Come Back to Yourself

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LISTENING: to a leaf blower do its thang outside
FEELING: nostalgic
SEEING: an annoying fruit fly buzz around

There are so many things I could write about. On Tuesday, the United Nations declared Israel is committing genocide in Gaza. Human rights group Global Witness put out its annual defenders report Wednesday: At least 146 environmental defenders were killed or disappeared last year due to their advocacy. Then, of course, there is last week's violent killing of conservative activist Charlie Kirk. I originally planned to write about eco-fascism, but I just don't want to go there right now. My heart is too full today to flood it with the ugliness.

You see, I'm overwhelmed by nostalgia and passion and yearning. I know this is a climate newsletter. And I know I often write about heavy shit. Like floods or court rulings or grief. Today, however, I want to write about coming back to the things you love—about rekindling the spirits of your youth. The whispers and the giggles. The tears and the jitters. The terror and the bravery.

I just finished a show that's been strangely keeping me going the last few weeks: "The Summer I Turned Pretty." It's streaming on Amazon Prime (sorry!!) and written by Jenny Han. It's a teenage sob story, my absolute favorite genre. I'm not telling y'all to go watch it, but I am telling y'all to find something to look forward to every week. Anything. Even if that something is silly. Even if that something is "just" a story.

Let me tell you: Stories are one of the most powerful gifts out there. They tug at our heartstrings and stir up all the feelings we thought we forgot.

This show brought me back to my youth. To my days of innocence and naivety. To being 21 in California.

I was living there for a college semester, and I had my whole life ahead of me. I was covering, for the first time, environmental crises: drought, the fracking industry, activism. I was a real journalist, meeting farmers and chasing leads. Those months confirmed that everything I had been working toward—my career and voice—was within reach. While my journalism flourished, I fell in love: a surprising, sweet, fleeting kind of love.

For the first time in my life, I got a sense of the type of future I wanted. I wanted to write poems and read books beneath trees. I wanted to go to protests and ride my bike to my local co-op. I wanted to kiss over and over again as a blood moon eclipsed above. I wanted the kind of love that sets your soul on fire.

I felt unstoppable. The world around me was burning in many ways—this was 2014—but I learned to trust my judgement. To have faith. I learned to survive heartbreak. I figured out how to be alone and stand on my own two feet. I persevered despite all the pain rushing toward me.

And I'm still here, dreaming and in love yet again. I'm terrified half the time of all the violence and death surrounding me, but I'm also inspired. I'm moved by the art I'm lucky enough to enjoy. I'm in awe of the work I do and the people I get to speak to and make memories with (professionally and personally).

I'm overcome by the understanding that I'll always be that ambitious, hopelessly romantic 21-year-old with a single mission: to change the fucking world one word at a time.

What would our lives look like if we tried a little harder to tap into our younger selves? The idealists? The hopeless romantics? The believers? The fighters? The rebels? I've said before that the climate movement needs more romance—and I still believe that—but I think a better framing is that the climate movement needs more love.

We need to come back to the things we love. The people, the places, the plots that quell our desire and satisfy our hunger. Stories can change the world. I still believe that. I have to. We need them to return to us. We need to go in search of them. We need to write new ones inside our hearts. To remember who we are. Without the darkness of the world. Before we knew the world could be so dark.

Find the light. Hold it. And let the salty streams flow. For who you once were. For who you are now. For what the world has made of us. For the world yet still on its way. I know it's coming. That better world, the one to make all this suffering worthwhile. I know it's there, just over the horizon. And I know you are, too. The you that you're proud of. The you that makes you feel unstoppable again. The you that we need. 🌀

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