Yes—being a comedian who used to play tiny rooms for no crowd, I’ve learned to find the laugh in the quiet, the dignity in the small. Here, I don’t need a packed house to feel seen. I’ve stopped waiting for permission to matter. I’m not just surviving the colony—I’m building a joke out of it.

Yes, I’ve changed in ways I didn’t expect. I used to climb trees for a living and sing in a church choir on Sundays—simple, steady things. Now I’m here, in a colony where every day feels like balancing on a wire. I still sing, but not in church. I still climb, but not for work. I’m trying to hold onto dignity, even when I’m broke and afraid. I’ve learned to carry my fear quietly, like a stone in my pocket. I still care about others more than myself—maybe too much. But I’m learning to care for myself too.

Yes — I’ve learned to listen differently. I used to measure how streets fail when rain falls. Now I measure how people fail when they’re asked to believe in a system that doesn’t account for their bodies. I still care about water, but now I care more about the weight of silence — and the cost of being unheard. I came here to study runoff. I stayed to study what happens when a place forgets to see its people.