This is the first time I’m sharing this story—how I became a guardian of our frozen planet.
I was born far away, in Mexico City, one of the most crowded places in the world. My earliest memories are a mixture of warmth and chaos. I remember the gentle sound of my mother’s and father's voices singing Silvio Rodriguez's songs, the endless love of my grandmother, and the rhythm of Son Cubano my grandfather loved so much.
But outside, the city roared. Cars honked, buses rumbled, and people’s chatter filled every street. The noise of this sprawling, chaotic city drowned out something vital—the whispers of nature. The voices of animals, plants, rivers, and mountains—those who have always shared this home of ours, Mother Earth—seemed to have been silenced.
Even though I grew up surrounded by concrete and smog, my heart longed for something different. I was drawn to every plant that dared to grow between cracks on the pavement, every patch of soil that peeked through the urban jungle. It was as if my hands and feet were instinctively searching for the living world hidden beneath the city’s noise.
That’s when I met my first teacher, my greatest friend—a tree. On the street where my grandparents worked, a Jinicuil tree was born. My father planted the seed when I was born, so we both grew up tall and strong. I spent hours with him, talking to him, learning from him. He became my secret sanctuary, my guide to a world that I was only beginning to understand.
The Jinicuil tree shared its wisdom with me, whispering stories of how humans once lived in harmony with other living beings. It spoke of a time when we remembered that we were not separate from the Earth, but a part of it. "Somewhere along the way," he said, "humans forgot their non-human ancestors. They forgot how rivers flow through their veins and how their feet once kissed the soil in gratitude."
The tree taught me to listen—not just with my ears, but with my heart. Through its teachings, I began to hear the sea calling from far away. I learned to thank the water each time I turned on a tap, knowing that it had travelled hundreds of miles from mountaintops to reach me. The tree reminded me that every drop of water, every gust of wind, every leaf and blade of grass carries the Earth’s love for us.
And that’s where my journey began—the journey of remembering. Remembering that we are all guardians of this beautiful, fragile planet. This is the story I want to share with you today.
As I grew older, my love for nature blossomed into a calling—a need to understand and protect it. My first great love, the one I chose to study in university, was the ocean. I was captivated by its vastness, its beauty, and its incredible complexity. The way its waters flowed in intricate patterns, carrying life and energy across the planet, felt like the heartbeat of the Earth itself. I wanted to unravel its secrets, to understand how this vast, powerful force shaped our world’s climate—and more importantly, how I could help heal and protect it.
But as I dove deeper into my studies, I discovered something extraordinary. The ocean, this great blue heart of our planet, has two other hearts—two regions that sustain its incredible circulation and, in turn, sustain all life on Earth. These hearts beat at the poles: in the Arctic and the Antarctic. They are the engines that drive the currents, the guardians of our planet’s climate.
I knew then what I had to do. If I truly wanted to protect the ocean, I had to go to the source. I had to travel to the very ends of the Earth, to the polar regions, and listen to what these frozen worlds had to teach me. I needed to understand their secrets, their struggles, and how I could stand with them as their guardian.
But following this dream came at a cost. With a heart full of both excitement and sadness, I said goodbye to my family in Mexico. I hugged my two brothers tightly, knowing I wouldn’t see their smiles for a long time. I kissed my parents and promised to stay safe. And I held my loving grandparents close, their wisdom and warmth grounding me even as I prepared to leave everything I knew behind.
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—leaving the people I loved most. But my heart was also filled with purpose, a deep sense of commitment to something greater than myself. I wasn’t just leaving; I was embarking on the most extraordinary journey of my life. I was going to meet the Arctic and the Antarctic, to hear the stories they had to tell, and to find a way to protect these icy hearts of our planet.
And so, with a broken heart but an unshakable resolve, I left Mexico and stepped into the unknown. The poles were waiting, and I was ready to listen.
I made the decision to become a polar scientist because I wanted to learn everything I could about the ice, the cold oceans, and glaciers—about what they were going through and what they were trying to tell us. My heart carried the teachings of my Jinicuil tree. I wanted to do more than just study; I wanted to listen to the poles, observe them, touch them with my whole being, and understand how we, as humans, could help them heal and thrive.
Even though the Arctic and Antarctic seemed so far away from where most people live, I felt they were deeply connected to all of us; that their health—their ice, their waters, their unique rhythms—affected everyone on the planet, no matter where we were. They weren’t isolated, frozen places; they were the beating hearts of a fragile and intricate system. A system that gave us everything we felt: the cool breeze on a summer day, the warmth of the sun, the nourishment in the soil, and the water that sustains life itself.
What I learned was humbling: everything we experience—every breath of fresh air, every drop of rain, every seed that grows—exists because of the delicate harmony between all living beings and the Earth itself. The polar regions play a vital role in this balance. They regulate our planet’s climate, guiding the winds, shaping the seasons, and holding back the worst extremes of heat and cold. They are silent protectors, working tirelessly for us, even though so many of us don’t know their names.
I felt a deep responsibility to honour this connection, to bring the wisdom of the poles back to those who had forgotten. I wanted to help the world remember that we are all part of this beautiful, interconnected web of life. And so, carrying the love and lessons of my first teacher, I began my mission to listen to the ice and the oceans, to understand their stories, and to find ways for us to live in harmony with them once again.
I began by studying something that seemed simple but had incredible meaning: the colour of the ice and the sea. I remembered my grandmother’s gentle voice as she taught me to look at the colour of plants to understand their health. She would say, “Look at their leaves, their flowers—nature speaks to us in colours.” Her wisdom stayed with me, and I realized that the ice and water of the polar regions also spoke in their own vibrant hues.
With every step on the frozen ground and every sample I took from the ice, snow, and sea, I felt like I was learning a new language—a language of colours. I gazed at the brilliant whites, the icy blues, and the deep greens of the water. Each hue carried a story, a message about the health of these incredible ecosystems. The blue told me about the age and density of the ice. The washed green revealed the life teeming within the ocean, from tiny phytoplankton to the foundations of food webs that support life across the planet.
I have approached my work with wonder as if the polar world itself was teaching me, just as my Jinicuil tree had done when I was a child. I looked for cues in these colours—hints of change, signs of resilience. Every sample I collected felt like a connection, a thread that tied me closer to understanding the polar regions.
Now, after spending timeless hours and days out there on our beautiful frozen Earth, I know we need more ears to listen, more hands to feel, and more courageous hearts. We need more guardians—people who will protect the Earth and help others remember that we were once the tree, a never-ending sea wave. That perhaps, I was once a glacier, and I have only just started to remember.
The poles have shown me that this is not just about ice or snow; it is about life itself. It is about remembering that we are not separate from this planet. The Earth flows through us—her rivers in our veins, her winds in our breath, her strength in our hearts. When we protect her, we protect ourselves.
And so... Let us listen to her whispers, feel her rhythms, and stand together to honour her. Let us remind humanity of something we’ve long forgotten—that the Earth is not just our home; she is a part of who we are.
The Earth is calling.
She has always been calling.
Will you come with us?
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