The (Sometimes Failed) Attempts to Find Hope in Disaster
And how to shift that internal narrative of hopelessness
I had a completely different post written for this week’s newsletter. It was a post written in sadness and frustration as Hurricane Ian loosened its grip on Florida and pressed on toward South Carolina. I wrote with anger about the devastation left in Puerto Rico after Hurricane Fiona ripped through–devastation that risked being ignored thanks to the U.S.’s propensity to turn its attention to the states that are decidedly not colonies-against-their-will. I ranted from the heartache about news reports that the “Biblical” flooding in Pakistan may not abate for many months.
It was a post especially about the major climate justice implications of all of these disasters and how we are seeing the most marginalized people, those with the least power, being hurt the worst.
I wrote that post in a fit of frustration and sadness, posted it, then scheduled it to be published. And then as the days wore on, something didn’t sit right with me. Not only was I not thrilled at the general lack of good writing in that story, I knew something else was missing.
Enter Katharine Hayhoe’s amazing book Saving Us: A Climate Scientist’s Case for Hope and Healing in a Divided World. I had just procured my very own hard copy of this beautiful book after initially reading a copy from the library. I was dutifully going through the approximately 50 pages I had taken photos of and highlighted in order to go back to passages and marking up those passages in my now personal copy (my AP English teachers who taught me about “dialectical journaling” – a fancy way of writing notes in books – would be very proud).
And with each passage I marked up, I realized the glaring omission in that past post: HOPE.
The funny thing is, I had initially sat down to write about “finding hope in the midst of disaster,” but then it just turned into a rant about disaster and climate change. Reviewing Hayhoe’s important points reminded me that my personal journey is not just about building skills, it is also about building hope. And I can probably argue that the hope part of things is likely more important than the skills.
What Hayhoe reminded me, too, is that in climate communication, that hope is necessary in order to compel people to act.
“As we get more and more worried, we often feel compelled to dump scary data on people so they will share our fear,” she writes. “We desperately want to sound the alarm–and we’re not wrong. Climate change is alarming. But our natural reaction often makes the situation worse, not better.”
Most–if not all–of you reading this article probably fall into the category of “Concerned” or “Alarmed” about climate change. Yet even those of us in those categories who don’t need to be convinced of the impacts of climate change can be affected by the narrative of hopelessness.
Hayhoe isn’t saying that we need to not acknowledge the negative impacts of climate change, especially on the most marginalized. Rather she is saying that we need to pair these messages with solutions. And so, as I was marking up the book, I realized that is why that original article didn’t sit right with me. It was devoid of solutions. It was not wrong and it was written from a raw place which I think is valuable. But it did not say enough about what is possible. There was a little bit about ensuring we take a climate justice approach to our actions, but nothing specific. Part of that is because it was hard to even think of solutions when I’m so very deep in the sadness of the inequities of these disasters. Which, of course, is completely normal.
Nonetheless, I turn back to Katharine Hayhoe. Seeking out a little hope paired with deep knowledge (she is a climate scientist after all), I went to her social media and found that she, along with others, contributed to this recent Project Syndicate article, “A Harder Road for Climate Justice?” And in true Hayhoe fashion she acknowledged the challenge ahead but ended with this: “A thriving future is possible, however, only if these communities are empowered to shape their own decisions. That is why it is essential to support their visions, learn from their experiences, and amplify their leadership – both at COP27 and beyond.”
Interestingly, the rest of the article is not so hopeful. It’s realistic. So much of the message they have, though, is about COP 27 coming up in Egypt in November. There is a clear focus on climate justice at the center of needs for action as the world convenes yet again to make an effort to demand justice in the form of policy change (and of course reparations) for the countries most responsible for climate change. If not hope, per se, it’s a focus on action. On solutions.
It takes some practice to put myself into this positive forward-thinking mode. Having just started reading Active Hope by Joanna Macy and Chris Johnstone (recommended by both Hayhoe and my friend Laura in a comment in a previous Substack post) comes the reminder that cultivating “active hope” is a process.
“Active Hope is about becoming active participants in the process of moving toward our hopes and, where we can, realizing them,” write Macy and Johnstone. “Active Hope is a practice. Like tai chi or gardening, it is something we do rather than have.”
Now, full disclosure, I don’t have those answers for active hope given that I am but a chapter or so in the book. But these moments of dread from these disasters—which are normal and should be acknowledged—are opportunities to actively cultivate that hope, to practice becoming the optimist I aspire to be.
And for that, I’m working really hard to find ways to integrate a solutions-oriented narrative into not only what I write, but into my own internal narrative about climate change. It’s the only way to keep me going and, as I see it, one of the only ways to compel others to keep going as well.
I’d love to hear from you. Have you struggled to maintain hope, or at the very least see solutions amidst the disasters? What strategies do you use to flip your own narrative?