Between the recurring stress of precarious central American border crossings and the unrelenting heat, the exhaustion was finally catching up with me. Sleep deprived and anxiety ridden, my body was shutting down. But despite these inescapable woes of life on the road, there was a lot to look forward to. And so I persisted, casting aside my innate desire to collapse for just a bit longer. You see, we had finally made it to Costa Rica, ready to dive the legendary Caño Island off the Pacific coast while staying at an eco-retreat deep in the jungle. And compared to our previous expedition stop in Panama, the biodiversity here was staggering—both on land and at sea.
Underwater, massive schools of fish pulsed in every direction, surrounding us in synchronized chaos. Manta rays hovered above, watching us from the shallows, while sharks wove effortlessly through the bait balls, their presence shifting from passive to predatory in an instant. Below us, smaller sharks darted through feeding frenzies, while the occasional stingray glided past, indifferent to the commotion.
On land, the jungle was just as vibrant. Curious monkeys swung down from the branches, inching closer, eyes locked on our cameras and hats. Coatis—small, skunk-like mammals—trailed behind us on our treks, drawn in by the possibility of food or sheer curiosity. And then there was the surfing. We stayed on the waves until sunset, renting whatever battered boards were available, chasing ride after ride until the light disappeared.
But the real immersion came when we followed an ocean nonprofit in Ojochal, a small town that had resisted the mass tourism wave reshaping much of Costa Rica. We shadowed the team as they took local youth out onto the beaches, teaching them to read the landscape through long, exploratory walks. They pointed out tiny creatures tucked into tide pools, quizzing the kids as they darted back and forth between the sand and the waves. It was a simple exercise—one that made conservation feel tangible, personal, and good for all ages.
The enthusiasm from the local kids offered me a hint of rejuvenation, but the good vibes alone simply weren’t enough. Somewhat paradoxically, I grew cold in the swampy heat. My brain grew foggy—as if in some naturally induced state of both inebriation and hangover all at once. But this was a familiar battle from life on the road—one in which my body hits the wall long before my brain acquiesces to its demands. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted to keep going, to keep learning, and push through the exhaustion determined to get me horizontal.
But sometimes, knowing when to hit pause is just as important as knowing when to push forward. And this was one of those moments. While the rest of the team cracked open coconuts and dug into acai bowls as the sun dipped below the horizon—bonding further with our local partners—I finally succumbed to the rage taking over my body. The expedition had won this round and I was fully defeated.
It stings to miss out on even a moment of this journey, but this is the reality of long-format expedition life—it will consume you whole from time to time. What I described earlier about Costa Rica—the manta encounters, the waves at sunset, the jungle buzzing with life—paints a beautiful picture. And while all of that is real, there’s another side of the story that rarely gets told. It’s what I like to call the “underbelly” of expedition life. The part you don’t see often. Because no one’s pulling out a camera when they’re doubled over sick from eating something questionable, or when they’re nursing an injury after a hard dive, or, in this case, letting the brutal Central American sun roast you to the bone.
The underbelly isn’t just in reference to the physical toll. It’s the logistical madness too—like border crossings that nearly fall through, unexpected run-ins with skeptical local authorities, team tensions flaring up over things both big and small. And yet, all of this is what makes an expedition like this so powerful. The hard parts—the sleep deprivation, the setbacks, the moments that test you—are just as much a part of the story as the breathtaking wildlife encounters and the once-in-a-lifetime experiences. In fact, I truly believe one cannot exist without the other.
Long days in the field bleed into even longer nights. Hours underwater mean hours of decompression, adjusting to the pressure—both literal and figurative. An injury that seemed minor weeks ago can suddenly become something more out of nowhere from one seemingly innocuous misstep. You are always assessing, always hyper-aware, drawn in by the raw beauty of the world around you while cautiously maintaining a mental checklist of everything that could go wrong.
