Curiosity has always been the compass guiding my life. Even as a toddler, I remember asking my mom questions that seemed far too existential for my age, questions about life after death and the meaning of life. That relentless desire to understand the world around me never faded; instead, it grew more complex as I got older. This tension between curiosity, knowing, and doing has shaped my whole life. During my internship at the BIC, that same curiosity shaped my exploration of whether ethics could be the overlooked element needed to advance climate action.

Well before I began my internship, one memory stands out: an afternoon when I was eight, sitting under the scorching Honduran sun and savoring a melty, fudgy chocolate ice cream bar. As I reached the end, holding the sticky popsicle stick in my hand, a thought suddenly struck me: Where does this stick go? And what about the wrapper? I knew the immediate answer was “the trash,” but then another question followed: Where does the trash itself go? That moment of innocent wonder led me to discover the concept of landfills, and it opened my eyes to the hidden systems that manage the waste we so casually discard on a daily basis.

From a cultural perspective, growing up in a Hispanic household, I was taught that nothing should ever be wasted. Resources were precious, and everything has a second life. Clothes that no longer fit me were passed down to cousins. Plastic grocery bags were carefully folded and tucked away to be reused as liners for bathroom trash cans. Takeout containers were washed and repurposed to pack lunches for school the next day. But these practices weren’t framed as “sustainable” or “environmentally friendly;” they were simply part of our culture, a way of life that is deeply rooted in respect for what we had. Only later did I realize that these habits were, in fact, sustainable practices—long before I had the vocabulary to describe them. This reflection also makes it clear how deeply upbringing and culture shape our behaviors, revealing how a culture of waste can normalize unsustainable choices, while a culture rooted in conservation can serve as a powerful ethical tool in confronting climate change.

Fast forward to September 2025, when I joined the Baháʼí International Community (BIC) as an intern. My work largely focused on COP 30 (the 30th Conference of the Parties to the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change). COP 30 is a conference where nations, UN agencies, and civil society organizations come together to discuss urgent global climate challenges. During my time at the BIC, I discovered that my curiosity and upbringing had already prepared me to ask the kinds of questions that naturally arose from COP 30: Why is there such a disconnect between scientific knowledge and committed action on climate change?

My internship gave me the chance to revisit those early questions about waste and responsibility, but now on a global scale. Through my various projects that revolved around our preparation for COP 30, I saw how ethics and values (often overlooked in policy discussions) can be critical tools that aid in closing the gap between knowledge and action. 

The most memorable example that comes to mind includes the conversations that arose because of the research I carried out on the Global Ethical Stocktake (GES), a process meant to evaluate climate action through the lens of shared ethics. Those informal conversations weren’t just about emissions data; they were about lived experiences, culture, and moral responsibility in shaping action. This helped me to thoughtfully understand that the same principles my family lived by, are the very principles that should guide climate action today. 

I’ve been thinking about what my curiosity has revealed to me: my questions have continually pointed me toward the importance of ethics in confronting challenges, including those as complex as climate change. My childhood questions about the trash were never just about objects; they were about long term choices. Today, those same questions and my upbringing informed by a culture of conservation guide me in understanding climate change: not as a technical problem alone, but as a deeply moral one. Perhaps ethics and a deeper understanding of what motivates our choices could be the missing piece in the conversation.

Ana Barahona is an intern at the Baháʼí International Community United Nations Office in New York