(What follows is the Preface from my book, “The Crisis is Here.”)
I’ve always had a deep love for our planet and its ecosystems. As a child, I remember wading through the shallow waters of Rockaway Beach, watching seaweed sway like delicate green ribbons beneath the surface, clinging to rocks and drifting with the tide. On Cape Cod, I loved the prehistoric horseshoe crabs on the shoreline, their hard shells glistening under the sunlight.
I stood still in the Sierra Mountains, as a dragonfly hovered motionless, iridescent wings catching the light like stained glass. Sandhill Cranes on a golf course in West Palm Beach, long beaks digging for insects, their calls echoing across Cypress Lakes. Even in winter, when everything seems dormant, life persists. Seagulls perched on the frozen Connecticut River, white feathers stark against the dark ice, waiting patiently for the water to open up again.
These moments aren’t just poetic; they’re an entryway into a world that’s alive, interconnected, and constantly changing. I’m not separate from my environment. I’m part of it, woven into the fabric of the natural world just as much as the beings I love. The oceans, forests, rivers, mountains, and sky are not distant places; this is home, full of stories and rhythms that hold me. Every space, every species, is a message and a medicine. And in recognizing that connection, I find a deep sense of wonder and an urgent responsibility to protect what I love.
In 2015, my friend Elsa was very insistent about climate change: how catastrophic it would be, all the ways it would impact systems and society, and whether civilization would survive. With her background in food security and organizing rural women in Brazil and Africa, she had seen world weather and drought and its impacts on people and food systems.
I’d been experiencing weird weather in Connecticut: ice storms, tornadoes, hurricanes, week-long power outages, storm surges, intense heat, and flooding. But I was a climate ignoramus. I didn’t know why all this was happening.
Elsa’s insistence on the planet’s future led me on a learning journey. Realizations came fast. The Earth is a gigantic interplay of living systems: forests, oceans, atmosphere, ice, heat, water, and carbon distribution. As one system degrades, the others do as well.
I left it there—no advocacy, no writing, no meeting others. What can one person do?
Then, the world was rocked by the onset of COVID-19. In 2020, I was working for one of the largest health insurance companies in the world. I began putting together ideas for a satellite mapping system, a tool to help predict the spread of the virus.
As the pandemic unfolded, my work expanded beyond my initial solo efforts. I wanted to learn about the health impacts of climate. What are the most significant risks to public health, and what can we do to help people? Who’s writing about it? What’s the impact on mental health?
I dove deeper, and connected with experts both inside and outside of my company: emergency room physicians, climate tech founders, The Weather Channel, and people around the world. I interviewed doctors and nurses to gain a better understanding of the real-time challenges faced by healthcare professionals. I immersed myself in research, collecting materials that ranged from the health impacts of climate change to its effects on national security.
The Main Street Creamery
There was a moment when the disparity hit me: in the ice cream shop in Bridgeport, Connecticut, just a short drive from the Yale Program on Climate Change Communication. As I sat there, licking my cone, I was struck by the disconnection between the climate information shared in academic circles, reports, and podcasts and the people around me.
Not far away, experts were unraveling complex data about rising sea levels, extreme heat, and shifting weather patterns. But the people eating ice cream? They had no idea what was coming. No one was talking to them, making this global crisis personal or urgent in their everyday lives. They weren’t part of the conversation.
I wrote The Crisis is Here because the book I wanted to read didn’t exist. Some books focus on policy, scientific projections, or broader environmental impacts, but few address how to protect our health right now. To highlight the crisis and provide a roadmap for personal action.
I wanted an answer to my basic questions:
- What’s going to happen?
- How will I be impacted?
- What can I do to stay safe and healthy?
- How can I protect myself and my family?
- What are the simple things I can do now to prepare?
When I began writing this book, I made some basic assumptions: scientific data would always be available, government health programs would remain stable, and weather forecasts would be something we could rely on. The crisis is here. The systems we took for granted, the pillars of our society, are now shaken and fallen. Government programs are being torn apart, scientific research is under attack, and we’re grappling with extreme weather events that strain our mental and physical health.
I want this book to inform, uplift, and equip us for the hard reality ahead. Even now, we can still care for one another. Maintaining compassion and community as the ground shifts beneath us may be the most important thing we can do.
I grew up with the wonders of the world: monarch butterflies on milkweed pods, red-tailed hawks circling highways, and mockingbirds trilling hundreds of songs. These experiences are profound because of the fragility of our ecosystems. I want to protect them and, by extension, protect us.
I hope you’ll join me in embracing our collective responsibility to the planet and each other. Together, we can move from unconsciousness to action, from “I’m just one person” to “I can and will do something.”
Let’s get started.