Panic
From Panic to Purpose: A Journey Through Eco-Anxiety
It began with a tree. Or rather, the fall of one.
I was eleven years old when I first saw a documentary about deforestation in the Amazon. I didn’t expect much when I sat down to watch it—just something to fill time on a quiet evening. But what I saw that night left an imprint. The screen showed ancient trees falling one by one, each crashing down like a giant exhaling its last breath. The camera moved slowly across landscapes that had once been dense and green but were now stripped and silent.
It felt like someone had decided the lungs of our Earth were simply… optional. I remember sitting still, mouth slightly open, heart beating faster, feeling as if I were witnessing a disaster no one else seemed to be stopping. That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep. My mind kept circling the same questions: Why is this allowed? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? The feelings swirled in my chest—tight, confusing, heavy. I didn’t know it yet, but I was feeling something many young people now know intimately: eco-anxiety.
At the time, I had no word for what I was experiencing. I only knew that something deep inside me had shifted. The world I had trusted to be solid and safe suddenly felt fragile. And the more I learned, the more I realized how many cracks there were beneath the surface. Forests disappearing, oceans filling with plastic, animals vanishing forever—it all painted a picture of a planet unraveling. And I was too small to sew it back together. There was no comfort in knowing; only more questions and more helplessness. The adults around me seemed focused on school, jobs, politics—but who was looking out for the Earth?
Today, eco-anxiety gets tossed around a lot, especially online. But it’s not just a passing trend or a hashtag. The American Psychological Association calls it a “chronic fear of environmental doom.” But that still feels clinical, distant. For me—and for so many in my generation—it feels like grief for a future we’re not sure we’ll get to have. It’s mourning for forests not yet burned and species not yet extinct. It’s the dread of opening the news and seeing yet another disaster that feels both far away and too close. And it’s not just about fear—it’s about the weight of responsibility we didn’t ask for, but now carry.
For a while, I thought maybe it was just me. Maybe I was too sensitive, too emotional, too dramatic. But then, online, I found others. Stories poured out of my screen—teens in Bangladesh whose homes were being swallowed by floods, students in Australia who had to wear masks because the smoke from wildfires made it impossible to breathe, kids on island nations like mine—Trinidad—who were already losing coastline to rising seas.
It hit me hard. These weren’t statistics. These were people my age. People who were already living through the consequences of climate change, while the rest of the world debated whether it was real. That’s when it truly clicked: we are growing up in the middle of a crisis we didn’t cause, but are expected to solve.
By 2022, what started as a quiet fear had grown into something bigger. Not just fear anymore—obsession. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be informed. So I read. I watched. I followed every update, every article, every infographic. My social media feed turned into a relentless stream of disaster. Melting ice caps. Flooded towns.
Record-breaking heatwaves. Mass die-offs of coral reefs. I couldn’t look away. But the more I consumed, the worse I felt. I wasn’t just absorbing information—I was internalizing despair. It became a cycle: read something devastating, feel hopeless, read more in search of clarity or answers, then spiral deeper. It was as if the more I knew, the less power I had.
What made it worse was the irony. The same platforms that had helped me connect with others and learn about the climate crisis were now drowning me in it. Every post, every headline, every photo felt like another reason to panic. I wanted to act, to care, to make a difference—but my awareness was overwhelming. It didn’t feel like power. It felt like pressure. And every time I thought about doing something—anything—it felt too small, too late, too naive. What could I possibly do?
Then came the night that pushed me over the edge. A hurricane had devastated a Caribbean neighbor. The photos online were brutal. Entire towns vanished under water. Schools, homes, streets—gone. I scrolled through image after image, each one more haunting than the last. Then I saw a comment under a post: “This will be us in five years.” That line hit harder than the rest. It wasn’t just fear—it was certainty. I shut the app. My hands trembled. I curled into myself and whispered, I can’t fix this… I can’t do anything. For a while, I believed that. Completely.
But change doesn’t always come loud. It doesn’t always arrive with fanfare or some grand moment. Sometimes, it slips in quietly, through something small. For me, that something was a compost bin. One day, while scrolling—not with the same urgency, but out of habit—I came across a video. It was titled “One thing you can do for the planet in your kitchen.” For some reason, I clicked. Maybe curiosity, maybe desperation. It explained how food waste, when composted, could become nutrient-rich soil instead of rotting in landfills and releasing harmful methane gas. “It’s a small step,” the creator said, “but it’s a start.”
It sounded almost too simple. But I kept thinking about it. Composting? Me? Why not. I had nothing to lose.
I found an old plastic bin in the yard. I poked holes in the sides for air, tossed in some banana peels, eggshells, and vegetable scraps. I waited. The first try didn’t go well. It smelled awful. The contents turned into sludge. I almost gave up. But then I researched more. Adjusted the balance of greens and browns. Covered it better. A few weeks in, I started to notice a change. The smell faded. The texture changed. It was working. And somehow, so was I.
That single act sparked something. My fear began to turn into curiosity. I wanted to see what else I could change. I started sorting my trash more carefully. I cleaned plastics before recycling them. I stopped buying plastic wrap and switched to beeswax wraps. I found a reusable bottle I actually liked using. And with the compost soil, I started a tiny kitchen garden—just herbs at first. But even that felt like something.
I wasn’t saving the world. But I wasn’t just watching it burn, either.
I started telling my friends what I was doing. Nothing big, just casual mentions. To my surprise, they were interested. We made a group chat and named it “Green Teens.” We started sharing tips—how to store leftovers without plastic, how to shop secondhand, how to talk to our families about small changes. We challenged each other to go plastic-free for a week, or to cook a meal with only local ingredients. It didn’t feel like pressure—it felt like community.
Eventually, I created an Instagram page to post simple reels—short videos about composting, recycling hacks, upcycling ideas, and small home sustainability tips. I didn’t expect much, but slowly, people began to respond. Messages started coming in:
“Thanks for the tips!”
“I started my own herb garden!”
“This made me feel a little less anxious.”
Each message reminded me that I wasn’t alone. None of us were. And that was the most powerful shift of all.
I still feel eco-anxiety. It hasn’t gone away. But now, it feels different. Less like a weight I carry alone, and more like energy I can channel. It’s still grief. Still fear. But it’s also action. Connection. Hope shared between people who understand how heavy the world can feel—but also how powerful even small changes can be.
Eco-anxiety doesn’t disappear. But when it’s shared, it becomes bearable. And when it’s redirected, it becomes powerful.
By: Sarthak Vadlamudi
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