Green Grief and Hope: Holding Both

Earth Day arrives each year with its usual collage of images - children planting trees, infographics about recycling, bright green headlines urging us to “go green.” And yet, for many of us, this day also stirs something deeper. Alongside appreciation for the beauty of the Earth, we may also feel a quiet ache of heaviness we can’t quite name.

Some days, I step outside and feel like I don’t recognize the seasons anymore. Spring arrives too early, then disappears behind a storm. The snow falls heavy and wet, or not at all. The soil in my garden cracks open from scorching heat and drought, or washes out completely from too much rain all at once. Birds I used to hear each morning now come and go in strange rhythms, or not at all.

In California, we’ve come to know fire season as a second autumn. The scent of smoke settles into the air before the leaves do. We check air quality before we open windows. If we tap into it, there’s a quiet, persistent ache: a grief for our environment that we don’t always have words for.

As the writer Joanna Macy says, “The heart that breaks open can contain the whole world.” And it’s true: the more we allow ourselves to love this Earth, the more we must also learn to grieve it. This is green grief - the sorrow that arises when we feel the Earth changing around us. It's not dramatic all the time. Sometimes it's subtle, even beautiful. But it lives in the body. It lives in the nervous system. And it comes from love.

As the poet and farmer Wendell Berry writes,

“When despair for the world grows in me... I come into the peace of wild things.” These lines remind us that our love for the natural world is inseparable from our sorrow, and that nature can still be a balm, even when it’s the very thing we’re grieving.

In this post, I want to invite you to sit with both: grief and hope, despair and beauty, fear and reverence. We’ll explore what it means to feel green grief, how to stay present without becoming overwhelmed, and how to root ourselves in small, sacred acts of love for the Earth. Drawing from ecopsychology, poetry, and wisdom traditions - like the work of Joanna Macy, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Mary Oliver, and others. Let’s look at ways to keep our hearts open in a time of ecological uncertainty, learning from the words of those who remind us that even now, the Earth is speaking. And we are listening.

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What is green grief?

Green grief, sometimes called eco-anxiety, climate grief, or ecological sorrow, is the emotional pain we feel in response to environmental loss and change. Like any grief, it might show up as an obvious loud sadness, helplessness, numbness, or anger. Or it may linger in the background, easy to overlook. Other times, it rises quietly, almost unexpectedly reminding us of the subtleties we are grappling with. We remember our grief while skimming the news, pausing at a photo of a scorched hillside, or hearing that another species has quietly slipped closer to extinction. A favorite trail feels drier, and more brittle underfoot. Sometimes, it’s a subtle but undeniable pang of unease when the seasons shift too soon - or not at all.

This grief is not a disorder or a flaw. Ecopsychology teaches us that we are not separate from nature, and never have been. Our nervous systems evolved in relationship with the Earth - its rhythms, cycles, textures, and songs. When those rhythms fall out of balance, something in us does too.

As ecotherapist Francis Weller writes,

“The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other, and to be stretched large by them.”

Grief is what happens when we allow ourselves to care. It’s a natural response to witnessing the unraveling of ecosystems we love, or the uncertainty facing future generations. And though it hurts, it’s also a sign of aliveness. A heart still tethered to the world.

Green grief is also a threshold. A call to deepen our relationship with the Earth, not just as a resource, but as kin. When we grieve the Earth, we are acknowledging what has mattered to us... what still matters. As Francis Weller reminds us, “Grief is a form of praise, because it is the natural way love honors what it misses.”

Grief isn’t something to rush through or fix. It’s something to listen to. To stay with. To let shape us.

To feel green grief is to have known beauty, to have loved the scent of damp soil after soft rain, the hush of snowfall, the flicker of monarch wings across a sunlit path. These moments become part of us. And when they change, or disappear, something in us hurts, not just with loss, but with longing. That longing is sacred. It tells us we’re still connected.

My favorite poet, Mary Oliver once asked, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Perhaps part of the answer is this: to keep loving the world, even as it breaks our hearts.

Grief, then, becomes not just a sign of despair, but a sign of relationship. A sign that we are awake, that we are paying attention, and that we still belong to this Earth, even in its changing.

Hope Is Not Denial, It’s a Practice

When we allow ourselves the depths of ecological grief, hope can feel almost impossible... like a fragile thing, too delicate to carry the weight of the world. But maybe that’s because we’ve misunderstood what hope actually is.

Hope isn’t pretending things are fine. It isn’t bypassing reality or forcing ourselves to stay upbeat. In fact, true hope often begins when we let go of needing a guarantee that things will turn out a certain way. It’s not rooted in outcomes, it’s rooted in relationship.

