Written By Michele Arquette-Palermo, Chief Programs Officer
In Southwest Florida, our quality of life, our economy, and our future are inseparably tied to the health of the environment around us. This isn’t about turning everyone into an environmental scientist. It’s about understanding why the environment matters—to your work, your family, your investments, and the long-term success of the community we are shaping together. Whether we realize it or not, every single one of us depends on these systems every day.
When people hear the word “environment,” they often imagine something distant: wetlands far from town, protected lands behind fences, places visited occasionally. But the environment isn’t “out there.
It’s the water that comes out of your tap. It’s whether your street floods after a summer storm. It’s whether beaches are open, whether fisheries are productive, whether insurance is affordable, and whether businesses can thrive. In Southwest Florida, the environment is not a backdrop. It is infrastructure. And unlike roads or buildings, this infrastructure is alive. It absorbs. It filters. It buffers. It protects. When it works, we barely notice. When it fails, the consequences are immediate—and expensive.
Southwest Florida has always been defined by water. Long before development, water moved slowly across the land, spreading, filtering, recharging aquifers, supporting wildlife, and buffering storms. It was brilliant engineering. Natural engineering.
And if we tried to replicate what those systems provide—flood control, water filtration, storm protection—it would cost billions.
In fact, it already does. Across South Florida, Everglades restoration represents billions of dollars invested to repair altered water flow. When natural systems are disrupted at scale, fixing them requires extraordinary effort and extraordinary funding. And here in Collier County, we have our own example.
The recently completed Picayune Strand restoration project was nearly fifty years in the making, and it illustrates the cost of getting it wrong. You’ve probably heard the expression, “If you believe that, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to sell you.” That phrase isn’t just folklore. It traces back to the failed Southern Golden Gate Estates development, where thousands of lots were platted and sold in what was marketed as a future thriving community. Roads were cut into the landscape. Canals were dug to drain the wetlands. Land was sold to people who often never even saw it. But the land flooded. Because it was always meant to flood. Water was always meant to move through it. Development was allowed in a place fundamentally incompatible with the natural system. The ecosystem collapsed. Wildlife disappeared. Regional hydrology was severely altered. What began as a speculative real estate venture ultimately became one of the largest restoration efforts in the country.
The cost to restore Picayune Strand has been approximately seven hundred sixty-five million dollars, and it will require ongoing operation and maintenance at roughly 3.2 million dollars every single year.
My understanding of environmental stewardship didn’t begin in a classroom. I grew up in a rural community, playing in the woods until dark, building forts from fallen branches, catching fish in creeks, and wading barefoot in water that ran clear. We didn’t call it watershed management. It was just life. But those woods filtered water. Those wetlands slowed storms. Those creeks functioned because the system around them functioned. Those experiences shaped how I see the world. They taught me to pay attention, to respect systems larger than myself, to notice when something feels balanced—and when it doesn’t. And when I moved to Southwest Florida, I realized those experiences hadn’t disappeared. They had simply changed location.
I’ve walked the boardwalk at Corkscrew Swamp, surrounded by birdsong, watching herons and egrets glide through the cypress trees. It’s breathtaking—but it’s also water storage, filtration, and flood protection happening quietly beneath your feet.
I’ve swum with dolphins in Rookery Bay and caught fish in those waters. It feels playful and magical—but that estuary is a nursery, a storm buffer, and an economic engine supporting tourism and fisheries.
I’ve shelled on Keewaydin and watched the sun set at Delnor-Wiggins, where the sky turns gold over the Gulf. It’s beautiful—but those beaches provide coastal protection. Those dunes absorb storm surge. Those barrier islands shield inland communities and support property values. I’ve snorkeled in the Gulf and seen seagrass beds moving gently with the current, fish weaving through them. That is resilience in action. Seagrass stabilizes sediment, improves water clarity, supports fisheries, and stores carbon. And it is fragile. These are not abstract environmental concepts. They are lived experiences. They are the reasons people choose to live here, invest here, and build businesses here. These are ecosystem services—the things nature does for us for free. And if we tried to engineer them ourselves, it would cost billions. Nature is not an obstacle to prosperity. It is a partner in it.
Every person in this region has influence. Environmental decisions touch business stability, infrastructure budgets, insurance rates, public health, workforce attraction, and education. Environmental stewardship is no longer optional. It is a core leadership responsibility. This is not about choosing between the environment and the economy. In Southwest Florida, the environment is the economy.
We are living in a moment where choices matter more than ever. Southwest Florida is growing rapidly, and the question is not whether change is coming, but whether we lead it intentionally or react to it later at far greater cost. Picayune Strand shows us the cost of reacting. Everglades restoration shows us the cost of repairing at scale. But we also have examples of getting it right: partnerships, science guiding policy, and nature-based solutions that reduce flooding while improving water quality. This is not a story of doom. It is a story of choice.
That is why I invite everyone who lives, works, and leads in this community to be curious, to ask questions, and to challenge assumptions—including your own. Think about how what you see, hear, and experience connects to your professional role and your sphere of influence. And most importantly, see yourself as part of the solution.
The future of Southwest Florida’s environment will not be shaped by scientists alone, conservationists alone, or policymakers alone. It will be shaped by leaders who understand that growth and stewardship are not opposites. Leaders who recognize that prevention is wiser than restoration. Leaders willing to make thoughtful decisions now so we don’t hand billion-dollar corrections to the next generation.
The wetlands. The estuaries. The beaches. The Gulf. They are not amenities. They are assets. They are not luxuries. They are life-support systems—for our economy, our safety, and our future. If we steward them wisely, this region will thrive for generations. If we ignore them, the costs will show up later—and they will be far higher. The future of Southwest Florida will be shaped by the decisions we make today, and by the leaders willing to make them thoughtfully.