In My Oceans: Essays of Water, Whales, and Women, author Christina Rivera Cogswell dives into the intersections of motherhood, eco-feminism and environmental grief with both urgency and poetry. Through stories that are intimate yet expansive, the Edwards, Colorado-based writer reveals how caring deeply for our planet can feel as personal as caring for our own bodies. As this issue of Well. explores the theme of embody, Cogswell’s work offers a vivid reminder that love, loss and resilience live not only in our minds, but in our skin, our breath and our daily choices. We spoke with her about the inspirations behind her book, the challenges of writing it and the ways she hopes readers will carry its message forward.

What first inspired you to write My Oceans, and how did you decide to structure the book and weave together memoir, science and eco-feminism?

My 16 years working in the field of international experiential education took me to oceans around the world, and what I witnessed underwater left me speechless. But words are my trade and so — with this book — I wanted to explore my awe, my wonder and also my concern for what might disappear if we don’t notice. The Leatherback Turtle, the Manta Ray, the Sperm Whale, the Great Barrier (and other) reefs, are just a few of the magical creatures and ecosystems currently struggling under the immense weight of human impacts. Science can feel stark when relayed in only facts. So I wrote into the stories of these watery beings and places I love, by the way of my own (watery) body and enmeshed experiences. The final book was much more “memoir” than I set out to share. But I simply could not separate my “mothering body” from the mothering body of the planet. I saw only the confluence and wrote right into it! 

Could you share how embodiment played a role in your writing process — did embodying particular emotions or experiences guide your narrative choices in My Oceans?

I wanted my book to capture experiences of “embodied environment” and for the pages to vibrate with emotions — fear, overwhelm, rage, delight and reverence. To do that, I had to dwell in feelings, some effervescent, some awkward, some painful. I didn’t quite realize the heavy lifting — of the writer or the reader — in holding these big emotions. People often share that they have cried reading this book, but I do feel that those tears — sourced in a shared love for our natural world — honor the Earth. They are also often repressed tears! It’s hard to stare directly at the hurts of the earth. But denial can be even more painful in suppressed ways. So the expression of grief, in tandem with our love, can be such a relief. Or so I hear from readers. And knowing you’re not alone, can also feel so healing! The shared resonance can open doors to shared concern, shared motivation to care and (hopefully!) a collective drive to protect what we love.

Your book parallels systems that control women’s bodies with those that exploit the Earth. How can embracing embodiment become a form of resistance or healing?

When I read today’s headlines, I see a lot of institutional grasping to dominate our environment (and similar efforts to control the bodies of women, marginalized people and voiceless species). Yet I also feel the readiness in our community body for a collective shift — from controlling to caring. I believe that care-taking (be it children, art, gardens, old growth trees, oceans, animals or anything else beautiful and threatened) makes a life worth living, and that fighting to protect what we love is worthy, regardless the outcome. To care is to resist the powers that don’t care. In this fast and distracted world, that feels deliciously subversive. And a community that unites in the name of caring? That’s the uprising I want most to see in the world.

Now that the book is out in the world, what has surprised you most about how readers are connecting with it?

My press slapped the label of “memoir” on the back of My Oceans two weeks before the book went to print. At the time, it shocked me. But now I see it too. It was a vulnerable book to write, and also to publish and share with the world. But I love vulnerability. It’s what makes us tender and strips us down to our strings of DNA (of which we share 94% with dogs, 80% with whales and 60% with bananas). What has surprised and warmed me most in this book journey is how readers have embraced that vulnerability and tenderness — and reflected it back.

Kim Fuller
Publisher + Editor-In-Chief
@lifeinfull

Originally published in the winter + spring 2025-26 issue of Well.