Photo Essays

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Podcasts

First Place

"From Feeling to Action: Our Climate Story"
By Angelica Maya and Ava Nguyen, Huntington Beach

Second Place

"The Need for the Climate Conversation"
By Kristin Ng, Hacienda Heights

Third Place

"Climate Change"
By Victor Ramirez and Samuel Rodriguez, San Luis Obispo

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Narrative Essays

First Place

"What Birds Taught Me About Climate Change"
By Katherine Worster, San Francisco

• Read Katherine's essay.

  I stood by the side of a road to nowhere. Dry golden grass seemed to stretch to the edge of the sky, occasionally intercepted by a few scraggly oaks. Suddenly, a flock of small black birds flew past me and vanished into the ground. At first glance, one might mistake them for common supermarket parking lot Brewer’s blackbirds, or even lakeside red-winged blackbirds, if not for the gorgeous white on the shoulder of their wings overlaying a bright red and gold layer. These were endangered tricolored blackbirds. Like thousands of other species, tricolored blackbirds were first threatened when industrialization rapidly took over their land. Now, an unexpected effect of the industrial revolution is threatening them once again: climate change.
  
  When I became a birdwatcher at the age of eleven, I naively thought there were plenty of birds in the sky, so surely, they’d always be there. I had forgotten that birds are inextricably linked to climate change: a literal canary in the coal mine sounding alarm bells and raising my anxiety. Indirectly, rising sea levels and drying lands force farmers and builders to overtake fragile ecosystems, inch by inch. Directly, the same floods that creep onto these lands seep into the habitats of birds such as snowy plovers, who nest on low marshlands that are particularly vulnerable to rising sea levels. It seemed as though everywhere I looked, the Earth and everything in it were only being pushed out and boxed in, flooded and burned, melted and frozen - relentless victims of the looming menace of climate change. Due to the interconnectedness of species, I knew what affected birds would also affect humanity. And so, at the age of eleven, the only thing I felt about climate change was despair. The delicate ecosystems in the world were spiraling out of control, and I was spiraling with them. Bird watching transformed into desperation, and every bird spotted led me to dejectedly think, “Well, at least there's one left.”
  
  But one day, realization struck me. At least one was left? That wasn't an opportunity for depression, it was a reason for joy! In the face of a lack of governmental action and doomsday headlines, the natural world was holding on. I’d seen tricolored blackbirds and snowy plovers, and that alone was something to celebrate. What if a future generation no longer had birds to watch? Once I became grateful, optimism came easily. I saw that all around the world, humanity was holding on, just as birds were. People were organizing to protect neighborhoods from the damages of climate change, advocating for policies aimed at curbing fossil fuel use, and rebuilding fragile ecosystems through habitat restoration. As I grew older, I learned that I could join them in making a difference. After all, birds serve as an essential indicator of an ecosystem’s health. In the 1960s, it was bird deaths by the thousands that led scientists to investigate the chemical pesticide DDT and ultimately discover that it was responsible not only for killing birds but for causing cancer in humans. Similarly, birds today are at the forefront of climate change, so by tracking their populations and movements, we can reveal the previously unseen effects of climate change. More importantly, however, birds provide hope for the future. I birdwatch with a group of youth aged seven to seventeen, and I have seen firsthand how taking the time to observe nature at work and be grateful for it can inspire anyone overwhelmed by despair. After all, if humanity is able to care about the Earth, we'll be motivated to protect it. So, as I stood by the side of the road, watching the tricolored blackbirds fly over my head alongside my fellow youth birdwatchers, I realized that the road didn't lead to nowhere. Every road leads somewhere, as long as we are inspired to take it.

Second Place

"The Exhibit is Still Open"
By Eden Poutcheu Gambou, Sacramento

• Read Eden's essay.

  I’ve never been in a hurricane or felt the icy bite of a glacier. I’ve never seen a polar bear outside cartoons. But I still feel it, the slow unraveling of the world around me, like living a story I don’t fully understand.
  
