In my childhood, I spent hours along the Mississippi wetlands, quietly observing the world around me. I collected shells, searched for marsh invertebrates, explored the sanctuary of the estuary, and learned to identify every animal along the way. The briny scent of low tide would hang heavy in the air as I knelt, hands in the mud, watching the frantic scuttle of fiddler crabs through the tall marsh grass. Long before I ever stepped into a biology lab, my daily wanderings served to transform the simple wonder of the outdoors into a thousand questions about how life functioned beneath the surface. My understanding and curiosity about the natural world were never confined to a classroom or textbooks but were rather shaped by the rhythm of rivers, the mud of the estuary, and the salt of the Gulf. I kayaked, fished, and immersed myself in the waters of the coast, discovering early that nature teaches in ways no lecture ever could. Growing up in the South also exposed me to the intersection of environmental harm and social inequity: navigating the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina as a teen helping rebuild flattened homes (Newkirk, 2020), cleaning up tar from the Deepwater Horizon Spill on the beaches in undergrad, and later in early adulthood, being trapped in my home, once again, by floodwaters while the surrounding streets became rivers during Hurricane Harvey. I experienced firsthand the climate trauma that defines my generation's relationship with the land, shaping my understanding of conservation not as a solitary pursuit, but as a deeply human, shared responsibility (Rudd et al., 2021). 

Relocating to Colorado in my late 20s, a landlocked state defined by its watersheds, deepened my awareness of the inextricable ties between rivers, landscapes, and community. The Poudre and South Platte Rivers became my classrooms as I navigated coming into adulthood, finding a mirror in the river’s resilience, a sense of independence and self-governance in their currents. My identity as a queer person deeply informs my relationship to the river, intertwining my technical understanding of its ecology with a personal lens shaped by climate trauma. But regardless of whether I'm at the river as a paddler, a scientist, an educator, or a storyteller, I make sure my conservation always leaves room for the deeply human stories of the place. This requires acknowledging that these places are not "untouched" wilderness and are ancestral lands and waters shaped by Indigenous knowledge and stewardship that continue to resist colonialism. 

My relationship with the river is both personal and political; I navigate its waters as a kayaker and educator, building community through queer-centered river programming that celebrates diverse ways of being. From leading children along urban waterways to foster curiosity and stewardship (Yamanashi et al., 2025) to my educational roles in zoos and aquariums, I seek to challenge traditional education by grounding it in our shared responsibility to the land and each other. My commitment to this work extends beyond professional spaces into my personal life, where a simple walk along the river becomes an opportunity to share the human history of the water with my community.  I find myself flipping rocks to explore aquatic life, just as I did as a solitary child, yet I now instinctively assess the river’s health by the macroinvertebrates clinging to the undersides of stones, my lived stories still deeply ingrained in my observations. This intimate, place-based exploration has radicalized my understanding of conservation. My time with the water has taught me that acknowledging the genocide and displacement of Indigenous peoples is inseparable from ecological work, as conservation only finds its integrity when justice, equity, and cultural recognition are at the center (Sithole et al., 2023; UNDP, 2024).

This personal history informs my current research and vision for place-based, community-created conservation programming. Current research advocates for place-based, Indigenous-centered conservation programming that moves beyond the preservationist approach of Western conservation, a model that historically sought to maintain a "pristine wilderness" by separating humans from nature (Parker et al., 2023). Instead, there is a push toward biocultural conservation, in which effective stewardship must transition from an isolated, data-only practice to a model of knowledge co-production that integrates cultural and human dimensions with ecological resilience (Parker et al., 2023). It must be rooted in the lived, nature‑bound stories that shape who we are. 

Growing up in the Mississippi wetlands, my childhood was defined by paddling, shell‑collecting, and the visceral reality of watching oil‑spilled tides and record-breaking hurricanes reshape the coastlines. These early exposures to environmental trauma largely inform my current critique of systemic exclusion in Western conservation. Drawing from research on systemic racism in conservation, representation of local communities in conservation spaces, and guidance on inclusive conservation education, I envision programs that center lived connection to land and water, incorporate Indigenous knowledge, and embed art, storytelling, and hands-on stewardship. Trauma-informed practices are integral, acknowledging the emotional impacts of climate change and environmental disasters while building safe, resilient spaces for learning and engagement (Bowers & Richmond, 2023; Ison et al., 2024). Conservation can become a shared practice of care, justice, and responsibility: we nurture the land while nurturing community, and participants learn that protecting a river or wetland is inseparable from protecting the people and cultures connected to it (Holmberg, 2022; Gippoliti & Battisti, 2023).

