I’m resigning. I don’t want to be a climate change warrior anymore. I’m inclined to blame my change of heart on my sister’s death. It would be easy enough to do.
I call myself a ‘climate change warrior.’ I’ve been talking about and taking action around climate change for the past eight years. I know more about the science of climate change, am more familiar with dire predictions and have had more climate conversations with members of Congress from both sides of the aisle than many people—but in the end, I had nothing to say to my friend.
It was 1985, I was thirty-five, a new volunteer with RESULTS, an advocacy organization committed to ending hunger and poverty. I jumped in feet first, determined to make a difference, though I knew nothing about poverty, Congress or how a bill was passed. Something I couldn’t name was driving me to be a change agent in the world.
I’m not having an easy time of it. And I don’t even live in Houston or Florida or Mexico or Montana. This climate change work takes its toll.
I just read an article about climate change in New York Magazine by David Wallace-Wells. He begins like this; “It is, I promise, worse than you think.”