  It started one quiet autumn afternoon by a lake. The water was still and glassy. An old tree leaned toward the shore, its roots tangled and exposed, clutching soil slipping away. The wind whispered through its bare branches. I watched it sway, knowing it wouldn’t stand for long. That tree was the first painting to lose its color in my mind’s gallery.
  
  Later, I found myself walking through what felt like a museum, not one with glass cases and velvet ropes, but a living gallery where the masterpieces were the forests, the oceans, the creatures I had never met but loved all the same. Each day, their colors dimmed just a little. The deep green of the leaves faded to a dull brown, the clear blue of the sky blurred into a hazy gray. I could see it happening, but around me, people laughed and took pictures. They smiled in front of the fading wonders as if nothing was wrong.
  
  Then came the grief. Not the sharp sting of loss, but a slow ache for everything slipping away, forests that might never regrow, animals that might vanish. I heard it in the silence after a wildfire, in the quiet of a barren hillside where life once thrived. It felt like watching a priceless exhibit shrink until there was nothing left but empty frames and fading echoes.
  
  Grief was heavy, but just the start.
  
  One summer heatwave, the air felt thick and suffocating, as if the planet held its breath, waiting for relief that never came. That day I knew this wasn’t a future problem. It was a crisis happening now.
  
  I asked myself how to stop being just a witness. How to be part of the story.
  
  The answer was small actions. I started truly noticing the world changing. I replaced wasteful habits with kinder ones, learned about policies shaping our planet’s future, and joined groups planting trees and cleaning rivers. These were tiny brushstrokes on a damaged canvas.
  
  The biggest change came when I started talking about it, in everyday moments. At lunch, on walks, in quiet talks with friends. I stopped pretending the fading colors were not real. I named the loss. I planted seeds of awareness.
  
  Sometimes those seeds grew.
  
  Now, when I imagine the future, I don’t just see my life. I see the legacy I’ll leave. I picture a child, maybe mine, standing in that quiet museum, staring at a photo of a coral reef once bursting with color. Their small voice asks, “Was it really this beautiful?”
  
  How do I explain a loss so vast? I will remember swimming through reefs alive with life, feeling the ocean hum beneath my skin. But to that child, it will be a ghost story, a world they never knew.
  
  I see them pressing tiny hands to glass, tracing a polar bear’s paw, or watching a hologram of the Amazon rainforest. These won’t be wonders but memorials to a world we failed to protect.
  
  What hurts most is knowing they will grieve ghosts they never met, not because we didn’t understand, but because we did and did not act loudly enough.
  
  Yet, amid grief and urgency, something else grows.
  
  Hope.
  
  Not quiet hope, but stubborn hope that speaks out loud, votes, plants trees, and shows up when it counts. Hope that knows the cracks but builds anyway.
  
  I don’t know how this story ends. But I know I can’t watch the colors fade without trying to paint new ones.
  
  The exhibit is still open. Even if the paintings dim, I will keep telling their stories.
  
  Maybe that’s how we change the ending.

Third Place

"Climate Change"
By Oluwadamilare Adegbesan, Lomita

• Read Oluwadamilare's essay.

  When I first heard the words climate change, I didn’t really think much about it. It sounded like one of those science terms teachers talk about in class. I figured it was something that would happen far in the future, not something that would affect me right now. But over time, I started noticing things that made me feel different, hotter summers, smoky skies from wildfires, and warnings about droughts. That’s when I started to worry. I realized that climate change isn’t something for the future. It’s already here, and it’s serious.
  
  At first, I felt confused. I didn’t understand why this was happening or what was causing it. I started learning more by watching videos, reading articles, and paying attention in class. I found out that things like burning fossil fuels, cutting down forests, and using too much electricity all release gases into the air that trap heat. That’s what’s making the planet warmer and causing weird weather. I felt shocked, and honestly, a little guilty. I never thought about how my everyday actions, like driving everywhere or wasting food, could be part of the problem.
  