The fluid reciprocity I experienced in the marshes stands in contrast to the way modern conservation institutions, like the zoos and parks I now study, remain entangled with systemic colonial and racialized histories (Curley, 2021; Trisos et al., 2021). By prioritizing "pristine" landscapes and controlled studies, Western conservation often reinforces the erasure of Indigenous land relations while institutionalizing a colonial scientific authority that continues to marginalize non-white ways of knowing. Historically, the creation of protected areas in the United States involved the displacement of Indigenous peoples from over 800 million acres of their ancestral territories (Native American Land Ownership and Governance, n.d.). Beyond the physical gates of parks and zoos, this colonial legacy creeps into Colorado's legal and bureaucratic structures, from a water doctrine that prioritizes settler-colonial claims (Curley, 2021) to wildlife management models that frame nature as a harvestable resource rather than a reciprocal relation (Manley et al., 2025; Trisos et al., 2021).

In my own experience, I have seen how this colonial narrative continues to run as an undercurrent in Colorado’s conservation spaces. These sanitized narratives strip the river of its own voice and fracture the mental and emotional well-being of those who seek belonging within it.  In the Indian Peaks Wilderness and similar protected lands, interpretive signs focus on peaks named by white settlers after Indigenous tribes but fail to provide the actual history or a connection to the tribes' own sacred land (Cowell, 2004). Large-scale water infrastructure, such as the dams at Brainard Lake and across the state, is often presented as purely recreational spaces, masking their histories as tools to strengthen state power and their devastating impacts on Indigenous water rights (Curly, 2021). Museums like the Buffalo Bill Museum often present Indigenous leaders in sensationalized ways that reinforce stereotypes of Native Americans as entertainment rather than foundational stewards of biodiversity (Dickenson et al, 2005). 

To decolonize these spaces, we must adapt by using the strengths of both Indigenous and Western knowledge in tandem. Indigenous peoples and local communities, as well as all human cultures, are continuously evolving and adapting to incorporate new knowledge as it becomes available, with Indigenous Leaders like Elder Dr. Albert Marshall of the Mi’kmaw Nation identified the importance of a ‘Two-Eyed Seeing’ (Etuaptmumk) in transforming conservation. It is defined as ‘learning to see from one eye with the strengths of indigenous knowledges and ways of knowing, and from the other eye with the strengths of Western knowledges and ways of knowing, and to using both these eyes together, for the benefit of all’ (Artelle et al., 2021, Reid et al., 2020). In practice, Two-Eyed Seeing serves as a vital bridge allowing for a collaborative framework where diverse knowledge systems converge to create more resilient and equitable conservation spaces. 

My research for inclusive conservation programming centers on several key pillars. First, we must recognize the inextricable link between biological and cultural diversity, where protecting a river is inseparable from protecting the cultures connected to it. Visual art and storytelling must also be considered powerful tools to amplify Indigenous voices and tell the stories of Native experiences directly from the source. Programs must acknowledge the emotional impacts of climate change and historical displacement, creating safe, resilient spaces for community-led healing. Finally, we must move from a mindset of management and ownership to one of being in good relation with the land, water, and more-than-human relatives.

By grounding programs in place, culture, and lived experience, we create inclusive pathways for all ages and abilities to connect with nature, Indigenous knowledge, and one another. Whether through observing wetland wildlife, co-creating art inspired by local landscapes, or restoring riverbanks with community members, each interaction reinforces empathy, curiosity, and stewardship (Fraser & Switzer, 2021; Beer et al., 2023). Environmental justice and climate justice are inseparable here, as we amplify Indigenous voices, address historical harms, and ensure that conservation serves both ecological and human communities (Spokes, 2023; UNDP, 2024). In this vision, rivers, wetlands, and communities are teachers. Conservation is no longer a distant goal but rather a living, participatory ethic, a cycle of giving and receiving that strengthens both ecosystems and human connections. Every paddle down a river, every wetland explored, every rock flipped, and every story honored becomes a step toward a more equitable, resilient, and vibrant planet, guided by the principles of care, justice, and shared responsibility (Sithole et al., 2021; Rudd et al., 2021; WAZA, 2020).

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