I grew up in Kathmandu, where the Bagmati River ran right through the heart of the city. But it wasn’t the kind of river people swam in or sat beside to relax. It was choked with garbage and carried a smell you couldn’t forget. It was the kind of place you avoided, even though you couldn’t ignore it. Watching it decay year after year planted something in me. I felt a quiet frustration, a sense of loss, and a growing need to understand why we let water suffer like that.

Years later, I found myself in Canada, standing at the edge of Port Stanley Little Beach for the first time. The sand was soft. The water was clear and calm. Families were laughing and kids were splashing. It felt like another world. It wasn’t just beautiful. It was healing.

That beach cracked something open in me. I didn’t know water could be this joyful or this cared for. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to feel that. Little Beach reminded me of what the Bagmati could have been, if people had treated it with love and attention.

I’ve just started my role as a Swim Guide Data Assistant, and I carry that contrast with me. As I begin learning the tools and processes, I’m keeping that memory close. I think about what it means to protect something before it's too late. Little Beach isn’t just a place I visit to unwind. It's where I first felt hope. It’s a reminder of what’s possible when we care.

That moment at the water's edge helped me see what I want to do with my life. I want to protect the waters we still have and maybe, someday, help bring life back to the ones we’ve lost.