  Even though I was feeling worried, I also felt inspired. I started doing small things to make a difference. I began walking to school instead of asking for a ride when I could. I recycled more and talked to my family about saving energy by turning off lights and unplugging things we weren’t using. These things may seem small, but they helped me feel like I was doing something instead of just being scared.
  
  One thing that really gave me hope was joining my school’s Green Team. We work on projects like planting trees, organizing clean-up days, and finding ways to make our school more eco-friendly. I love being part of a group that cares about the planet. Being around others who take action makes me feel less alone. It reminds me that there are a lot of people, even students like me, who want to help fight climate change.
  
  At the same time, I also feel frustrated. It feels like big companies and governments aren’t doing enough. They have the power to make huge changes, like switching to clean energy or protecting forests, but sometimes it feels like they care more about money than the environment. That makes me angry, because regular people like us are trying so hard to help, but we can only do so much on our own.
  
  I’ve also learned how climate change doesn’t affect everyone equally. Some neighborhoods in my city don’t have as many trees or parks, so it gets hotter there in the summer. People in those areas might not be able to afford air conditioning or safe places to go. It made me realize that climate change is also about fairness. Everyone deserves clean air, safe water, and a healthy environment.
  
  After learning all of this, my feelings about climate change have definitely changed. I still feel scared sometimes, but now I also feel motivated. I know I can’t stop climate change by myself, but I can be part of the solution. I can speak up, make better choices, and encourage others to do the same. I’ve learned that caring about the planet isn’t just about science, it’s about people, too.
  
  Climate change may be a big problem, but I believe that together, we can make a difference. I want to keep learning, keep taking action, and keep doing my part, because our future depends on what we do today.

Honorable Mention

"Let it Grow"
By Jodie Tran, Arcadia

• Read Jodie's essay.

  When we talk about climate change, it often feels too big. Far away. A behemoth beast lurking in the distance. However, this past spring, the impact of climate change became personal.
  
  It was a sobering experience. I sat there, helpless, as the Eaton Canyon Fire crawled down the San Gabriel Mountains, inching toward my neighborhood. Suddenly, climate change wasn’t just something I learned about in my environmental science class. It was real, immediate, and capable of displacing the people in my own community. I had never felt so small. What could I, a teenager, possibly do to push back against an issue so massive?
  
  It turns out, more than I expected. The answer doesn’t have to be dramatic. Sometimes, it begins with something as simple as a seed. At Arcadia High School, our AP Environmental Science class decided to confront one of the lesser-seen drivers of climate change: industrial agriculture. This system, responsible for feeding much of the word, is also a leading contributor to greenhouse gas emissions. Synthetic fertilizers add nitrous oxide to the atmosphere. Trucks transporting produce burn fossil fuels, releasing carbon dioxide. Forests are cleared to make room for large-scale farming operations, leaving ecosystems more vulnerable to drought and fire. The very system designed to nourish us is, in many ways, accelerating the environmental crises we face.
  
  In response, our class was given the chance to grow a difference, literally. Each group in our class was given a small plot—just 95 by 50 centimeters—and tasked with managing it over 27 weeks. Using what we’d learned in the course throughout the year, we carefully chose our crops: beets, carrots, kale, scallions, and zucchini. Hardy plants, suited for small spaces and minimal environmental impact. We nourished the soil, tracked our growth, and harvested ingredients each week to use in home-cooked meals. Week by week, we watched the seeds we planted turn into recognizable food. Tiny stubs became green onions. Flowers transformed into zucchini. There were challenges, of course—pill bugs constantly tried to eat our crops before we could. But we learned to fend them off using natural remedies, protecting the plants we had invested so much care into.
  
