Where We Became Resilient: A Brooklyn Reflection

I left the auditorium yesterday with a full heart and a sharpened sense of purpose.

It wasn’t just the event itself—though it was beautifully curated, thoughtful, and powerful. It was the feeling of being in a room filled with people who are rooted. Not just professionally, but personally. People who weren’t speaking about “community” as a concept—they were speaking from inside it.

And when people are rooted, you know. Their words land differently. They use simple language, but every sentence carries weight. Their body speaks too—carrying the posture, pauses, and gestures of so many other voices that were once silent. Elders. Mothers. Friends gone too soon. People who didn’t make it to the mic, but shaped the message all the same.

As someone who grew up in an immigrant household, I’ve felt what it means to navigate systems not built for us. I know what it’s like to depend on food stamps. To carry the silence of mental illness through generations. To help raise siblings while trying to hold your own center. To wonder if safety, health, or rest will ever be yours without condition.

Brooklyn is where I learned all of that—and where I learned to rise anyway. This borough taught me that resilience isn’t glamorous. It’s quiet. It’s earned.

It’s asking for help in the time of need.

It’s watching your neighbor’s kid, its opening a small business not for profit but for the benefit of the community. It’s turning public libraries into sanctuaries. It’s calling someone just to check in. It’s refusing to give up, even when systems don’t make it easy to stay.

And the truth is: community needs are many—and they stack up quickly.

That’s often what builds resistance to change. Not because people don’t want better, but because they’re already carrying so much. When survival feels like the baseline, uncertainty—even hopeful uncertainty—can feel like a threat. That’s why trust matters. That’s why the process has to center lived experience.

That’s why the energy transition work we’re doing across New York has to go beyond technology. We can’t just engineer clean energy—we have to design for belonging. And that starts by listening to those of us who’ve lived through the gaps: the ones who understand what “resilient infrastructure” really means because we’ve had to become resilient ourselves.

Brooklyn isn’t just a cultural center—it’s a crucible of innovation, made powerful by the people who’ve stayed, endured, and led through love. It’s a college town, a creative engine, and a frontline community all at once. The wisdom here doesn’t just come from books or labs. It comes from kitchens, sidewalks, bodegas, prayer circles, and block parties. It’s alive.

So when we talk about clean energy, workforce development, affordability, or grid equity—we need to ask: Who are we building for? And who are we building with?

Innovation without inclusion isn’t just incomplete—it’s unjust. Where I was born is part of my story. But it’s not what defines me. Where I became resilient is what I align with.

And I am proud—and humbled—to say:

I am from Brooklyn.

A place strong enough

To raise a family,

and brave enough

to build a community.