educators discuss where we are and where we’re headed, I realized just how much this moment in history feels like one of those long, grueling hikes—or maybe a marathon with no mile markers. The signs are everywhere: rising temperatures, extreme weather, food insecurity. The path forward is steep, and we know it. And yet, so much of the response still feels hesitant, slowed by bureaucracy, misinformation, and short-term thinking.

One thing I keep coming back to is that the problem isn’t a lack of knowledge or solutions—we have them. The technology exists, the science is clear, and communities on the frontlines of climate change have been adapting for generations. Take Rotterdam, for example. Instead of waiting for the next flood to devastate the city, they redesigned their infrastructure—parks that double as reservoirs, floating buildings, and public spaces that can absorb excess water when needed. They aren’t waiting to react; they’re preparing to thrive. And yet, in many places, it often feels like we’re standing at the base of a mountain, arguing over whether we should start climbing, while those who benefit from the status quo insist that the storm clouds overhead are just an illusion.

The reality, of course, is that the climb has already begun—whether we’re ready or not. The shocks are here: floods, fires, droughts, ecosystems unraveling faster than expected. And much like in endurance sports, the key isn’t just brute force or pushing forward recklessly. It’s about strategy, adaptation, and knowing when to accelerate change and when to recover to keep moving forward.

One thing that stood out to me at the climate institute was that resilience isn’t just about individual survival—it’s about collective action. No one hikes a technical mountain alone. No marathon happens without volunteers at water stations, pacers keeping the rhythm, and crowds cheering runners toward the finish. Climate resilience is the same. It’s not just about surviving the next big storm, but about building communities that can withstand and recover together—by investing in sustainable infrastructure, prioritizing conservation, and listening to the people who have been navigating these challenges long before they became headline news.

As I plan the next hike, as I continue my training, and as I work with my students—who will inherit the consequences of today’s choices—I keep coming back to this: the way forward isn’t easy, but it’s not impossible. Like a tough trail or a long race, the hardest stretches are often the ones right before things start to open up. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of running and hiking, it’s that persistence matters.

So we keep going. We pace ourselves. We adapt. And most importantly, we look out for each other—because while no one reaches the summit alone, the best views are the ones we share.