“With just a month to go, the school can’t support your trip to Nepal.”

My mother tells me she grew up with bright blue skies in Seoul, but I am more used to seeing the sandy orange dust that has plagued our city for the past decade. Since the second grade, I was known as “Runny,” both from my aggravated rhinitis and running back and forth for tissues.

I viewed Nepal as similar to South Korea: a small country caught between two pollutant creating nations, India and China. The Nepalese face issues with micro-particles, air pollution, and lessening biodiversity. Unable to afford to take action, many have simply acclimated to the dustbowl surrounding their homes.

As president of the Wildlife Foundation, I felt that interacting with the Nepalese people would broaden our perspective of the issues. We could immerse ourselves in their diverse biosphere and better understand the paths our two countries were on. Upon hearing the rejection, I wondered why my principal had placed the burden on a rising junior to work out the details of an international trip for over thirty people. In hindsight, though, I realized he had given me something extraordinarily rare: the trust to accomplish a task I would not have even allowed myself to do. Yet, I was so caught up in legitimizing our club that I neglected its foundation, the people who cared about the environment most.

I also did not lead well or plan properly. As a novice event manager, I should have relied more on my members and further involved them. So we gathered more data, pitched ideas, and discussed what we really wanted from the trip. People shared their insights and experiences about environments abroad. There were emails to send, reservations to place, and bills to pay. After countless sit-downs with parents and the administration, we created a seven day trip to Kathmandu with a fully worked-out itinerary that everyone agreed on. Throughout the process, I realized what the trip meant to me and the people in our club: a way to reach out to people and connect with diverse environments around the world.

Only weeks later, we soared over the glistening Himalayas, and I wondered what stories the environment would tell. I quickly realized how different Nepal was from Seoul. I struggled with the pungent smell through my N-95, as the locals walked effortlessly through the swirling sandstorm around them. I turned on the showers to feel bits of sand trailing down my back, and brushed my teeth in yellow water. When asking the hosts, they told me it was “the finest water in Nepal.” Perhaps they were right. The students also did not see any problems with the piles of waste around their school. As we shared momos, a Nepalese delicacy of rice and vegetables, their perspectives gave me deeper insights into the rate of environmental change, and stories of environmental injustice and neglect that I have also witnessed in Seoul.  

Despite the problems, I also saw much to preserve in the Himalayas. As we trekked along the wildlife preserves of Kathmandu, I saw nests of spiny babblers peering down at me as we explored their habitat. Native snow trout rustled under the bridges we crossed. While vlogging the rugged nature of Nepal, I saw a purpose in winning the fight against climate change. I wondered if I could see the same landscape ten years later.  

These interactions became the foundation of my club’s expanding network. I received emails from students and schools in Nepal and Korea wanting to partner with us. They recognized an organization that would support their vision of what their homes could become. Nepal helped expand our global perspective and reach people with similar concerns. I wish to build on those relationships, further connect to different environments, and develop our vision for change.