For every incredible moment out here, there’s the hard, grueling work that got us there in the first place. Nothing about this kind of expedition is easy or recommended for the faint of heart. A “go with the flow” kind of attitude simply cannot work for a journey of this magnitude. But for those chasing answers to the big, burning questions that can’t be found sitting behind a desk, I’m here to tell you: this is what it takes. The long hours. The uncertainty. The heat, the cold, the extremes, the blood, sweat, tears—and yes, in this case here in Costa Rica—physical illness manifested from sleep deprivation.
But out here, under the stars, on a small cot, running on empty, feeling worse than you ever have, you realize something: the breaking point isn’t where the journey ends. It’s where it begins. These moments of struggle are the ones that forge something deeper. They strip away the distractions, leaving only the raw, unshakable realism of why a journey like this matters. Lying there in misery, caught between fever dreams and reality, I had no choice but to reflect on that “why?” Why do this in the first place? Is that burning question—to understand what life is like on the edges of earth–really worth it? Would it be easier to turn back, to trade this relentless pursuit for the comfort of leisurely Sundays, air conditioning, home-cooked meals, and the numbing effect of decompressing “screen” time. Every time I hit the breaking point, I wrestle with these thoughts. And every time, when I emerge on the other side, I am more certain than ever.
Understanding what life is like on the edges means quite literally pushing yourself to them—far beyond the familiar, past perceived limits, and questioning everything you think you know. It’s about chasing the hard questions, not just of others, but of yourself. It’s about exploring with a sense of wonder before it’s too late—following the coati off the trail or letting the monkeys guide you down some unexpected path. None of this can be replaced by a pixelated screen, or even a gorgeous book for that matter. And none of the knowledge gained in the field can be found anywhere else. So while there are moments when I feel wrecked—questioning my sanity for uprooting my entire life to better understand human connection to the natural world and how we can preserve it—I hold onto this veracity. It makes me willing to tackle the next set of hurdles, knowing an experience like this, for someone like me, is in fact so worth it.
I know I’m not alone in this feeling—the relentless urge to go further, to connect more deeply with nature and the people who have lived off it for generations. To tap into the same uninhibited energy of a local kid, running wild and free in the place they call home. Inspiring me to do the same. And so, while I lay there in Costa Rica, sweating through layers, barely able to swat away the circling mosquitoes, I started to relish the moment. Because at least I was out here. No longer stuck inside those towering skyscrapers. No longer trapped in a life that wasn’t mine. Instead, I was covered in scrapes from diving deep and trekking hard—fully immersed in the world I had fought to be a part of.
While you can never fully shed where you come from—nor should you—life is a series of chapters, each one building on the last. The foundation is laid, then reshaped over time, piece by piece, until you create the life you’ve always envisioned. But clarity on where you’re supposed to be and when? That takes time. And it’s always evolving. The only way to figure it out is to live—to step beyond what’s familiar, to explore your own backyard or push even further, to test different versions of yourself in new places, with new people. Eventually, you land exactly where you’re meant to be. That’s what happened to me right here in Ojochal.
I’m sure those around me have their own, entirely different recollections of our time in Costa Rica—memories of adventure, of community, of endless golden hour surf sessions. But mine? My favorite memories shockingly were solo, profound, and largely spent in a tiny dorm bed just outside a thriving forest—one that somehow gave me life, even when it felt impossible. If there’s one undeniable accuracy about life on the fringes, it’s that even in the chaos, you find moments to pause and reflect. And when those moments sink in, they can do so in such a heavy-hitting, and even life-altering way.
To the Costa Ricans who nursed me back to health, bringing me acai bowls in bed, thank you. And to that wild, untamed Costa Rica—the raw, unpolished version, still untouched in places by the grip of modernity—thank you, for inspiring me to press forward.
To be continued …
The rich text element allows you to create and format headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, images, and video all in one place instead of having to add and format them individually. Just double-click and easily create content.
A rich text element can be used with static or dynamic content. For static content, just drop it into any page and begin editing. For dynamic content, add a rich text field to any collection and then connect a rich text element to that field in the settings panel. Voila!
Headings, paragraphs, blockquotes, figures, images, and figure captions can all be styled after a class is added to the rich text element using the "When inside of" nested selector system.