Joanna Macy, whose work in The Work That Reconnects has guided many through environmental despair, calls this kind of hope active hope. She writes:

“Active Hope is not wishful thinking. Active Hope is not waiting to be rescued... Active Hope is waking up to the beauty of life on whose behalf we can act.”

This kind of hope is a choice we make again and again, to turn toward what we love, to care deeply, to take action even when the path ahead feels uncertain.

Hope can live in small things: planting wildflowers in tired soil. Sharing a meal made from what the Earth gave us. Tending to the pollinators. Teaching children the names of trees. Writing a poem. Watching the moon rise. Revering the ocean tides.

It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about staying in relationship.

Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “In a time of ecological crisis, our most important work may be to restore our relationship to land.” And restoring relationship begins with attention. With reverence. With the humble act of staying, even when it is hard to sit with.

In grief, we can practice hope by continuing to care. Continuing to show up. Continuing to notice.

Practices for Tending Grief and Cultivating Hope

There’s no single “right” way to respond to green grief. Like all grief, it asks to be witnessed and honored - sometimes in silence, sometimes in movement, sometimes in connection. Below are a few practices that can help soften the edges of despair, re-root us in relationship, and offer small acts of healing both the Earth and ourselves.

Feel It, Don’t Fix It

Let yourself grieve. You might journal, cry, talk with a friend, or simply sit quietly with the feeling. There’s no need to rush toward hope. Grief is a wise teacher who slows us down, deepens our capacity for love, and connects us to what matters most.

You can try asking yourself:

What am I grieving right now?
What part of the Earth feels like home to me, and how has it changed?

Create a Simple Ritual

Ritual helps us move emotion through the body. Light a candle in honor of a place you love. Bury compost and offer thanks. Place a stone or feather on an altar. These small gestures remind us that we are participants in the natural world, not just observers.

As Francis Weller writes, “Grief needs a home, a container, a place where its voice can be heard.” Ritual creates that container.

Connect with Nature. Even in Small Ways

You don’t need to live near a forest or coastline to feel connected. So many of us live in cities. Notice where the natural world touches you. Step outside and notice the wind. Tend a houseplant. Watch the light shift across a wall. Listen to the birds that remain.

In her poem “Wild Geese,” Mary Oliver reminds us:

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” Let yourself love what’s still here. Let it remind you that you’re still here, too.

Limit Doom, Nourish Wonder

It’s okay to take breaks from the news. Staying informed is important, but so is tending your nervous system. Notice how you feel after certain media. Seek out stories of regeneration, resilience, and reciprocity. Let yourself be surprised by beauty.

Act From Love, Not Pressure

If you feel called to do something do it from a place of care, not guilt. Vote. Donate. Plant. Protest. Share. Rest. Celebrate. Create. There are many ways to be in service to the Earth. Find the one that aligns with your gifts and your joy.

A Gentle Call to Action

If this post stirred something in you, let it move you gently into connection.
You don’t need to do everything. Just choose one small act of love for the Earth, and follow it.

John Muir once wrote,

“The mountains are calling and I must go.”

But he didn’t go just to escape... he went to listen, to protect, to help others fall in love with the wild places that sustain us. His writings helped create the National Parks many of us now hold dear.

Today many of those sacred spaces are under threat from policy rollbacks, resource extraction, and neglect. The grief we feel isn’t only about what's happening - it’s about what we stand to lose if we forget how to care.

So perhaps part of our call to action is this: to remember that these places are not just scenery. They are teachers. Kin. Legacy. And they need us now - not only as visitors, but as stewards.

You Are Not Alone

If you feel overwhelmed, tender, angry, inspired, or unsure, you’re not alone. Green grief is not a personal failing. It’s a communal experience, shared by all who dare to love the Earth while living through a time of profound change.

To grieve is to be awake. To hope is to stay in relationship. Both are acts of courage.

You don’t have to hold everything, all at once. Some days you’ll feel the ache more than the awe. Other days, a single birdsong or a soft breeze might bring you back to wonder. Let that be enough.

The Earth doesn’t need us to be perfect. It needs us to be present. To listen. To remember that even in grief, we are capable of love. Even in uncertainty, we can keep showing up.

So on this Earth Day, may you let yourself feel it all - the sorrow and the beauty, the fear and the reverence. May you find quiet ways to root yourself in relationship. And may you know, deep in your bones, that the Earth is speaking and you are still part of the conversation.

Resources for Deepening

Books & Essays

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Active Hope by Joanna Macy & Chris Johnstone

The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller

Refuge and Erosion by Terry Tempest Williams

The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram

Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés

The Book of Delights by Ross Gay

Poetry & Reflection

Mary Oliver – especially “Wild Geese” and “The Summer Day”

Wendell Berry – “The Peace of Wild Things”

Ada Limón – “Instructions on Not Giving Up”