We were watching National Geographic together, something we had done for most of his life. We love nature documentaries, especially those narrated by David Attenborough, and I have always enjoyed watching my son’s curiosity grow as he learns about the animals and places that make our world so extraordinary.
That day, we came across footage of a starving polar bear in the Canadian Arctic, filmed by SeaLegacy photographers Paul Nicklen and Cristina Mittermeier. The bear was emaciated, struggling to find food. We couldn’t know from the footage why this particular bear was starving.
We were both upset by what we were seeing. It was heartbreaking to watch an animal suffer, especially one my little boy was only just learning to understand.
I wanted to give him an answer that was honest but also hopeful. Our conversation broadened to other ways people affect animals and their habitats, including the plastic that ends up in their environments and the oceans. I tried to explain that, although we cannot solve every problem ourselves, we all have a part to play in shaping the world around us.
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What struck me most wasn’t simply that he was upset by the footage. It was that his first instinct was to ask how we could help.
As his mother, I wanted to nurture that instinct. I also found myself thinking about how to help him understand difficult things without making him feel that the world was a frightening or hopeless place.
My son was born prematurely, and our time in the NICU shaped me in ways that are difficult to put into words. Bringing him home was an enormous relief and a moment of deep gratitude. Becoming a mother had already made me more aware of how vulnerable life can be, and that experience intensified my instinct to protect him.
When you love a child that much, you want to shield them from suffering. You want their childhood to be full of wonder, safety, and possibility. Yet children eventually encounter the difficult parts of life, too. They see animals struggling, learn about pollution, and ask questions that don’t always have easy answers.
I’ve come to realize that protecting my son cannot mean hiding every uncomfortable truth from him. Instead, I want to help him understand those truths in a way that encourages compassion, curiosity, and hope.
I don’t want him to believe the world is beyond saving. I want him to believe it is worth caring for.
Since that afternoon, I’ve noticed how much more aware he has become. Now five, he sometimes points out products we could buy without single-use plastic or suggests alternatives when we are shopping. These moments remind me that children are listening, observing, and making connections long before we might expect them to.
I don’t think he needs to understand every detail of environmental problems at his age. He doesn’t need to carry the weight of them. But I love that he is beginning to understand that our choices matter and that caring for animals and the planet can be part of our everyday lives.
Those conversations also helped inspire me to start Ocean Rise, a reusable lunch product business for children. At the time, I was struggling to find a lunchbox that combined the materials I wanted with the practicality our family needed. I didn’t start Ocean Rise because I believed a lunchbox could solve plastic pollution. I started it because I wanted to do something constructive with the concerns I had as a mother.
I want families to feel encouraged rather than judged. I don’t believe parents have to make every choice perfectly to make a difference, and I don’t want environmental awareness to become another source of guilt for already overwhelmed families. I want it to feel like an invitation to learn, try something new, and do what we can.
Read: Guilt Has Always Been Part of My Motherhood Experience (And That’s Normal)
I still think about that polar bear and the question my son asked me. I wish I could tell him that we’ve solved the problems that cause animals to suffer. We haven’t. There is so much work left to do, and I know that no single family or business can do it alone.
But I can show him that when something upsets us, we can respond with compassion. We can ask questions, learn more, make thoughtful choices, and find ways to help. We can care without giving in to despair.
I cannot promise my son a perfect world. What I hope I can give him is a deep appreciation for the one we have, the confidence to believe his actions matter, and the understanding that even when a problem feels enormous, there is value in beginning somewhere.
I hope he never loses that instinct to care. And I hope that, as he grows, I can keep helping him turn it into something hopeful.
