Maybe I Never Really Changed Direction

A decade ago, sustainability was just a word I was still learning.

Today, it has quietly become part of how I live.

But if you told me years ago that my life would somehow lead me here—working with the sea, fishers, entrepreneurs, businesses, and communities—I probably wouldn't have believed you.

Because that wasn't the plan.

I was about to take Biology as my pre-med course, dreaming of becoming a pediatrician.

Biology was one of my favorite subjects. I loved understanding how living things worked—their systems, relationships, growth, and survival.

But I eventually took nursing instead and was assigned to the NICU.

I remember seeing premature babies like me being cared for firsthand. Their tiny bodies. The careful monitoring. The precision of every intervention. How something seemingly small could make such a big difference.

I deeply admired the work.

But somewhere in that experience, I realized medicine wasn't my path. I was getting restless with the long road ahead, and perhaps I was beginning to understand something about myself:

I wanted to help people, but I didn't believe I had to wait until I was perfectly ready to make a difference.

Funny how life works.

Sometimes, you leave one dream behind only to discover that you were never really leaving the things you loved.

Years later, Biology found its way back to me.

Through the sea.

When I started working more deeply in sustainability and seafood, I found myself asking questions that felt strangely familiar.

How does a species grow?
When does it reproduce?
When can we harvest?
What happens when we take too much?

The more I learned, the more I saw how connected everything was.

A fish is connected to a fisher.

A fisher is connected to a community.

A business is connected to a market.

And a consumer is connected to all of them.

It was a different way of seeing the world.

That perspective eventually found its way into another part of my work: mentoring and coaching entrepreneurs.

I had the opportunity to work with businesses at different stages—from early ideas and incubation to scale-up—helping founders navigate the questions that come with building something meaningful:

Who are we helping?
What problem are we solving?
What needs to be tested?
What does the market actually need?
How do we grow without losing why we started?

I loved the messy beginning—the experimentation, uncertainty, and “What if we tried this?” moments.

But I also became fascinated by what happens when an idea starts to grow.

Because having a good idea is one thing.

Building something viable, resilient, and capable of creating impact is another.

Mentoring and coaching entrepreneurs didn't just help me support other people's businesses.

It strengthened my own entrepreneurship muscle.

Every founder I worked with challenged me to think more deeply about markets, business models, customers, financial viability, systems, people, and growth.

It taught me to look at a business from different angles—to understand both the purpose behind an idea and the discipline required to make it work.

And perhaps most importantly, it reminded me that impact without viability is difficult to sustain.

A business can have a beautiful mission.

But if the economics don't work, the people can't be supported, and the model can't adapt, the impact eventually becomes fragile.

That lesson stayed with me.

I never mentored because I thought I had all the answers.

Every entrepreneur brought a different story, market, culture, and challenge.

Sometimes, teaching is simply another way of continuing to learn.

And sometimes, helping someone else build their business teaches you how to build your own better.

That perspective eventually became part of how I approached my own work.

I became more intentional about asking not only, “Is this meaningful?” but also:

Is it viable?
Can it grow?
Can it create value for the people who are part of it?
Can the impact continue even when conditions change?

That, for me, is where sustainability became more than an environmental conversation.

It became a business question.

A livelihood question.

A community question.

And eventually, a personal one.

Somewhere along the way, sustainability moved beyond my work and into my everyday choices.

I became more conscious of what I buy, what I waste, what I bring home, and which businesses I support.

I started reading labels. Choosing more intentionally. Supporting thrift shops and finding things that still had plenty of life left in them.

Because sometimes, the better choice isn't buying something new.

It's choosing something that already exists.

The seafood we choose.
The local products we support.
The things we repair instead of replace.
Even what we decide not to buy.

No single choice will change the world.

But together, these choices shape the kind of economy—and the kind of world—we participate in.

I'm still far from perfect.

I still have a sustainability bucket list: a little herb and vegetable garden, composting, better ways to reduce waste, and plenty more to learn.

And honestly?

I like that I haven't figured it all out.

Maybe sustainability was never supposed to be a destination.

Maybe it's simply the practice of paying attention and asking:

Can I do this a little better?
Can this be kinder?
Can more people benefit?

That is also why nature-based enterprises resonate so deeply with me today.

They bring together so many pieces of my journey—nature, livelihoods, communities, entrepreneurship, markets, culture, and resilience.

They remind me that nature doesn't have to be something we protect from business.

Nature can also be part of how we build livelihoods and businesses—with care and respect for the systems that sustain us.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder how all these seemingly unrelated chapters ended up connecting.

Biology.
Nursing.
The NICU.
Entrepreneurship.
Community development.
Mentoring.
Seafood.
Sustainability.
The ocean.

Maybe they weren't unrelated after all.

Maybe I never really changed direction.
Maybe I just found a bigger way to care.

A decade ago, I was learning about sustainability.

Today, I am still learning—but the classroom is much bigger.

It's in the ocean.
In fishing communities.
In businesses.
In kitchens and markets.
In the choices we make every day.

And somewhere along the way, sustainability stopped being something I studied, advocated for, coached, mentored, or built into organizations.

It became part of how I live.

I may not have ended up where I thought I would.

But perhaps that's the beautiful thing about growing up.

We spend so much of our younger years thinking we need to have a plan.

Then life happens.

Plans change.
Dreams evolve.
We take a few wrong turns.
We discover new ones.

And one day, we look back and realize that maybe we weren't lost at all.

We were simply becoming.

There is still a garden to grow.

A compost bin to start.

More businesses to learn from.

More communities to listen to.

More things to learn.

But I know this now:

I don't need to have arrived to know I'm on my way.

And for this strange, beautiful, unfinished journey—from Biology to the sea, from wanting to help to learning how to help things thrive—

I am grateful.