  The experience reshaped the way I view food and how we can get food. Growing food yourself is exhilarating in a way that shopping in a grocery store could never be. Pulling a carrot out of the ground may seem mundane. But when you’ve nurtured that carrot from a tiny seed, been knuckle deep in the soil that it grew in, fended off the pill bugs, you understand its value in a new way. Prior to this experience, I would’ve never imagined growing anything in such a small space, nevermind maintain a thriving garden of fresh food. Our garden plots, as small as they were, offered blueprints for a different future.
  
  This project didn’t fix the climate crisis. It didn’t stop the wildfires or undo the damage already done. But it gave us a way to engage with a problem that so often feels unmanageable. In fast-paced, growing cities, it’s easy to feel disconnected from the food on our plates—from the farms, the soil, and the systems that sustain us. Our garden helped bridge that gap. I hope our project is just one of many. I hope more students, more schools, and more young people realize they don’t have to wait to make a difference. You don’t need a farm. Sometimes, all it takes is a 95-by-50-centimeter plot of land.

Honorable Mention

"A Voice for the Planet"
By Kassra Ghasemi, Aliso Viejo

• Read Kassra's essay.

  I never expected my first step into climate advocacy to start with a microphone lowered just for me.
  
  I was only nine years old when I attended a public hearing at the Huntington Beach Water District. The room was packed with adults, and the topic was serious—the approval of a desalination plant proposed by Poseidon. I had tagged along with my mom, who worked for an environmental nonprofit. Sitting quietly in the car before we arrived, she explained what the hearing was about. “They're worried it’ll harm marine life,” she told me.
  
  I thought about it for a second and said, “They’re going to kill the fish.”
  
  Her manager, sitting in the front seat, turned to me with a warm smile. “Why don’t you tell them that?”
  
  So, I did.
  
  At the hearing, they lowered the microphone to my height, and I stepped up with a pounding heart. I didn’t use scientific terms or complicated arguments. I just said what I felt—that this plan might hurt the fish, the ocean, and the place I call home, Huntington Beach. I spoke not just as a local resident, but as a kid who cared deeply about our Earth.
  
  That day, I discovered that even a nine-year-old could make a difference. My voice mattered. Since then, I’ve been part of many hands-on environmental efforts. My mom’s nonprofit organizes beach cleanups twice a month, and I’ve joined whenever I can. I’ve developed a specialty— collecting microplastics. Most people walk right past them, but I’ve learned how dangerous those tiny plastic pieces can be to marine life. Using a small sifter and tweezers, I carefully pick them up, piece by piece. It may seem like a small act, but every bit we remove helps.
  
  I’ve also participated in the Marine Protected Area (MPA) Watch program. With a clipboard in hand, I walked the shoreline alongside my mom, counting how many people were fishing, swimming, or boating in protected areas. Our data helps researchers and policymakers understand how these areas are being used—and how they can be better protected.
  
  One project that stands out is my work at the Santa Ana River Mouth, a nesting site for endangered birds like terns. Too often, people let their dogs run through these areas, not realizing they might scare the birds away during nesting season. I helped educate beachgoers about why it's important to keep dogs leashed and avoid restricted areas. It felt good to be part of a team working to protect both wildlife and public awareness—and I even got the chance to practice fishing there myself, though with no luck at all!
  
  Recently, I also signed the Climate Action Counts pledge. It’s a promise to take climate-friendly actions in daily life—like cutting back on single-use plastics, conserving energy, and spreading awareness. As I read through the list, I realized something powerful: I’ve already been living this pledge for years. Whether it's cleaning up microplastics, advocating for wildlife, or speaking at a public hearing, every small step has become part of my personal climate story.
  
  
  Even now, I continue to be fascinated by everything happening in the world of climate action. I feel incredibly lucky—not just because I’ve been involved in so many meaningful projects, but because I’ve seen how small actions can create real change.
  
  My journey started when I was nine. Today, I’m still on that path—one beach, one pledge, one voice at a time.