Tranquility

As I write this, I’m laying on the beach. It’s the middle of the night; I’m by myself. And I’ve never felt more alive. The wind is strong and grains of sand are peppering my face. The waves are crashing far below me as the tide turns to flood back in. I’m staring up at the twinkling stars—my personal pinholes into the universe. The environment is dynamic, yet I am still.

There are few places where I feel this calm, and though it’s peaceful now, I can’t help but feel anxious that my time here is wrapping up.

For the past year, this has been my life. My time hasn’t been controlled by a pesky google calendar; it’s been dictated by tides, storms, river swells, daylight, and turtle activity. I’m awoken with the howler calls and lulled to sleep by the rising sun. Simultaneously, the best year and the most challenging year I’ve ever experienced. I’ve learned to stand up for myself and the people I love. I’ve learned to be patient, yet persistent. I’ve learned to be comfortable in my own skin, and I’m proud of the person I’m becoming. This has been the best year for growth and for my soul.

I grew up painfully shy and anxious. I didn’t talk to anyone outside of my immediate family until I was 6. I only talked to a few friends until I left middle school. I still don’t have the right words to describe that level of anxiety. At school, when I was called on to answer a question, I would open my mouth to speak, and I couldn’t make sounds come out. My hands would shake, and I would feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to be seen, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be heard.

I started coming out to Wassaw for field work when I was 16, and I can say without a doubt, fieldwork changed my life. Not all at once, but over the years, I’ve slowly become more confident in who I am. Now, I want to raise my voice. I want to advocate for people and the planet. There’s something about natural observation that simply permits you to let go of the world, and it’s that release that allows you to rest in her beauty.

Fieldwork has become so intertwined into my personality and my identity that I can’t help but wonder if I might lose part of myself when I leave the field. How do I carry her with me? I have two weeks left to absorb island life before my fieldwork hiatus. I’m still going to need some time to figure it out, but I’ve made a personal commitment to reconnect with the earth when I become wrapped up in the things that I’m working on. I refuse to lose sight of what makes me most happy and to forget the ecosystem that makes me feel most free.