My Climate Origin Story
I think I was 9. Maybe 10.
It was over 100 degrees in Bakersfield, which just meant it was a regular summer. My mom dropped me off outside the Rabobank Arena with a homemade sign and a bottle of water. She didn’t stay. She probably had to work.
I stood there alone, holding a sign about elephants. I’d drawn it the night before, laying on my bedroom floor with some nearly dried-out markers. The elephant looked more like a balloon with legs. But I meant it. I really did.
I was protesting the circus.
I had heard somewhere, maybe from my cousin or maybe from a random website, that the animals were being abused. That they were beaten backstage and kept in chains. That they weren’t happy. And even though I didn’t understand everything, that was enough for me to be angry. Enough for me to care.
I don’t remember what people said. I just remember how it felt. Being the only kid. Sweating through my shirt. Watching people walk past me, laughing, ignoring, sometimes making comments. But I didn’t leave.
Back then I didn’t have the words for what I was doing.
I didn’t know anything about activism.
I didn’t know what organizing meant.
I didn’t know about systems or power or who controls what.
I just knew something felt wrong and I needed to do something about it.
I didn’t need anyone’s permission.
That’s the first time I remember choosing to stand in the sun and say something.
Now my work is rooted in environmental justice, healing, and community care. But when I really think about it, nothing has changed. I still care deeply. I still don’t have all the answers. I still show up because something inside me says I have to.
Along the way, my body has changed.
I got hurt. A herniated disc. L5-S1. It changed how I move, how I rest, how I engage with the world around me. I had to learn to be slower. I had to find new ways to show up that didn’t mean pushing myself to the edge every time. I had to figure out what healing actually looks like.
And at the same time, I had to navigate the world as someone who is fat, disabled, multiracial, femme, soft, and still figuring things out.
I used to think I had to be louder, tougher, faster, sharper. But maybe what I needed was to be softer. And still committed. Still real.
So this is my hello.
My first blog post.
No fancy intro. No polished lessons. Just the truth.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know that I’m still figuring it out too.
And I want this space to be where I can share the messy, nonlinear, personal parts of this work. The parts we sometimes leave out when we’re trying to sound like we have it all together.
Thanks for being here.
I’ll share more soon.
In community,
Lea
