What inspired your connection to the ocean and led you to pursue a career in marine science? 

When I was younger, the outdoors were how I stayed grounded. Emotionally, school was hard. Being outside—especially in the water—was the one place I felt like I could breathe. It became my emotional safety net. As I got older, I realized the planet had been quietly holding me through so much, and I felt this deep pull to give back. I didn’t grow up dreaming of being a marine scientist, but when I got to UCSB, a friend who understood my deep passion and love for the ocean led me to the UCLA Diversity Project. From there, I ended up in Moorea, French Polynesia, researching the effects of human stressors on coral reefs. It was my first time doing fieldwork, and over the next few years, I began to shape that love for marine ecology into what would become Daybreak Beach Club—an organization built on the belief that emotional healing, joyful play, and environmental science can coexist as a pathway for youth to connect with themselves and the Earth, just as I did.

Tell me about the specific research or work you’re currently focused on and why it’s important?

Right now, I’m focused on building a civic science education curriculum we plan to launch in 2026. The goal is to give kids a real seat at the table—working alongside researchers, asking their own questions, and actively participating in the scientific process. We want them to see themselves not just as students, but as contributors to knowledge and caretakers of the outdoors. We're developing it in partnership with Dani McHaskell, a doctoral student at Scripps Institution of Oceanography, whose research aligns with our mission. 

At the same time, I’m leading Daybreak Beach Club’s Rising Futures program, an internship designed for marginalized youth, especially women and gender-expansive students. It centers a Black feminist lens to explore environmental justice, leadership, and power structures—challenging the gatekeeping that exists in marine science. And of course, we’re still out there running surf therapy programs, helping kids build emotional regulation and ocean confidence through joy and play. It’s all connected.

How does this location where we shot hold significance for you and/or your work?

San Onofre is one of those places where recreation and science collide in a really tangible way. You have hundreds of people out surfing every single day, which creates a beautiful and joyful scene. Right next to that is a decommissioned nuclear power plant that caused serious ecological damage. I used to drive past it all the time, but it wasn’t until one of my marine ecology classes that I learned just how much harm the plant caused to marine life. And yet, people still gather there, still connect. That duality—of harm and healing in the same place—feels really symbolic of the work I do.

What are your thoughts on the potential cuts to NOAA funding, and how do you think it might impact your work and the broader field of marine science?

This is something that really hurts. I have friends who worked at NOAA and lost their jobs. Some of the very programs that made it possible for me to be in this field don’t even exist anymore because of funding cuts. Without those opportunities, I don’t know if I would be doing this work today. But beyond my own story, what I think about most are the people behind those programs—the kindhearted, brilliant folks who have dedicated their lives to making the world better. They built initiatives that helped families, supported students, and pushed forward groundbreaking science. And now, they’re being left behind. These are jobs that literally make the world better—why are we cutting those, just to funnel more money into industries that feed division or exploitation? If we lose these people and these programs, who will hold space for the sacred duty of protecting and honoring the Earth with the reverence, humility, and love she so deeply deserves?