Tinkering.

Tinkering. That's what I've been doing all my life.

As a child, curiosity rarely waited for permission. I experimented, took things apart, and tried to understand why the world worked the way it did. Every failed experiment seemed to uncover another question.

In grade ten, a classroom lecture on solar energy took me far beyond the textbook, into nuclear fusion, quantum tunneling, and the physics of the stars. Soon, I was speaking about astronomy and frontier sciences in classrooms and workshops.

Not every room welcomed me.

I remember beginning a lecture to laughter. For a moment, I stopped. Then I continued. By the end, the same room was applauding. But the applause wasn't what stayed with me.

It was the student whose eyes lit up when something that once seemed impossibly distant began to feel within reach.

Over time, I realized that inspiration alone wasn't enough. Those students needed more than encouragement. They needed a way to explore their curiosity, develop their abilities, and pursue opportunities that had once seemed inaccessible.

That conviction became Zoonigia.

Recognition has followed parts of my journey, and I'm grateful for it. But the moments that matter most have never fit neatly on a certificate. They are found in the questions students begin to ask, the confidence they discover, and the possibilities they begin to see for themselves.

I began by tinkering with things to understand how they worked.

I'm still tinkering.

Only now, I'm trying to build pathways for other people.