Sophia Domingues

The Amazon, Brazil, has been my life’s work and love, a legacy passed down from my mother, an indigenous woman from a village near Manaus, and my father, a scientist from São Paulo. They moved us to the city when I was young, but I never forgot the rainforest’s rhythm, the timeless cycles of life that seemed as steady as the flow of the river itself. I studied biology, diving into the mysteries of photosynthesis, animal migrations, and the hidden communication of roots and fungi. Now, at 80, I find it painful to look at what’s happening here.

Last October, I watched the Rio Negro recede to an unheard-of low. Normally, the rains would have raised its waters by now, but barely a drop fell, leaving the banks cracked and dry. Communities along the river were stranded without supplies. In Tefé, over 200 dolphins were found dead in Lake Tefé, their bodies floating, overheated in the 40-degree waters. The river can no longer support the people, the creatures, the forest that have depended on it for millennia.

Sometimes I think of how naive I once was, believing the Amazon would always find a way to heal itself. I spent decades watching it endure, resilient even against logging and fires. But now, it’s clear—its patience has limits. Each year, the seasons turn harsher, the rain less reliable, and the fires more aggressive. Every acre lost is like another heart giving out, and I wonder if we’re nearing the final beat.

Part of me holds anger for what’s been done here. The forest has been sacrificed to greed, torn open for resources without a thought to the lives that depend on it. Some days, I feel only exhaustion, a sense of helplessness in the face of such relentless damage. And yet, there are still moments when the forest surprises me with its resilience. It seems to be waiting, holding out hope that perhaps we’ll remember our responsibility to this land before it’s too late.