The Day I Ran into Jeff Bezos on the Street.

On Regret, Responsibility, and the Future That’s Still Ours to Protect.

I shop at Amazon.
I shop at Whole Foods.
I still do, to this day.

It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s the truth.
Amazon has embedded itself so deeply into modern life that extracting yourself feels impractical, if not impossible.
Jeff Bezos built that system — an ecosystem so vast, so efficient, so omnipresent that opting out feels like opting out of convenience itself.

And maybe that's part of what makes the memory I’m about to share still sit so heavily with me.
Because when you realize how much you're a part of something, disappointment stings even more.

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A little over seven years ago, in November 2017, I attended a thought leadership conference in Los Angeles, where Jeff Bezos — then the richest man in the world — and his brother Mark were scheduled to give a fireside chat.
Later that evening, walking through the streets of LA with my colleague Rachel, still unpacking what we had heard, we found ourselves suddenly, incredibly, just a few feet away from Jeff Bezos himself.

He was deep in conversation with a journalist, his bodyguards orbiting him protectively but loosely — allowing the illusion that he was just another pedestrian, just another man walking the city streets.
Rachel and I exchanged wide-eyed glances, elbowing each other in disbelief.

We reached a crosswalk.
We stood together — us and Jeff Bezos, side by side, waiting for the light to turn green.
I turned to Rachel and whispered, "I have a question for him. Should I ask it?"

A question that had been burning inside me ever since his talk.

Rachel hesitated, glanced at the bodyguards, then shook her head gently. "I don't think it would be appropriate."

And so I stayed silent.
The light changed.
He walked, we walked.
And just like that, the moment slipped away.

I didn’t take my shot.
And I still regret it.

---

Earlier that afternoon, in a massive auditorium packed with thousands of entrepreneurs, innovators, and dreamers, anticipation hung thick in the air.
We had all come to hear from the man who had redefined how the world shops, consumes, and connects.

Before the conversation even began, the host asked:
"Who here is an Amazon Prime member? A Whole Foods shopper?"
Nearly every hand shot up. Mine too.

We were his people. His customers.

I walked into that room wanting to be inspired.
This was before widespread stories of Amazon's warehouse labor practices had surfaced — before the broader shift in public sentiment.
At that time, the general feeling around Amazon was overwhelmingly positive.

I wanted to believe that my dollars, my participation in the Amazon ecosystem, were supporting a company — and a leader — who was using extraordinary success to do extraordinary good.
As an entrepreneur myself, I looked forward to hearing about leadership, responsibility, and stewardship at scale.

At first, the conversation was intimate and disarming: stories of a childhood shaped by resourceful grandparents, lessons about risk-taking, reflections on seizing opportunity.
Jeff shared how founding Amazon was rooted in the desire to avoid regret — a philosophy that resonated deeply with me.

But then, the conversation shifted.

Jeff began speaking about his true passion: space travel and colonization through his private company, Blue Origin.
He spoke reverently about Earth, calling it "the jewel of the solar system."

But instead of focusing on ways to protect and preserve that jewel, he outlined a vision where humanity would expand beyond Earth — moving heavy industry off-planet to preserve the world by essentially abandoning it.
Colonizing space, he explained, was the next step for human innovation.

There was no mention of protecting oceans.
No mention of regenerating forests.
No talk of revolutionizing supply chains, uplifting workers, or building sustainable communities.

Only a champagne-soaked photo of a rocket launch — which he proclaimed as the proudest moment of his career.

I sat in my chair, feeling my heart sink.
As the auditorium erupted in applause, I remained still.

I was unsettled.
I was upset.
And then something deeper began to take hold.

---

Rachel wasn’t in the room with me for the fireside chat.
I had wanted to save her a seat, but this was the most anticipated session of the conference, and the room had filled fast.
She watched it from an overflow screen outside, while I sat inside, alone and focused.

When it ended, I wandered into a reception area where cocktails and appetizers were being passed around.
I sat at a table with a stranger, who asked what I thought of the talk.

At first, I hesitated — not wanting to seem ungracious or cynical.
But the words started tumbling out.

I admitted that I had come seeking connection, inspiration, affirmation.
And I left feeling profoundly disconnected — not just from the man on stage, but from the brands I had trusted for so long.

Yes, it was a case of unmet expectations.
But it was deeper than that.
It rattled something inside me.

As I walked back to my hotel, the unsettled feeling grew.
By the time I reached my room, I decided to take a shower, hoping to wash it away.
But the tension only deepened.

By the time I started getting dressed for dinner with Rachel, I felt physically sick — nauseous, shaky, disoriented.
Something I had never experienced before.

The realization hit me in slow, unavoidable waves:
The richest man in the world — arguably the most powerful individual on Earth at that moment — was so profoundly out of touch with the realities of the planet he professed to admire.

It chilled me.
It still does.

---

Two years later, still trying to make sense of it, I stumbled across a piece in The Atlantic titled "Jeff Bezos’s Master Plan".

It gave me more context — but also deepened my concern.

The article explained that Bezos’s vision of space colonization was shaped by his lifelong obsession with Star Trek — a fantasy of escaping Earth's limitations rather than repairing them.
In his mind, moving humanity into space was how we would protect Earth.

But here and now, Amazon continues to drive unchecked consumerism, deforestation, emissions, and labor exploitation — exacerbating the very problems space colonization supposedly seeks to solve.

The irony has never been lost on me:
Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon, could literally protect the Amazon rainforest if he chose to.
He could revolutionize supply chains.
He could model corporate responsibility at an unprecedented scale.
He could lead a movement to heal, regenerate, and steward the only home we have.

And yet, he chooses not to.

---

Recently, watching Blue Origin launch a high-profile group of women into orbit — a picture-perfect PR moment — the old disappointment resurfaced.
I couldn’t help but feel like Jeff Bezos thinks we’re not paying attention.
That we’ll cheer for spaceflight and ignore the Earth crumbling beneath our feet.

I believe in innovation.
I believe exploration has its place.

But I also believe — firmly — that when you have the power to change the world here and now, you don’t abandon it for a childhood fantasy.

Standing there on that Los Angeles sidewalk, just a few feet away from him, I wanted to ask:

If Earth is the crown jewel of the solar system, why aren’t you doing everything in your power to protect it right now?

I didn’t ask.
I doubted myself.
I stayed silent.

And I regret it.
Because someone needs to keep asking.

And because I still hold out hope — however faint — that one day Jeff Bezos, and everyone who holds extraordinary power, will realize:
The greatest legacy they could leave isn't out there, somewhere beyond Earth’s atmosphere.

It’s here.
In the soil, the forests, the rivers, the people.
In the living systems that made all of this possible — and that still desperately need our stewardship.

It’s not too late.
But the clock is ticking

.