Sense of Place: From Texas to Ohio

By Luis Aguilar-Dwyer, CGC Environmental Education Specialist

“Why the heck did you decide to move to Cincinnati?” asked my soon-to-be employer during my interview. As I digested the question, I knew instinctively that there were so many parallels to draw from. You see, I was applying for a job to join an environmental nonprofit whose mission was to bring high school youth to the outdoors, and my hoped-for role involved managing strategies to make that happen. I had already led several teams in conservation work all over the U.S. and felt ready to embark on leading more teams in Cincinnati to restore the lands in local city parks. So my response to this direct and honest interview question was: “I followed the Monarch butterfly’s migration, and it led me here.”

I was born and raised in the sub-tropical climate of Houston, Texas. It’s a place where you are born, fitted into your western wear and given a mouth-watering brisket sandwich as your first solid food. My first vivid encounter with a Monarch caterpillar (Danaus plexippus) occurred when I was four years old. During recess, my pre-K class found one on a milkweed plant and convinced our teacher to raise it indoors until it emerged as a butterfly.

Since then, I’ve been chasing moments like that—moments where people connect with the plants and animals that define a place. Over the years, this passion grew into a career in conservation. I’ve worked in Yosemite National Park protecting giant sequoias (Sequoiadendron giganteum), at Canaveral National Seashore with green sea turtles (Chelonia mydas) and along the Gulf of Mexico’s coast restoring oyster beds (Crassostrea virginica). However, the work that truly shaped my path occurred closer to home—on the Texas prairies.

While surveying in Houston’s Memorial Park, I swept nets through wildflowers, cataloged native plants and studied the insects they hosted. I partnered with the Cockrell Butterfly Center and Katy Prairie Conservancy to connect gardeners with the pollinator plants their yards were missing. We hosted a community bioblitz, inviting neighbors to join in insect surveys and see firsthand how plants like milkweed sustain an entire migration. From catching butterflies to noting the native plant landscapes to sharing my recommendations, I realized that there was a significant gap between the general public and the scientific community. At that moment, I was inspired to make this the focus of my undergraduate studies. My focus led me to study biology and chemistry so that I could help interpret environmental concepts to people.

When I moved to Ohio, I found myself on familiar ground. Sure, the seasons were more dramatic and the prairies here carried a different rhythm, but I recognized the same heartbeat in the landscape. Native Ohio prairies, like those in Texas, are rich with blooms that sustain pollinators, including the Monarchs I had followed northward. Milkweeds—whether Asclepias tuberosa blazing orange in Texas or Asclepias incarnata perfuming an Ohio summer—serve as the lifeblood for caterpillars on both ends of the migration. Coneflowers, blazing stars and black-eyed Susans dot the fields here just as they do back home, feeding bees, butterflies and a thousand other quiet lives.

In both Texas and Ohio, prairies are more than open land—they’re living archives of resilience. These ecosystems tell stories of deep roots holding soil through droughts, of seasonal waves of color, of an ancient partnership between plant and pollinator. Standing in a Cincinnati meadow in mid-summer, surrounded by buzzing life, I could just as easily be back in a Texas prairie with cicadas roaring overhead. That continuity—that thread of native flowers, milkweeds and the Monarch’s path—is what makes me feel at home in both places. (Though I appreciate wholeheartedly how significantly less hot it is up here.)

Now I share my appreciation for these landscapes in another way: through the art of plant pressing. Just as milkweeds and wildflowers in Texas prairies tell a story of resilience and connection, I press and preserve them as reminders of the beauty and function they hold in their ecosystems. Since moving here to Ohio, I’ve met so many native plant enthusiasts, community gardeners and conservationists who care deeply about the places they live in. Whether we’re knee-deep in prairie grass, holding on to our umbrellas at GrowFest or talking over a glass of wine about monarchs and milkweed, there’s an unspoken understanding: We’re all on the same page that we must do what we can to protect our environment.

The sense of place here is different from Texas—the forests are older, the winters are sharper—but the care people have for their land feels just as strong. And maybe one day, just like the Monarchs, I’ll find myself migrating back south. When I do, I hope to carry with me not just the science and stories I’ve gathered, but also the memory of this shared commitment: the knowledge that no matter where you land, people and landscapes can still be woven together for the same cause.

Next time you take a look at your garden, will you have a familiar milkweed for Monarchs to find?

Immerse yourself in Ohio beauty and add some plants for your favorite pollinator to your yard at our Fall Native Plant Festival on Saturday, September 6!