Heidi Sevestre

As a glaciologist, I am driven by a deep desire to understand the cryosphere — one of the most remote, fragile, and least-known components of our planet. Ice still holds countless mysteries: how glaciers surge, how tropical glaciers are disappearing, how Antarctic ice sheets store their history, and how quickly they are now changing. Much of my work, from polar expeditions to tropical mountain field campaigns, seeks to answer these unresolved questions. The more we uncover, the clearer it becomes how profoundly these frozen regions shape our climate, our coastlines, our water resources, and the lives of millions.

But knowledge alone is not enough. Early in my career, I realized that research has no impact unless it is shared, understood, and felt. This has shaped my mission as much as the science itself. I see exploration not just as a physical act, but as a bridge — connecting the ends of the Earth to the people who will determine its future. Through outreach, education, documentaries, and public engagement, I try to make the cryosphere accessible, relatable, and inspiring. Because when people truly grasp what ice is, what it does, and what we stand to lose, something shifts. They want to act.

My hope for the future is simple: that science and exploration continue to spark this sense of connection and responsibility. That the cryosphere — so distant and yet so essential — becomes central in the choices we make. And that by bringing its stories to light, we can help protect what remains, while empowering new generations to carry this work forward.

Glaciology is a small field with an enormous responsibility. We study one of the most vulnerable and consequential parts of the Earth system, and the future of our discipline depends on how boldly and creatively we evolve. My hope is that glaciology becomes increasingly open — open to new scientific approaches, open to collaborations across disciplines, and open to rethinking how we conduct and communicate research in a rapidly changing world.

One urgent priority is reducing the environmental footprint of our work. Studying disappearing ice while relying on highly polluting logistics is a contradiction we must address. Human-powered or low-impact field methods — like the kite-ski expedition I am currently undertaking — demonstrate that ambitious science is still possible while dramatically reducing emissions. We need more of that creativity and willingness to “walk the walk.”

I also hope we deepen our collaboration with local and Indigenous communities wherever they exist. Their knowledge systems, long-term observations, and cultural relationships with ice offer insights that Western science alone cannot provide. Blending these perspectives enriches our understanding of glaciers as both physical and cultural entities.

But perhaps the greatest leap forward would be transforming how our field communicates. Ice has an incredible ability to move people — visually, emotionally, symbolically. When communities, leaders, or children understand what the cryosphere is and why it matters, something shifts. Trust grows. Action becomes possible. Through documentaries, public talks, artistic collaborations, and large-scale educational programs like the one we are running now, glaciology can bridge the gap between scientific knowledge and societal change.