When the Climate Crisis is Trending
In times when the climate emergency becomes more difficult to ignore, I’m reminded that climate change is an ineffective term. It’s a euphemism that subtly normalizes the abnormal. (Sure, these pictures from NYC are shocking, but we know the climate is changing. Isn’t this a part of it?) Referring to our current emergency as climate change gives us permission to mentally check in and out of environmental crises, even if we’re initially shocked by what we’re seeing. It insinuates that our climate is changing but not yet changed. It provides a false sense of time that comforts us in our steadfast inaction.
I don’t say this as an alarmist or a sanctimonious follower of an apocalyptic cult. I say this as someone who knew about the climate emergency for a decade before thinking about it deeply. For years, the climate crisis lived in that part of my brain where I tucked the other existential threats I collected (almost always theoretically) throughout life. It existed as a low hum, a muffled murmur in the background, loud enough to be heard but easy to ignore. Sure, there were times when my restless brain would lean into those sounds and the hum became a buzz became a scream. Or a story in the news would remind me that all is not well. And for a few moments, I’d suffocate on the big empties, that overwhelming sense of terror and existential dread that cracks us open every once in a while.
The climate emergency is hard to think about because it is what eco-philosopher Timothy Morton calls a hyperobject. It’s something that is too large for the human mind to comprehend because its existence is everything and everywhere, all at once. Without practice, thinking about it can leave us feeling helpless and hopeless. We feel too small to tackle such an enormous problem, especially since the climate emergency is not a single issue that can be addressed with a single solution. It’s actually a study in pointillism; as you look closer, you realize the climate emergency is made up of millions of small points that we started making—with always increasing frequency—through colonialism and industrialism and capitalism. When you first push in closer to the big picture of climate change, you’ll likely feel overwhelmed and possibly think something like, “Holy shit. There’s too much here. Nothing I can do will make any difference.”
When I first started doing this work (whatever this work is or becomes), returning to the research and the writing every day was a struggle. I was constantly overwhelmed by the magnitude and complexity of the climate crisis and heartbroken to learn that there isn’t a single organism on this planet unaffected by the climate crisis. (Okay maybe tardigrades, but I bet if I researched it, I’d find that they’re dealing with microplastics.) (Damn it. I couldn’t help myself.) I distracted myself with house projects, cleaning, laundry, my dog, hiking, streaming services, and romance novels. I secretly celebrated the days my kids’ school was canceled or they caught another bug and had to stay home. It meant another day when I wouldn’t have to face heartbreaking absurdity or try process the unprocessable.
Yes, there are climate-change deniers out there who detach from reality—most likely to protect themselves. Yes, they are problematic. But there are more of us existing in a state of disavowal, which human and planetary health specialist Britt Wray defines as the mental space where “we believe the science, understand the risks, and are concerned about systems collapse, and then in equal measure we play down the threats so that we can continue to live out our lives according to our desires.” Many of us are able to acknowledge the reality of the climate crisis while still believing that we live in places that aren’t significantly or directly impacted yet. Or we only think about it when it’s put directly in our face. Or we decide our individual choices cannot make any difference. Or the predicted futures are so terrifying that we cannot or will not imagine them. When I look at the sobering maps of Louisiana’s projected coastlines for the next twenty, thirty, fifty years, I cannot comprehend them, even though I can see the wetlands slowly and steadily disappearing, and I regularly drive through abandoned communities along the coast. Wray compares “this conflicted place” to “having one eye open and one eye closed at the same time,” allowing us to engage superficially and intellectually with the climate crisis while also protecting ourselves from our emotional response to such an enormous problem.
Weeks like this past one make it harder for us to keep one eye closed. When every major news organization features otherworldly pictures of the most recognizable skyline obscured by gray-orange smoke, we are compelled to look. Suddenly we’re all engaged in conversations about the climate crisis. But those conversations quickly die with the next unprecedented news cycle. Google search trends—possibly the most accurate manifestation of our collective consciousness—capture just how quickly we stopped thinking about the climate this week.
Here’s a screenshot of Google realtime search trends from 7:00 a.m. Thursday morning, the day after New York City recorded some of its worst-ever air quality from the Canadian wildfire smoke.
And here’s a screenshot of the realtime search trends just a few hours later.
These snapshots show how quickly the most recent high-profile symptom of the climate crisis fell out of our collective conscious. Our thoughts moved on as the smoke cleared the city even though the fires continue to rage in Canada.
Checking in with the climate crisis only when it’s trending or fronting a news cycle won’t get us out of this emergency, especially since this situation is worsening—and will continue to worsen. It will continue to intensify until we lose the option of choosing to engage with it or not. For many people, the surreal pictures of New York City shrouded in smoke were an ominous reminder that, despite our disavowal, the climate emergency is alive and well. In fact, if we exist in places and financial situations where we still have control over how and when we think about the climate crisis, then we have a privilege that billions of people have already lost. Already, 40% of the world’s population is highly vulnerable to climate because of their location and circumstances (IPCC 2022 report). So if we live in circumstances—geographically, economically, physically, or mentally—that allow us the time, space, and energy to engage with the climate crisis, it is our responsibility to do that work. The people who live in highly unstable situations and vulnerable communities usually have small carbon footprints, yet they cannot decide whether or not to “lean in” to the climate crisis; they are too busy responding to and surviving constant man-made disasters. These emergencies are rooted in colonialism and maintained through racist and classist legislation—legislation that is frequently funded and engineered by the powerful industries that are doing the most harm.
We cannot change our habits and—more importantly—the systems and policies sustaining the climate crisis without growing our capacity to think deeply and daily about it.
When you start to look closer at the climate crisis, it will undoubtedly feel overwhelming. Again, like moving closer to a pointillism piece, at first you’ll likely be shocked by the individual strokes, the countless enmeshed dots of the whole.
Alfalfa, St. Denis by Georges Seurat (1885-1886)
You might be terrified of how complicated the big picture is. But I encourage you to push in even closer. If you get close enough, the big picture blurs, and suddenly you just see what’s directly in front of your field of vision. You’re focused on something that feels manageable, a spot where you can affect change. Now you’re looking at only a small collection of dots, maybe the environmental injustices directly affecting your community or a specific ecological issue that you’re passionate about. I encourage you to get familiar with that small piece of the whole, to make it through the fear and anger and grief so you can accept what’s already been lost. I encourage you to push through the naive hope or anesthetizing fatalism to something more pragmatic, proactive, and nuanced. Eventually, you’ll find and begin to grow what psychiatrist Ben Siegel calls your window of tolerance, which is the sweet spot where your brain does its best functioning. But it’s a place that isn’t usually located in your comfort zone. Once you’ve grown comfortable with that small section, you’ll be able to take a step back and see the big picture without feeling as overwhelmed.
I’m not saying the climate crisis won’t overwhelm you again; I still have moments that crack me open and give me the big empties. I still cry and rage and grieve when I learn or see something especially distressing. But I no longer have the desire to look away or feel the urge to shut down. And maybe you’ll be surprised—as I am daily—by the creativity, community, and even peace you’re able to find when you keep both eyes open and move in closer.
Wray, Britt. Generation Dread: Finding Purpose in an Age of Climate Crisis
