“Everything you imagine is real.” It’s a quote by Pablo Picasso that I often have on my mind. When the grandiose (and possibly overambitious) idea for the Edges of Earth expedition first surfaced, it was no more than a tiny seed planted in my imagination. Its growth, however, would depend on the answer to one question: could we really plan, launch, and execute a 24-month global expedition, around the earth and back again.

The goal wasn’t one of luxury or conquest, nor was it a leisurely jaunt. We’d aim for the most economical and sustainable routes while partnering with communities, organisations, and individuals in remote and interesting places where ocean and terrestrial conservation was the heartbeat of their work. We sought to uncover what climate change’s effects were in the places it wreaks the most havoc, and what exactly the people there were doing about it.

The first step to making this dream a reality was to seek the wisdom of those who’d embarked on similar journeys, and I remember this ‘brainstorming phase’ vividly. In April 2022, I was in Fiji on a dive expedition exploring the soft coral capital of the world, Taveuni. Between some incredible dives – like my first sight of the Great White Wall on Rainbow Reef – and conversations with locals about their connection to the sea, I felt the initial sparks of possibility. Then, something jarring happened: I was bitten by a bug. 

While it sounds neither unexpected nor spectacular, to my utter surprise it left me the sickest I’d ever been. Barely able to speak, on an island with no hospital or care support, I pitched the Edges of Earth idea to leaders of The Explorers Club New York chapter on a video call (while being taken care of by that very same team who took me diving). The club’s response? The idea had potential, but I needed a REAL plan, not just a seed. 

When I recovered, I armed myself with a fledgling presentation and newfound resolve, and began reaching out to a seasoned network of explorers and documentarians who had spent decades capturing the natural world. Their feedback wasn’t about logistics or planning – it was about me. Their concerns were all the same: how could someone so young, with no formal field experience, pull off an ocean-focused expedition of this scale?

What I thought they’d focus on – the logistics – was surprisingly not the sticking point. Instead, it was my background. As a corporate strategist from the East Coast with a history of climbing the ladder in the business world, I didn’t fit their mould of a ‘true’ diver, marine biologist, or explorer. Every dinner conversation, every call, every meeting with these individuals seemed to reinforce the same idea: I wasn’t qualified, ready, or even the right person for the task. 

This recurring feedback left me wondering what it even meant to be truly qualified as an explorer. After all, isn’t exploration about curiosity, drive, and discovery – qualities that belong to all of us? Those doubts from others only fuelled my interest (and perhaps stubbornness) in going further. While they were all saying ‘no’, all I could hear was a firm ‘yes’. 

The next phase of imagination demanded deep soul-searching. What would it really take to make this happen? The answer was equally daunting as it was invigorating: extensive training in wilderness survival, next-level diving, and safety; relentless research and outreach; forming partnerships; self-funding the expedition to maintain independence; and crafting a vision that aligned with both our purpose and the world’s urgent need for climate action. Over the next year, while running my consulting business from Australia and navigating a 12-hour time difference with U.S. clients, my collaborator, partner, husband – Adam Moore – and I began piecing together the framework for a 24-month global journey.