Sustainability

When I first moved to San Francisco, I felt like just another tech bro leech, slurping up overpriced coffee, making rents go up, sucking the life out of the city, and giving absolutely nothing back. I had the whole starter pack: pitch deck, startup hoodie, a head full of “move fast” mantras that sounded deep at the time but now feel like bad Twitter threads. I told myself I was “creating value,” but honestly, I was mostly just creating slides.

Somewhere along the way, I bought into the idea that if what you’re doing isn’t “scalable,” then it’s not worth doing.

You know the voice:

It’s a catchy mantra, but sometimes it blinds me from the stuff right in front of me, the things that don’t scale, don’t monetize neatly, and don’t promise unicorn exits. That little whisper in my head can make me dismiss real things (like the people planting trees in our park) while I chase hypothetical millions.

Then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, I went to an event organized by Nadine Hammer (half meetup, half community forum) where folks gathered to talk about sustainability and a new city project. I’ll admit it, my expectations were low. Who the hell shows up on a random weekday morning to talk about creeks and climate? But surprise: a lot of people did. Passionate, curious, caffeinated people.

Talking about coffee, you know that Starbucks gives free coffee for non-profit events? We got our portion of it. Nothing like free caffeine to fuel a conversation about creek restoration and circular economies.

So, I met (and re-met) folks doing the kind of work that doesn’t hit TechCrunch headlines. Hyper-local stuff (if that’s a category), like running a library program, upcycling fashion, or restoring a single overlooked stretch of creek. Tiny, unglamorous projects that keep the world stitched together in ways we only notice when they’re gone. These aren’t people waiting for Series A funding, they’re the ones showing up with gloves, clipboards, and a lot of stubbornness.

Take Civic Park in Walnut Creek. Have you been lately? Four volunteer-run organizations have been working there for years. Thanks to them, you can now actually see Walnut Creek’s creek (the few original pieces of it that survived). Years of persistence, patience, and picking up trash that no venture capitalist would fund. They didn’t need a growth strategy; they needed boots and trash bags.

One funny thing about this is that while I was helping a group of people plant and water oak trees in an open space restoration area around the city, the drought is so severe here that it’s really hard for those trees to survive. So my mind kept wandering.

I went back to the drawing board to come up with a solution that could make a huge impact in remote areas: automated irrigation drone stations powered by sunlight that charge and release drones 24/7 to collect water from a nearby pond and drop it on recently planted trees (inspired by Nathan’s project). The survival rate would increase greatly, and it could drastically reduce wildfires in the future, ping me if you have a billion-dollar check ;p

But something I was missing while dreaming about that is that part of the whole experience is to strengthen my bond with the city and make me pay more attention to my surroundings. Once you notice, you can’t un-notice. You start seeing these efforts everywhere. Someone teaching kids how to compost in a library basement. A group fixing up old bikes for free rides. Upcycling clothes workshop. Seniors everywhere picking up trail trash. None of it scales. All of it matters.

A small creek is where life starts. Water flows to rivers, to the bay, to the ocean. And, if you let it, it also flows to connections: to people, to ideas, to myself, to hope. It’s humbling to remember that something as overlooked as a trickle of water in a city park can link to everything downstream.

That brings me hope that… local work ripples outward… and that ripple is global…

That these small, stubborn efforts I may dismiss as “too local” are the ones that might actually matter. The ones that sneak under the radar while I’m busy pitching “the next big thing.”

Not everything needs a hockey-stick growth curve. Sometimes the curve is just water bending around rocks in a creek, reminding us that slowing down, changing course, and flowing steady can be its own kind of success. And honestly? That’s enough.

Fifteen years ago, I went down a rabbit hole that was mostly larvae. Specifically, Hermetia illucens, better known as Black Soldier Flies. I was obsessed. Not in the “cute pet bug” way, but in the “what if this insect could help save the world” kind of way. I read everything I could find, told anyone who would listen, and probably came uncomfortably close to trying one on toast.

Then, like most fixations that aren’t actively paying my rent, it faded into the background. The flies flew away and ruined my neighbor’s orange production. 🤷‍♂️

And now here they are again.

They’re buzzing through headlines as the next big thing in sustainable food systems. The BBC recently put out a piece painting them as miracle workers. They eat food waste at astonishing speed, turn it into compost and protein, and don’t demand much in return. No water. No land. No feelings about being farmed. It’s the kind of efficiency that makes engineers giddy and environmentalists hopeful.

Here’s the article if you want the sunny version:
😊 The little bug with a big appetite – BBC

But of course, it’s never that simple.

Another group, the Stray Dog Institute, offers a colder take. They argue that industrializing insect farming doesn’t magically clean up the ethics or the waste problem. Feeding bugs to livestock still props up factory farming. And food waste isn’t just a disposal issue. It’s systemic. Solving it with bugs may just be tech-washing a deeper problem.

Their article is here:
😞 Black Soldier Flies Are Not an Ideal Solution – Stray Dog Institute

So where does that leave me?

Still weirdly into these flies. Still not eating them. Still wondering if our future involves more systems thinking and fewer silver bullets. I think both articles are worth reading. The optimism and the criticism. The innovation and the discomfort. That’s usually where the real stuff lives.

What fascinates me most isn’t just the bugs. It’s the recurring pattern. We find something promising. We scale it. Then we realize scaling anything comes with trade-offs. Then we’re left to decide if the trade-offs are worth it or if we’re just trying to avoid the harder questions.

For now, I’m just glad the flies are back. And that I still care.