Beyond the Shoreline: The Emotional Cost of Being “The Only One” in Ocean Spaces
From the first time I slipped on a snorkel mask in Trinidad, I knew the ocean was home.
The weightlessness, the silence, the life that pulsed beneath the surface – it was magic. But pursuing marine science revealed something I hadn’t expected: just how lonely that home could feel. In lecture halls, labs, and research trips, I often found myself the only Caribbean person in the room. The only Trinidadian. Sometimes, the only person of colour.
That kind of underrepresentation doesn’t just whisper "you don’t belong" – it shouts it. Isolation set in. I questioned my place in spaces that seemed carved out for others. Imposter syndrome followed, persistent and sharp. Was I smart enough? Was I only here because they needed a diversity box ticked? And worst of all: what if I failed and closed the door for those coming after me?
Carrying your whole community on your shoulders feels heavy when you’re already swimming against the current. Every mistake felt magnified. Every success felt like it had to be perfect. I wasn’t just doing this for me – I was representing my family, my island, my story. I remember once, during a presentation on Sargassum, a lecturer made a throwaway comment that dismissed its impact, as though it were an abstract issue – as if I hadn’t lived it, as if I hadn’t seen the shores of my home blanketed in thick mats of it, choking the coastline, affecting fishers and families alike. It stung. Another time, another lecturer told me I was "surprisingly articulate for someone from the Caribbean." I laughed it off at the time, but later I cried. Because in that moment, I felt like a curiosity, not a colleague. I felt like I was being reduced to a stereotype, a novelty, rather than being seen as the scientist I had worked so hard to become.
There were days when I came home exhausted, not from the work itself, but from the emotional toll of constantly feeling like I had to prove I belonged. Like I had to shrink parts of myself to fit the mould of what a scientist "should" look or sound like. But slowly, I found lifelines. A Caribbean mentor reminded me that my voice matters. Organizations like Black in Marine Science showed me I wasn’t alone. Even a WhatsApp message from home or a pot of pelau on a hard day grounded me in the why. My culture wasn’t something to shed; it was the root holding me steady.
The sea itself became a source of healing.
On the hardest days, I’d go to the coast, breathe in the salt air, and let the waves remind me of my place in the world. The ocean didn’t care about my passport or my accent. It held me with the same grace it held everyone. And that gave me strength to keep going.
Community, too, made all the difference. I found other students, especially those from small island states or Indigenous communities, who felt the same way. We formed our own little flotilla of support – checking in on each other, celebrating the wins, holding space for the tears. Together, we reminded each other that our presence in this field is powerful. That our stories enrich the science. That our lived experiences give us insight textbooks can't teach.
The truth is, the emotional cost of being "the only one" in ocean spaces is real. It’s exhausting. But it has also shaped me into someone resilient, deeply connected, and determined to open the door wider. Because I know that somewhere, another island kid is staring at the sea, dreaming.
And they deserve to see themselves in this field.
Not as the only one.
But as one of many. As part of a wave that’s rising.
But personal isolation is only one part of the story.
Beneath it lies a deeper legacy—one that shapes who gets to speak for the sea, and who’s been silenced.