Slug Club → Community Resilience
Reflections on early environmental activism and the community roots of resilience planning
A few days ago was Earth Day, and I’ve been thinking back to when I was about eight years old and decided—quite seriously—that I was going to save the rainforest.
It was the early '90s. I had the movies Free Willy and FernGully on repeat and there was a wave of environmental storytelling that was shaping young minds everywhere (Captain Planet, anyone?). I grew up in a household where the unofficial motto was: leave the world better than you found it. So, with the full conviction of a second-grader and the backing of my best friends (then and now - shout out Olivia and Alyson), we got to work.
Thus, the Slug Club was born.
The Slug Club Origins
We were a self-titled environmental task force, headquartered on Vashon Island, with one ambitious goal: save the rainforest.* Our plan? Fundraise, of course. Through extensive deliberation, we decided to donate all proceeds to the WWF (World Wildlife Fund)—that iconic panda logo was very convincing to our eight-year-old sensibilities.
We hosted bake sales funded and supplied by our parents’ pantry. The goods were… let’s say: well-intended. Brick-like brownies, runny flan, and some slightly over-sugared cookies. But the passion was real.
One of the most memorable customers was a tired mom with a crying baby. She took pity, or perhaps saw our vision, and bought the entire flan. A win for the rainforest.
*Yes, kissing a slug was part of the onboarding process.
Guerrilla Gardening, Sort Of
The Slug Club’s environmentalism didn’t stop at baked goods. One day, we discovered my dad was using salt and slug bait in the garden - and could not stand back and do nothing. Our name-sake was on the line. We took action. We threw away the bait and decidedly did not cover our tracks well. My dad quickly found out and was disappointed (cue disappointed dad face) and explained that this was, in fact, not okay. But instead of shutting us down, my mom encouraged us to find another solution.
So we did. We began relocating slugs—one by one—to the far side of the property. Slugs, we reasoned, are slow. Surely they wouldn’t come back.
This was early organizing. And maybe early systems thinking, too—clumsy, curious, imperfect. But earnest. Always earnest.
Then and Now
It’s not surprising, then, to find myself now working on climate and environmental issues—trying to build more sustainable and just futures in creative, collaborative ways.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about what we mean by resilience. Not just as a policy term or infrastructure plan, but as a community network. At King County, we’re exploring what it means to support resilience hubs—spaces that are locally rooted, publicly accessible, and able to serve communities before, during, and after crises. I recently met with a group representing five different jurisdictions to talk about these very questions. No one had to kiss a slug. But everyone showed up with curiosity and care.
The world feels a lot more complicated now than it did when I was eight. But even then, I remember wondering: How will we actually get the money to the rainforest? How do we know what they’ll do with it? That impulse—toward transparency, evaluation, learning—is something I’ve carried with me. It’s shaped my work in climate planning, governance, and community-led adaptation.
From bake sales on Vashon to resilience hubs in King County, from saving slugs to coordinating cross-jurisdictional planning meetings, it’s been a wild ride. My path has taken me from the Pacific Northwest to Ukraine, Estonia, Wales, Barcelona, and the Bay Area—and back again.
And while I’m not sure what the future holds, I’m here for it. Alongside you. Holding on tight.
Buckle up.
Until next time.