Written on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

Lately, I’ve been waking up at night with a sense of dread and unease. Most people say, “Yeah, Anneliese, that’s menopause,” and I’m like—no, this is something else. This is a hidden sense of awareness of reality as it truly is right now. I’ve been asking myself why it is that I can’t watch videos of whales, turtles, or sea sharks anymore. My favourite things to watch as a child—I was obsessed with images of these great sea gods. Now, if one comes up, I scroll past. It’s these nights of dread that have given me insight into what is subtle behind these fears.

I’m living with a deep sense of guilt and an even deeper sense of sadness, because I know we are destroying the planet. Actually, I’ve always known this—it’s something I’ve had to pretend wasn’t happening my whole life. But what’s becoming strikingly obvious is that we are. I am feeling the life draining from the oceans. I write this as I look out to my beloved East Coast, the place where my love affair with Tangaroa and Hine Moana began. It’s here, with my feet in these crystal-clear waters, that I can see and feel the absence of life. The dying process has been so gradual that many people haven’t even noticed. But where, as a child, I would play with seashells and crabs, now there are none. No shells on the beach to make garlands and wind chimes. No crabs in the estuary to make crab hotels and to learn about creatures.

When I was a child, the rock pools at the ends of the beaches were thick with life. Now, a few hardy parasites live on, but ultimately the life is gone.

I knew—I know—that if the temperature of the ocean rises, we will lose sea turtles. Maybe you, too, can feel the grief that lives behind that fact, inside that fact. For me, it hits my stomach, tightens my throat, and tears flow. Sea turtles. Sea turtles are like elephants in the way they carry an ancient presence. I had the fortune of seeing one in the wild in 2025, and it was majestic—its shell covered in algae and dirt, moving through the ocean like an angel. Its angelic presence gave me the clue as to why they had always been such an enigmatic animal in my life. That glimpse of clarity was a moment of connection to the greater wave of life.

On some level, do I have to believe that we can turn this around? On some level, do I have to believe that this is the end? What can I do? That’s the question. That’s always been the question—what can I do? Writing this is one small action that allows me to feel more deeply the truth of what has been under the surface this whole holiday. But still—what can I do?

I stand at the water’s edge, the beautiful ocean laughing at my feet, the sun dancing on her surface. I’m reminded that I am a dreamer, and a dreamer’s superpower is the ability to dream and imagine—and therefore create. Tears roll down my cheeks in the sunlight. I catch them like ideas, like beautiful ideas. I begin to dream of the ocean. I dream of her digesting our waste and cleaning herself. I dream of humans waking up and aligning themselves with a vision of a healed Earth. I begin to see healing—the healing of a traumatised race of beings coming back to their indigenous roots, coming back to a sense of identity and connection to this magnificent wave of life that is the planet. I see hearts opening. I see eyes opening. I see a new balance being restored.

This is the vision.

As a new day comes, and the New Year full of hope begins, I commit to being a visionary of a healed Earth.

Quan Yin and the Sea Turtle – Anneliese Kuegler.