What does it mean for a tree to die from within? As I’ve been tracing wood decay through the trunks of living trees for the past five months, I’ve found myself questioning how organisms confront the concealed challenges that threaten communities—and how both humans and trees grow in the face of struggle.

Life makes the most sense to me when I’m surrounded by towering trees, where the brightest leaves thrive among the tiniest lichen. Growing up immersed in dense temperate forests, I’ve been captivated by the harmony in which different organisms coexist. This curiosity has fueled my commitment to understanding mechanisms of biodiversity throughout my academic career. With the opportunity to study microbial-induced decay of tropical trees at the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI), I began to see challenges not as threats but as transformative forces. Decay itself nurtures growth and connection in unexpected ways.

What does it mean for a tree to die from within? As I’ve been tracing wood decay through the trunks of living trees for the past five months, I’ve found myself questioning how organisms confront the concealed challenges that threaten communities—and how both humans and trees grow in the face of struggle.

Life makes the most sense to me when I’m surrounded by towering trees, where the brightest leaves thrive among the tiniest lichen. Growing up immersed in dense temperate forests, I’ve been captivated by the harmony in which different organisms coexist. This curiosity has fueled my commitment to understanding mechanisms of biodiversity throughout my academic career. With the opportunity to study microbial-induced decay of tropical trees at the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (STRI), I began to see challenges not as threats but as transformative forces. Decay itself nurtures growth and connection in unexpected ways.
 

Deep within the forest of Barro Colorado Island (BCI), the rhythmic tapping of our PiCUS hammer was often interrupted by the threatening echo of snapping branches, before the thunderous crash of an ancient tree succumbing to gravity. These moments of destruction were reminders of the interplay between life and death. The decayed, central wood that weakened each fallen giant allowed precious light to reach the seedlings below, patiently waiting for their turn to grow. Its decaying biomass enriched the soil with nutrients, and nourished vast communities of organisms. I witnessed how death and decay is not the ultimate end; it’s the beginning of reinvented life.

A single tree can host diverse fungal communities within its wood, each species playing a distinct role and interacting in ways that shape entire forest communities. Our research focused on heart rot, the decay of wood inside living trees catalyzed by disease-causing fungi. These fungi can infiltrate trees through open wounds or their roots. Their mycelia largely remain hidden as they colonize different parts of the trees, sometimes branching and connecting underground. These mycelia are fascinating networks that are the primary structure for fungi growth. Once the fungi take hold, and the environmental conditions are just right, they appear as diverse fruiting bodies, the reproductive parts of fungi. Documenting the fungal diversity hosted by tree species is vital to understanding varying decay rates and the redistribution of resources throughout the forest. These little organisms are vast in their effects, sustaining and connecting entire forest communities. By assessing the internal state of over 1,400 trees across 172 species, we revealed how heart rot varies across individuals, species, and the community, with tree life histories playing a role. This research helps predict how ecosystems will respond to stressors, like climate change and disease, which have cascading effects on biodiversity, ecosystem services, and the well-being of communities worldwide.

With sap-stained fingers, countless mosquito bites, and spider webs braided in our hair, the Achy Breaky Hearts team became part of the forest’s dynamics. Hauling the heavy PiCUS sonic tomography equipment up to BCI’s 50-hectare ForestGEO plot, where all trees have been documented and measured for over 40 years, our fieldwork shaped our minds and bodies. Over time, we formed our own mycelial network, understanding each other’s unspoken cues and drawing strength from shared stories. Our connection to each other became as essential to our work as the compass guiding us to our target trees. Together, we faced the forest’s unpredictability, taking measurements while balanced on steep slopes, working through the tangles of vining lianas, dodging biting acacia ants, and escaping tropical storms.

