The seasons of life are punctuated by loss, stillness, and growth—the self, an elusive protagonist in an ever-changing landscape. Amidst a precarious ecosystem, I search for my footprint—vulnerable, failing, shifting, retracing. Nature’s inherent structure continues to reveal itself, spilling into our spaces and reminding us that we are guests here.

My recent work emerges from a lifelong relationship with hurricanes, water, and environmental instability in Florida, rooted in my upbringing in Darby in a one-bedroom cabin my father built. It was further intensified by Hurricanes Helene and Milton, which caused flash flooding and significant damage to my family home and the loss of my partner’s home on Davis Islands. 

Darby, a hamlet largely composed of wetlands, pastureland, and forests rich with threatened and endangered species, faces a pressing ecological crisis escalated by rampant urbanization across Florida. Wildlife is forced to the perimeters, once quiet backroads are perpetually congested, and floodwater has nowhere to go.

Through an interdisciplinary practice, I map the ways we inhabit and traverse interior and exterior environments—physically, psychologically, and emotionally. After my father’s unexpected death in 2021, weathering storms—both literal and metaphorical—became a framework for tending to memory, grief, resilience, and impermanence. 

I link these experiences to broader cycles of devastation and repair amid the climate crisis. As natural disasters break through the boundaries we once ascribed to them, we confront the precariousness of our narratives. The story we tell ourselves—that we can survive the damage we inflict upon the living without consequence—is a delusion.

As my concept of home erodes, I wonder: how can we navigate our environments with renewed awareness and sensitivity? What does it mean to live well? And ultimately, what narratives will we leave behind?