In the “Float” section of Undrowned, Gumbs writes, “Sometimes floating is the only thing to do. The only thing to be.” (p. 9). It reframes stillness as strength, not weakness. Manatees show that survival doesn’t always have to be about pushing forward, sometimes it’s about simply staying afloat, gently and deliberately.

Gumbs writes: “What does it mean to breathe in a world that tries to choke you?” (p. 4).

This article talks about how dolphins use touch to build trust, communicate, and stay close with others in their pod. It gave me a deeper understanding of the "Touch" chapter in Undrowned. Alexis Pauline Gumbs isn’t just talking about physical touch, she’s showing how connection and care can be shared through being intentionally close to others, even during hard times. Dolphins lean on each other, nudge gently, and swim side by side, using their bodies to say, “you’re not alone.”

“Touch is a practice of remembering we are here. Not alone. Not untouchable. Not disposable.” (p. 37). Just like how dolphins rely on touch to support and bond with each other, Gumbs reminds us that human connection can also be a way of living, especially in a world that often tries to pull us apart.

This article dives into the intelligence of octopuses: how they can solve problems, escape tanks, use tools, and even open jars. Their brains are unlike ours, with most of their neurons spread through their arms, which act almost like independent minds. Learning this made me think differently about what intelligence can look like and how survival isn’t always about brute strength, sometimes it’s about flexibility, curiosity, and learning to adapt.

In Undrowned, Gumbs writes: “It might be your task to change shape. To reshape the world. To survive.” This line made me think of how octopuses literally change shape to fit into tight spaces, hide, or escape predators. For marginalized communities, especially Black queer and trans people, survival often means being able to adapt quickly, socially, emotionally, and mentally. Like the octopus, it’s not about fitting into one mold, but being able to shift, stretch, and resist invisibility.

I chose this article because it highlights how coral reefs survive through interconnection. They rely on collaboration between coral, algae, fish, and ocean conditions. If one part suffers (like when ocean temps rise or acidification increases), the whole system begins to collapse. Like reefs, communities that are marginalized, especially Black, queer, and disabled folk largely survive by supporting each other. Coral reefs teach you that even the most beautiful and essential systems are fragile, and that for many communities, mutual care is a big contributor to their success and ability to thrive.

Harp seal pups are born with soft white coats, totally exposed on icy surfaces. You’d think they’re fragile, and in some ways they are, but they’ve evolved to survive extreme cold, as well as being constantly on their "feet" surviving threats. Gumbs writes a lot about softness, rest, and care as things that aren’t weak, but necessary for life. These seals made me think about how we’re often taught that survival has to look hard, loud, or angry. But sometimes, survival is being still and soft, protected in your own way.

Whales didn’t start in the ocean, they used to be land animals. Over millions of years, they evolved to live entirely underwater. This transformation isn’t just about biology, it’s about what it means to completely change how you live to survive. Gumbs writes about transformation not as something soft and pretty, but as deep, necessary change that takes everything.

It reminded me of the line: “What if your survival requires a different shape?” (p. 49). That’s exactly what whales did. They changed shape, rhythm, and breath. This feels especially relevant for people navigating systems that were never built for them, sometimes you have to completely reshape how you move through the world just to stay alive.

Bioluminescent creatures live in the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, places no sunlight ever touches, and they make their own light. Gumbs writes about surviving in the dark, in the depths, and still finding a way to shine. That light doesn’t come from above, it comes from within. It made me think about how people can glow in what seems like a difficult, or unsavory life situation. The deep/darkness doesn’t mean hopeless. There’s still beauty, and even joy down there, you just have to see it in a different kind of light sometimes.

Sea star wasting disease is slowly killing off an entire species in a quiet, eerie way. Their bodies literally fall apart, and they disappear without much notice. That made me think about grief the way Gumbs describes it, not always loud or dramatic, but still life-changing. This kind of grief is slow, heavy, and almost invisible, but it reshapes the world. Just like in communities that experience loss over generations, not every pain is seen, but it still matters.

For me, that connected to how people survive displacement, trauma, and history. We don’t always know the way forward, but something in us remembers where we come from, and that memory helps us keep going.

Pufferfish aren’t predators, they protect themselves by inflating their bodies and revealing hidden spines when threatened. It’s not an attack, it’s a boundary. That reminded me of how Gumbs writes about protection as a way to preserve life, not punish threats. Sometimes protecting yourself or your community isn’t about confrontation, it’s about being clear about what cannot be crossed. This kind of protection is often dismissed, especially for marginalized people who are told to stay quiet or shrink themselves. But like the pufferfish, Gumbs reminds us that expanding, taking up space, or setting limits is a valid form of self-defense.

What I found powerful is that when reefs begin to die, they go silent, and nearby fish stop visiting. In Undrowned, Gumbs writes about how survival often includes creativity, rhythm, and joy, even in small or unnoticed ways. The reef’s song isn’t loud or showy, but it’s essential to supporting life.

Their survival depends on softness. They move with the current but aren’t powerless, they sting, glow, and persist in a world that sees them as delicate. Gumbs writes about becoming as a form of survival that doesn’t always make sense to others. The jellyfish reminded me that transformation doesn’t have to look strong to be powerful. Sometimes becoming means surrendering to your own process, trusting that movement itself is enough.