Preparing to Launch a Dragonfly

A founder’s glimpse into 2050 — and the quiet courage it takes to build it.

I have another pitch competition this week.
Just five minutes on stage.

That’s it.

And yet somehow, it feels like my whole body is hauling a aircraft carrier into position to release a dragonfly.

If you’ve ever tried to distill a world-changing idea into five minutes, an idea you’ve been nurturing for years, that 95% of people haven’t even thought about, you might understand the weight.

The quiet worry that creeps in, whispering,

“What if I lock up?” “What if I forget everything?” “What if no one cares?”

My daily mantra is “there is enough time.” I say it when I’m practicing the pitch.
When my brain races ahead or spirals into worst-case scenarios.

I say it when my shoulders start to inch up toward my ears.

It’s the same phrase I use when I meditate, a gentle reminder that urgency doesn’t have to mean panic. I imagine those anxious thoughts like leaves on a stream, drifting past. I don’t chase them.

Still… there’s that flicker. That question I can’t help but ask:

“Will this be it?”
“Will someone in the audience finally say, ‘Yes. I get it. I want to support this’?”

It’s a long shot. I know that. Most people don’t think about what happens to solar panels at the end of their life. Most don’t realize that without a plan, millions of tons of solar waste are heading for landfills. Most haven’t heard of Electra, or why I believe tracking these materials is one of the most hopeful things we can do for the future.

But I’m showing up anyway.

Because someone has to say it.
Someone has to paint the picture of what’s possible, not just what’s broken.

And so I’ll put on my fuchsia jacket, take the stage, and do what I always do: tell the truth as clearly and passionately as I can.

I’ll try to make people laugh. I’ll try to make them care.
Maybe it’ll be the fifth or tenth time they’ve heard this message before it sticks.
But that’s how it works, isn’t it?

One seed at a time.

This post isn’t about the pitch, though.
It’s about the story I hold in my heart when I step on that stage.
The vision that keeps me grounded.
The reason I keep going.

Come with me, just for a moment, to the year 2050.
Let me show you what the world could look like if Electra succeeds.

The Year is 2050. And Somehow… It Worked.

I’m 72 now.

That still sounds strange to say out loud. But here I am — silver hair, fuchsia jacket, and all — looking back on a life shaped by one big question:

What happens to all these solar panels when they die?

Electra started as a question. A worry, really. I had this gnawing feeling that we were building the clean energy future on a mountain of future waste.
And nobody had a plan.

So I made one.

I built a system to track every panel, from birth to rebirth, and to make sure we never lost them to a landfill again.

And you know what? It worked.

Now, in 2050, every panel installed since 2026 is registered. We passed a billion last year. You don’t even think about it anymore. We know where they are, how old they are, and where they’re going when they’re done. The idea that solar panels might end up in landfills is laughable now. They flow like water through a network of reuse hubs and local recyclers.

Tracking isn’t special anymore. It’s just normal.
Registration is just part of the installation workflow, similar to scanning barcodes at the grocery store.

Developers plan for takeback.
Reuse happens first.
Recycling is a clean, local last resort.

No more stockpiles. No more illegal dumping. No more Craigslist giveaways to someone’s uncle who “might do something with it.”

Panels flow.

We’ve got smart logistics, regional hubs, robots disassembling modules like clockwork. Our smelters are powered by solar and wind. And because we planned ahead, we don’t scramble for rare materials anymore. We melt down the old to build the new.

That’s what circularity really means — the loop is closed.

It didn’t fix everything. But it changed a lot.

The air’s cleaner. Kids in cities breathe easier. School buses and light rails hum instead of roar through towns. Solar farms are bee havens now, bursting with wildflowers and clover. We stopped spraying so much. We started planting differently. AI helps farmers decide when to irrigate.

Our food system is smarter. More regional. More resilient.

And Electra? It didn’t just track panels. It became an ecosystem in itself.

It helped manufacturers cut costs by planning for reuse. It helped recyclers get consistent volume and optimize their operations. It helped regulators enforce rules that actually meant something. And it helped communities, especially Indigenous nations, take ownership of their own energy systems.

We redirected money that used to go to landfills
and poured it into land restoration instead.

Cities began requiring manufacturers to account for the end of life for every product they sell. Kids learn about reuse cycles in middle school. Landfill bans are common. The idea of "planned obsolescence" is considered barbaric.

We’re still living in our little house in Bellingham, though it doesn’t feel so little anymore. We remodeled the back half years ago using reclaimed cedar and insulation made from hemp and denim. There's a passive heating loop, a lush “living” rooftop buzzing with pollinators, and a food cellar that stays cool year-round without the need for electricity. Our garage has been transformed into a tiny home, complete with solar tiles, a workout studio, and balcony windows that offer a peekaboo view of the ocean. Every corner of the space is intentional. We finally live the way I always dreamed: inside a system that makes sense.

Jobs shifted, too.

My son now runs a regenerative farm on 50 acres, with a restaurant and retreat center on-site. He’s a soil alchemist, feeding people and land at the same time.

My daughter inherited the part of me that speaks to crowds. She’s everywhere telling the story of circularity with fire in her voice, making people feel the stakes, the promise, the beauty.

My husband now teaches land restoration and pollinator ecology.
He never misses a planting day.

We still visit the farm in South America three times a year. It's a former cattle property we brought back to life, overrun with butterflies, mango trees, and beautiful people. We host global gatherings there: climate leaders, artists, tribal elders, students. Last year, we helped deliver land titles to protect 30,000 acres for the Achuar tribe. That was the promise I made decades ago, after sitting in ceremony with them: I will help you protect this land.

And I did. We did.

With electric canoes, solar cooling, and a deep respect for self-determination.

Sometimes I wonder, what if I had stayed afraid? What if I hadn’t made that first five-minute pitch? The one where I was terrified I’d forget my lines or go over time. The one that felt like a tanker ship trying to launch a dragonfly.

I’m so glad I did it anyway.

Because now, the world feels... better. Not perfect.

We still argue over screens. We still chase distractions. But there’s more space now for stillness. For awe. For slowness.

People linger in parks.
Compost is just... what you do.
Cities feel safer, cleaner, more alive.

We remembered how to live inside the rhythm of seasons, not just quarterly profits.

Electra didn’t save the world.
But it helped.

It made a critical part of our infrastructure finally reflect what we know to be true:

Waste is a design flaw, not a necessity.

Materials are relationships. That value doesn’t disappear — it just needs a path to return.

So here I am, 72 and strong, mountain biking on weekends, mentoring young founders who are trying to tackle the next big systemic mess. And when people ask how we got here, I tell them the truth:

It started with a question nobody wanted to ask.

It grew with each person brave enough to believe it could be different.

And it worked, not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.

What we did, what we’re doing…
It gives the next generation something solid to stand on.

We know what to do with broken things.

And somehow, that changes everything.

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