Hope in the Age of Climate Change
Eco-anxiety, existential dread, and the power of community
By: Stella Mehlhoff
One day over the summer while my town was submerged in Canada’s wildfire smoke, I watched my little cousin for an afternoon. Instead of going to the park, where we’d both have to wear KN-95 masks to protect us from damaging particles, we sat inside on the couch, watching a nature documentary on TV. The lush forests and sleek wild cats were a relief compared to the brittle dehydration of the lawn’s grass. But near the end of the documentary, the narrator embarked on an inevitable discussion of climate change. The screen filled with more figures than I could bear to see, all saying the same thing: our world is heading for disaster, and quickly. My little cousin is ten, his voice just starting to change, so it cracked when he asked, “Stella, is it true that the tipping point is 2030? Are we going to be okay?”
That moment was one in a series of unnerving climate revelations for me. I smoothed my hand over his blonde head, but I knew that I couldn’t offer him the comfort he craved. When I was his age, I remember learning in science class that the sun would explode one day and that would be the end of the world. I freaked out, but my teacher soothed me, saying it was an event so far away my great-great-grandchildren wouldn’t be there to see it. It would be silly for me to worry about it now. But my cousin’s worry isn’t like that. It isn’t distant or fantastical. In fact, it’s completely rational. I cannot tell him, or myself, that there is no monster under the bed. Every time I open my phone to look at the news, it’s there with glaring teeth.
My cousin and I aren’t alone in our fears. According to a survey published last month in The Lancet, 75% of young people said that they fear for the future, and 56% agreed with the statement that “humanity is doomed.” This certainly points to a dismal outlook, but it also comes with increased recognition of climate change’s impact on mental health. There’s even a word for it. “Eco-anxiety” is defined by the American Psychological Association as “a chronic fear of environmental doom” and may require a different kind of treatment than more well-established mental illnesses. Because fighting climate change requires us to act off of logical fear, the goal isn’t to make these feelings go away, but to manage them so that we can still live fully.
Finding this balance is not easy, but it is necessary. As David Montongomery said in his article in the Washington Post, “The new climate war… is against hopelessness.” Our future depends on our actions, and our actions depend on our ability to be motivated, instead of crippled, by our existential dread. Fortunately, strategies to cope are being developed. There are podcasts, email newsletters, online support groups, and a new category of climate-aware therapists springing up to support us. Personally, my antidote is both simple and unoriginal, given by a family friend while discussing the climate crisis. He expressed that, for him, prioritizing community is the only way he will be able to survive the inevitable tumult of the coming years. This isn’t a revolutionary sentiment—maybe it’s even a little cliche—but I connected with the solace that it offered. I’m not saying that I think we can save the world with dinner parties and gardening clubs, but maybe they are the key to saving ourselves in the meantime.
Lately, heeding his wise words, I’ve been trying my best to restore my faith in the intimate joys of my relationships. I’m still going to keep informed and search for ways to advance climate justice, but I’m also going to go swing dancing with my friends and wrestle my little cousin at family functions, free of guilt. These aren’t climate solutions in the obvious sense, but they are their own kind of progress. They give me the rest and the radical optimism I require to work for a better future. Community has the power to give us courage, and to tackle what we’re up against, we need it.