Failing Forward: The Silver Lining of Rejection

A year ago, I was nominated for an award for women environmental leaders of color, that required me to submit my own narrative advocating for why I deserved it. I panicked at the thought. I didn't get the award, but found unexpected healing in being pushed to celebrate me:

They were a group of five black and brown high school students from the inner city of West Fresno, California; I was a young college intern for an environmental education minority outreach and recruitment program. As crew lead for a seasonal recreation trail crew, I had just been tasked with my first paramount assignment- campground maintenance. Initially, I was disappointed, as I had taken on this internship with dreams of changing lives, and leading these teens into the abyss of environmental awareness and world peace. How could I make a difference by washing tables and cleaning out fire pits? How could anyone look up to me with a trash bag in my hand?

It was a Monday morning, and we received the green light to venture into the forest and begin our summer fieldwork. I drove up Highway 168, the gateway to the High Sierra, as my crew chatted amongst themselves about the new Miley Cyrus song on the radio and what they had packed for lunch. I had driven this route a hundred times and unintentionally zoned out as I had next semester’s classes and last week’s finals on my mind. Suddenly, silence struck just in time for me to experience something that will forever stick with me. I glanced into my rearview mirror, expecting to find a back seat full of teens fast asleep. Instead, I witnessed four teenagers, silenced by the raw beauty of nature. It was Shaver Lake, a fairly small, artificial lake on the southern edge of the forest; but to these kids, it was the first body of water, outside of the fountain at the local mall, that they had ever seen. We ended up pulling off and making this our lunch destination, and within the next thirty minutes, all of the pieces finally seemed to fall into place. I watched as these teenagers set down their cell phones, and picked up rocks. They opted to grab a seat on a fallen log, instead of piling in the truck to eat as they planned because it was "too hot." They gazed in amazement at this natural space. I gazed in amazement at this transcendent opportunity.

That was 11 years ago. I didn't realize it then, but there would be many more pivotal moments like that to come. I went on to mentor dozens of other youth, from the Central Valley to the Pacific Northwest, and back down to the California East Bay, and traveled the country advocating for more youth and BIPOC representation in national forest planning and land management. I became a Wildlife Biologist and took pride in being a visible role model for the young people I remained connected to in my community. I needed them to see that despite everything built to keep us out of those places and spaces, there were plenty of us fighting to make space for ourselves and them to follow. I was living what I thought was my dream. I had secured a permanent position with the federal government and was positioned to lead a full and stable career in the field I had studied hard to be in. Being a Black Biologist, in one of the oldest, whitest, male-dominated environmental organizations to exist though, was not an easy feat. I was constantly reminded why I didn't belong, wasn't welcomed, and how much work still needed to be done. I tried to keep my head down and work. I tried to just be the change I wanted to see. But, for years, I couldn't get that lunch break at the lake out of my mind. Something ignited in me that day and had literally been burning ever since. I couldn't stand it anymore. I eventually left my position and decided to work toward a career and role in the environmental field where I could have greater impact, influence, and power to make the changes I know our climate and future generations so desperately need. I went on to gain my Master's degree in Urban Environmental Education, marking a significant transition I am so grateful for.?

There were more moments. Like when I learned how to grow potatoes during my time with the City of Seattle's Urban Food Systems Program. I worked to design, develop, and implement programs and services that utilized the City's food growing spaces prioritizing food access and education for marginalized youth and their families. For months, I worked to build relationships and eventually recruited enough students to start an afterschool gardening club where we set out to renovate and activate their on-campus greenhouse and garden. It was a Thursday. I pulled up in the school parking lot and got out to gather my day's gardening supplies. It was deja vu. "I left my job as a Biologist to make a difference. What the heck am I doing planting potatoes?" I thought to myself. It brought me back to the same feeling I had holding that trash bag more than a decade ago. I tucked away my intrusive thoughts and walked over to the garden anyway, awaiting the final bell and for my students to pile out the back door. As I hit the last step alongside the greenhouse, my heart dropped. Our entire row of potato plant vines had died. I was devastated, embarrassed, and felt so sad to have to confront my students. My intrusive thoughts rushed back. I questioned why I thought I deserved to be a part of these brilliant young lives when I couldn't even successfully grow plants. I frantically called a friend for advice. As a local master gardener and fellow Black woman educator, she not only reassured me of my path and purpose but to my relief, she also informed me that the above-ground sprouts dying off meant that we had a successful crop and it was time to harvest! Unaware of my recent breakdown, my students came out to the news that they could grab their shovels and dig. They were ecstatic as they chatted amongst each other about what their Chinese and Vietnamese parents would say, how excited their younger siblings would be, and how they might integrate this into their traditional cultural food dishes. They connected this to our recent lesson on food desserts and brainstormed ways to grow more and feed their neighbors. They gazed in amazement at their first harvest. I gazed in amazement at yet another transcendent opportunity.

There continue to be so many more moments. Some that make me question my entire journey. Some affirm it. Some that make me want to give up completely. And others that literally give me the light I need to press forward.?

I went on to influence local government policy and programming around public land utilization to grow food and increase food access to marginalized communities. I designed curricula collaboratively with local youth that considered their backgrounds, cultural practices, and connection to their homes and schools. I had uncomfortable conversations with a Fortune 500 waste management company on how zero waste education and engagement strategies need to center the communities they serve. I wrote about more of those moments and other experiences around the intersectionality of race, identity, and the environment during my time as a journalist for National Audubon.?

I played a leadership role in the equitable community outreach and engagement in the development of the City of Berkeley's Existing Buildings Electrification Strategy, highlighting the disproportionate adverse impacts of the climate crisis on BIPOC and other marginalized communities, and the significance of community-led and centered policy development. I am becoming a voice in the zero waste and plastic-free movement. I sit on the steering committee of an emerging coalition of recycling operators guiding new recycling policies and infrastructure investments to rebuild credible, transparent recycling systems that serve as a bridge toward a circular economy and just, resilient local communities.

I now sit at the tables I once begged to be a part of. More importantly, I've pieced together all of these moments, and built tables of my own.?

Writing these 1200 words about myself has been one of the hardest things I've ever sat down to do. When I found out I was nominated for this award, I surely thought it was a mistake. I discovered the notification in my spam folder, which I then thought had to be a sign. Imposter Syndrome is real. Especially as a Black woman still trying to find her way. And still, I figured if anything, this would be a good practice for me to sit in my accomplishments. To hopefully block out those negative intrusive thoughts that so frequently try to convince me that I don't deserve this. That my impact doesn't have depth. That my voice isn't one to be elevated or celebrated. That my moments aren't enough.?

I am applying because I'm finally realizing that those small but mighty moments are exactly what makes up a real impact. I am embracing all of these moments. The ones alongside executive leaders and political figures; and the ones that involve trash bags and potatoes too. I'm internalizing the power to change everything that I touch and allowing it to change me in return. Because this is what it's going to take to ensure a healthy, just, and resilient world for us now and the brilliant generations to come. And that will always be my dream.