I consider myself an extremely lucky person, not because I've won the lottery or mastered the Rubik's cube, but because I grew up in the Dominican Republic with the Caribbean Sea as my swimming pool. A literal slice of heaven was my playground. I remember those family beach road trips—too many people squeezed into the car, music definitely too loud—yet these remain some of my most treasured memories. From a young age, I felt a soul-deep connection to those hot white sands that burned your feet if you weren't quick enough, and to those crystalline azure waters that seemed to stretch forever. The ocean wasn't just a place—it was our culture, our home, our sense of belonging. Everything the sea offered was, and still is, essential to our people's identity and livelihood.

Sadly, paradise has changed. I wish I could blame it on losing the rosy lenses of childhood, but climate change isn't just a buzzword for me—it's the living history of my home. I've witnessed our once-healthy blue waters turn grayish, polluted, and increasingly empty of the vibrant wildlife that once thrived beneath the surface. Corals that used to pulse with color now stand like ghosts—bleached and lifeless. The ocean, much like the land, bears the heavy scars of human destruction. It's heartbreaking, but I've channeled that heartbreak into purpose—fuelling my mission to work for a healthier planet for all of us, so that future generations might know the same Caribbean magic that shaped me.