We used sonic tomography at two heights to assess trunk health, measuring the speed of sound waves traveling through the wood and generating a colorful image of its integrity. The images reveal stories about the tree’s risk of snapping, presence of heart rot, and even its carbon storage. Similarly, I encountered a rich diversity in the stories of the island’s residents. Living among a community of scientists and storytellers, we shared eye-opening perspectives and ideas over meals. Away from distractions, I was immersed in this vibrant mosaic of people, who showed me how to embrace differences by focusing on our shared goals in science and the impact we hope to achieve. Some of the most valuable insights came from local and Latin American scientists whose deep understanding of the land shaped their approach to research. In what felt like enough time on the island, but not enough spent in each other's company, our team successfully completed our trunk decay census and gathered a range of tropical fungi responsible for wood decay. The collection of colorful tomographies, preserved fungal specimens, and memories were evidence of the island’s uncovered treasures.

As my time ended on BCI, I carried the island’s teachings to a global stage at the United Nations Biodiversity Conference (COP16) in Cali, Colombia. This opportunity was a full-circle moment. Just an hour's plane ride away from Panama, Cali is home to my extended family—my community whose love has sustained me throughout my life. Landing in Cali, I was welcomed by COP16 signs and volunteers, participants from around the world, and a warm bowl of sancocho, an emblem of my family’s affection. This being my first time in Colombia alone, I felt my family's endless care and encouragement through my grandmother's daily cafecitos, my uncles' readiness to take me anywhere, and my aunt's constant support. She and I joined the lively Green Zone of COP16, where the heart of Cali transformed into an environmental festival. With thousands participating, El Boulevard del Río was alive with cultural performances, NGO displays, and discussions on biodiversity.

My favorite event, Tejiendo Conocimientos Para una Conservación Biocultural (Weaving Knowledge for Biocultural Conservation), stood out as an introspective conversation led by local indigenous leaders. These leaders, with centuries of knowledge passed down through generations, reminded us that biodiversity and humanity are inseparable. Meaningful environmental research, they emphasized, requires recognizing the reciprocal relationships between people and the land.

This engagement took another shape during the ongoing global-decision making debates in the COP16’s Negotiation Zone. With my limited experience in science diplomacy, this was a rare chance to see where many scientists hope their findings can shape global biodiversity action. Participating on behalf of the Global Youth Biodiversity Network, the voices of young people like me joined those of diplomats and experts to shape the Global Biodiversity Framework.

As someone who hopes to use my environmental research career to address climate change, this experience was a wake-up call to the complexities of global cooperation toward a common goal. Sitting in the vast auditorium, surrounded by hundreds of representatives from around the world, I noticed just how small I am in the scope of international action. Yet, witnessing the organized advocacy and eventual passing of Article 8J—recognizing traditional knowledge in biodiversity conservation—confirmed how powerful unity can be. Just as tiny fungi can bring down entire trees, it is through collective action that we become strong.

At any moment, I can recall feeling the tropical heat, the occasional forgiving breeze, and the island’s green walls surrounding me, its essence etched into my body forever. One day, on our routine hike to the plot, we were blocked by a tree that towered above the canopy just days ago, now lay uprooted before us. Its once-mighty base was exposed, its rotted, black roots coated in the island’s signature red soil (barro colorado = colored soil). Frogs laid eggs in the ponds formed by its bark, ants swarmed the decaying wood, and small buds even began to sprout on the fallen trunk. Inspecting this microcosm of life, I observed how even the most formidable systems are not invincible. Like the microbes within these trees, I evolved to confront obstacles through resourcefulness and by creating change in unexpected places. I am deeply grateful for this adventure at STRI and will carry these lessons of resilience and interconnectedness in my career to advance environmental research. By learning more about ourselves, each other, and our histories, we can conduct science with greater purpose and impact.

Follow our journey and discoveries at @deathlabpanama on Instagram and visit our lab website at striresearch.si.edu/death-lab!

About the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute: Headquartered in Panama City, Panama, STRI is a unit of the Smithsonian Institution whose mission is to understand tropical biodiversity and its importance to human welfare, trains students to conduct research in the tropics and promotes conservation by increasing public awareness of the beauty and importance of tropical ecosystems. Watch STRI’s video and visit the institute on its website and on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram for updates.