The year is 1966. Children from several British public schools are asked to predict what life will be like just thirty-four years later in the new millennium. Their answers are stark. One boy considers the potential of a rising sea, driven by technological development, while another girl discusses nuclear radiation and concerns about the earth becoming too hot to sustain life. Watching the video, I found these perspectives affecting, if overly pessimistic. The children demonstrate an awareness of sociopolitical and environmental issues in a way I don’t remember of myself. Indeed, they were some of the best educated students in the country. They were living through the Cold War and surely felt the legacies of the century’s world wars through their relatives. Yet this was prior to popular recognition of the risks of climate change. The children were speaking six years before the appearance of the famous ‘Blue Marble’: the first photograph taken of the earth and motivator of Gaia Theory’s acknowledgement of the planet as a complex and connected ecosystem requisite of human care. 

I arrived late to an honest awareness of the climate crisis. I remember little relevant education at school. There was the odd lesson, perhaps, that focussed on decontextualized concerns: the recycling of a plastic bottle without any mention of its environmental context. Climate action during my Bachelor of Arts in England wasn’t obvious to me. I’m sure it was happening, but it maybe wasn’t accessible enough for the relatively disengaged, like myself. I think it was through reading that I came to an understanding. That and my exaggerated, probably childish, upset at the suffering of animals (hypocritically, I still haven’t given up dairy). Today, although my climate awareness is present and expanding, my tangible action remains scatty and inconsistent. But I don’t think this is unusual. Last year, The Purpose Pulse, a publication that surveys the perspectives of Gen Z and Millenials, found that only 28% of individuals were ‘Optimistic Activists’ (engaged in contemporary concerns and hopeful about the future). The majority were rather ‘Engaged Pessimists’, ‘Potential Supporters’, and ‘Disengaged Persuadables’. Genuine concern for the environment is often met by restrictions. Climate action can be expensive, politics can appear hopeless, and continued scientific discoveries can provide a sense of tragic irreversibility. This is not to mention the distracting pressure put on young people to achieve; to secure a career amidst economic downturn, to comprehensively thrive, and to package it all for social media. We spin different narratives to make sense of the complexity. 

The stories we tell ourselves about the climate crisis are many. There are those whose real and deep sense of urgency motivates sustained action. These are narratives of suffering combined with a strong belief in the potential for change. Greta Thunberg, for example, employs political anger to leverage powerful speeches and collective efforts, her recent concerns about CO2 emissions countered by her confidence that climate activists ‘are not going anywhere’. Most of us fall into a muddier category; perhaps one of apathy combined with bursts of recognition, the occasional moment of truly eco-friendly effort. Some of the most common narratives about the climate crisis include the idea that it is too late to change anything, that one individual’s effort will have no impact, and that sustainable living lacks viability. Eco-philosopher, Joanna Macy, defines ‘Business as Usual’ and ‘The Great Unravelling’ as two of the most common stories that we inhabit. The first implies that nothing tangible can or will change, while the latter constitutes a hugely pessimistic narrative defined by dread, anxiety, and grief. 

Despite their problems, we should respond to these stories with empathy. These are narratives that we tell ourselves in order to make sense of what is confusing, painful, or unbelievable; to make sense of that which we feel powerless against. They are dependent on mood, personal experience, and global events. I remember crafting a catastrophic scenario when initially hearing about the Ukraine war. We are human, with complicated and often strange cognitions, and this awareness should form part of any self-criticism. At the same time, it is important to remember that these narratives govern our thoughts and actions. Lapsing into certain mindsets for too long can prove unproductive. Thinking in terms ‘The Great Unravelling’, for example, might paralyse action through dread, while ‘Business as Usual’ might lead to an inertia that we can no longer risk sustaining.  

While researching for this article, I listened to an interview with the climate activist, Megan Fraser. She acknowledged the different kinds of stories we tell, explaining how common they are, but also emphasised the importance of reorienting these stories towards possibility. Fraser suggests that we begin with ‘being’ as opposed to ‘doing’, focussing on our values and sense of meaning, for these can be more powerful than extrinsic motivators. She cites Christiana Figueres, one of the architects of the Paris Climate Agreement, as an example of this method. In the run up to the agreement, Figueres faced personal struggles, which impacted the quality of her activism. To put it simply, it was only when she reoriented her sense of purpose and assumed an expansive, driven mindset that she felt able to properly pursue her work. The narratives about both herself and the world had to be re-twined. 

Along with ‘Business as Usual’ and ‘The Great Unravelling’, Macy defines ‘The Great Turning’ as a potential narrative. This perspective looks back to previous instances of transformation, the feminist pursuit of the vote, for example, and implies that humanity might be on the cusp of great change, the beginning of a historical movement into climate care. Ultimately, there is space for all three of Macy’s stories and more. I often find myself leaning towards the ecofeminist, Donna Haraway’s ‘SF’, which is defined as, amongst a number of other things, ‘string figures’ and ‘speculative fabulation’. These conceptualisations suggest that our narratives about the earth are like threads to follow, patterns to inhabit that offer routes towards planetary recuperation and the modest possibility of ‘finite flourishing’. 

I wonder why those children were so aware and why they predicted such negative futures. In 1966, the new millennium was distant enough not to cause panic, yet was within each of their lifetimes. They had the Cold War, but we have Putin. The technology that they imagined is our status quo. And, unlike them, we have widely shared evidence, clear signs that the environment is in decline. Wildlife populations have declined 70% percent since 1966 and CO2 emissions have increased by 90%. It might be that we’re too close to the fact now, that our inclinations to apathy are a response to imminence, or that we’re overwhelmed by media and discourse, unable to focus on the facts. Changing the narratives we tell ourselves is difficult. Most of them are unconscious and embedded. Perhaps it’s best to begin with those moments of clarity, to act on them and let awareness drive us, even if it is transient. Like Haraway notes, flourishing is finite, and if we all make a small change, something’s got to happen.