When I was a child wandering along the banks of the Sinú River in northern Colombia, I didn’t know I would one day become a biologist. I just knew that nature had a way of teaching what no classroom ever could. I learned resilience from the mangroves that stand firm against the tides and from the turtles that return to the same river every year, even when their habitat grows smaller and their survival more uncertain.
Years later, after countless field trips, surveys under tropical storms, and quiet observations of life hidden beneath muddy waters, I realized that science alone is not enough. Data does not move hearts. A paper can describe the decline of a species, but it rarely inspires a community to protect it. That’s when the seed of Planeta Resiliente was planted in my mind: a space where science, storytelling, and local voices come together to bridge the gap between knowledge and action.
Planeta Resiliente exists to remind us that resilience is not just an ecological term; it’s a way of living that communities have practiced long before it was written in sustainability reports. It’s the fisherman who adapts his net to changing fish seasons, the farmer who finds ways to coexist with wildlife, the young student who plants trees even when drought scorches the soil year after year.
In a world flooded with alarming headlines and doomscrolling, we often forget that beyond the data points, there are people, rivers, forests, and memories that still resist. Resilience is not denial of crisis — it’s the stubborn courage to grow in spite of it.
This column you’re reading is part of that commitment. I wanted a corner within Planeta Resiliente where thoughts could breathe, where I could share the stories that don’t fit into a technical report or a statistic chart. Here, I reflect on what I’ve seen in the wetlands that cradle small villages, in the dry forests that seem dead at first glance but burst with life after a single rain, and in the faces of people whose knowledge is often overlooked simply because it was not taught in a university.
I believe words, when carefully chosen, can carry the weight of a river’s flow. They can spark a question that lingers in someone’s mind long after they close their phone. They can remind us that protecting a mangrove or a hummingbird is not a favor to nature but a way to secure our own survival.
Planeta Resiliente is not mine alone. It belongs to every reader who dares to question what sustainability really means in their own neighborhood. It belongs to every voice willing to say: We can do this differently.
Sometimes, resilience feels like planting a tree whose shade you may never rest under. Or like teaching a child the names of native birds, knowing some may vanish before they are old enough to remember. Yet, that’s where hope lives: not in guaranteed success but in the persistent act of trying.
This column will grow as I grow. Some entries will come from the field, scribbled in a notebook after watching a turtle crawl back to the river. Others will be written late at night, reflecting on what it means to talk about climate change when some communities worry first about what they will eat tomorrow. Some thoughts will be universal, others stubbornly local, rooted in the Caribbean landscapes that shaped who I am.
If you’ve read this far, I invite you to stay. Not as a passive reader but as a resilient voice yourself. Share what you know about your own rivers, your forests, your small struggles and quiet victories. Tell me about the water that feeds your crops, the wetland that you once saw drained and later restored, the bird that no longer sings in your backyard. Every story matters. Every observation, no matter how small, builds a bridge between facts and feeling, between science and the daily lives of real people.
In times when distrust in science grows and misinformation spreads like wildfire, having a place where stories and evidence coexist is more vital than ever. That is my promise: this is not a place for empty slogans or borrowed quotes. Here, each word is chosen with care, each reflection anchored in fieldwork, local voices, and a genuine desire to protect the fragile balance that still holds this planet together.
So, why does Planeta Resiliente exist? To resist the silence that allows destruction to continue unnoticed. To help ideas flourish where they are most needed — in hearts, communities, and actions. And to inspire, above all, the courage to keep trying, even when the tide seems too strong.
Welcome to this corner of resilience. May it remind you that change does not always come in waves; sometimes, it grows quietly, like roots beneath the soil, waiting for the right moment to break through.