How to Cope with an Eco-Anxiety Spiral

I sit in a small chair designed for grade schoolers with an ache in my chest as the third sixth grader that hour asks some version of, “What do you think the biggest mental health issue is right now, and what do you think could help?”

I’m part of a “human library” at my children’s school in Culver City, Los Angeles. The students “check out” one of the dozen adults volunteering to ask questions about our work—in my case, psychotherapy and writing. It inspires hope in me because these kids are remarkably smart and soulful. And it breaks my heart because this question keeps coming up as our city is on fire. Some have lost their homes, some are in hotels unable to safely return to theirs, and the luckiest have been kept inside for weeks because of air quality.

Swimming in this stew of gradations of trauma, I return to their question and almost want to hug them with my answer, “I think the biggest mental health issue right now is how to be resilient in a rapidly changing world.” I pause looking into big eyes, souls on the brink of adolescence, their pencils poised to take notes, “I think we need to practice grounding ourselves, connect to community and the love and joy available to us, and find ways we can make a difference that bring meaning and hope into our lives.”

When asked to write this piece, ideas bubbled up amidst my own fear and overwhelm. This was a familiar state of being, reminiscent of 2020, when I was counseling patients through the pandemic as I struggled myself. The world feels tenuous: parts of my hometown are still burning as I write this, the quality of our air and water uncertain, and the shifting political landscape only adds to the feelings of overwhelm, uncertainty, and vulnerability.

The news is flooded with reports on natural calamities and traumatized pockets of the world. Even if not directly affected, when we learn of a disaster, reach out to a friend in an affected area, or hear of someone else, even far away, who has lost everything, our fear may arise. We worry and wonder how to survive on a planet that is in transition—one that often feels perilous if not violent. To live in a world of climate change connects us regularly with something we as humans like to deny—our existential vulnerability.

Eco-anxiety, as defined by the American Psychological Association (APA), is the ongoing fear of climate change’s cataclysmic effects on our planet, our safety, and the well-being of future generations. While it’s not an official diagnosis in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), its rise is undeniable. A 2020 APA survey found that more than two-thirds of adults (68%) said that they have at least a little “eco-anxiety,” and nearly half of young adults reported the anxiety affected them daily. As a result, many therapists now include an assessment of a patient’s relationship to the earth and climate change as part of their intake process.

Climate anxiety manifests in many ways—excessive worry, hopelessness, apathy, decision fatigue, or even bursts of anger. Emotions can shift rapidly, reflecting the complex and overwhelming nature of eco-anxiety. I often see patients bounce between planning a move, launching office recycling initiatives, grieving the scale of loss, expressing anger at systemic inaction, and casually discussing their dinner plans—all in a single session. Those living in ravaged areas also experience higher rates of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), often leading to vivid dreams of hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, and fires—a pattern I also see in my patients.

Feeling fear and grief over these events is normal. The tragic losses shift our reality. Trying to re-orient ourselves to a changing climate while managing stress and finding peace in the unknown can feel like a Herculean task. As we face ongoing, shifting stressors and conflicting information, our allostasis, the physiological system that helps regulate stress, becomes increasingly challenged.

As we worry about friends, family, the air we breathe, and the uncertainty of it all, it’s so easy to spin out. But if we stay caught in that spiral of fear, we won’t be able to help ourselves—or anyone else. That won’t bring peace, and it certainly won’t create the change we need.

So how do we find balance and take action in a way that brings meaning and hope, rather than drowning in the chaos? Here are four steps to ground yourself, connect with community, embrace the love and joy available to you, and find ways to make a difference.

To find your center, trust your intuition, and make thoughtful decisions from the heart, we must first ground ourselves. The word “grounded” comes from the earth, symbolizing emotional balance, stability, and a strong foundation.

One way to do this is to spend time in nature—a proven way to lower cortisol levels, our primary stress hormone. Lean into the resources available to you. Put your phone away, and go stand outside, feet in the grass, daydream at the lemon tree in your backyard, or the potted plant on the balcony, listen to the birds call for one another.

Regularly focus on your breath. Take a few, slow deep breaths, or try box breathing: in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, repeat a few times. Slow, rhythmic breaths cue our body that we are out of imminent danger.

One of the antidotes to living in fear of the future, is to center yourself in the present. We cannot control it all, but we can work to find our little pocket of peace in the world, even if it is fleeting. The more we connect to it, the easier it becomes. Like a positive feedback loop, our brains and bodies, caught in hypervigilance, can be encouraged and wired to look for and connect more readily to moments of peace. This radiates out into our interactions with others as well, a true ripple effect. (Obvious but important: Be mindful of when you take in the news and social media. Note how it impacts you when you do.)

Think of small daily practices. Choose something you do every morning and do it with thoughtful intention. For example, while washing your face, focus on the sensory experience of the act. Notice the smell of the face wash, the touch of the metal faucet, the sound of the water, and the taste in your mouth. If your thoughts start to wander gently remind yourself to return your focus to the simple sensory act of washing your face.

Make note of what helps you feel safe, calm, and at peace. My list includes: sitting by the ocean, therapy, stopping to look at the moon whenever I can, making pasta sauce, soaking in the bath, and writing. I can’t run anymore but dancing to music in the kitchen or singing loudly in the minivan on my way to morning drop off also works. So does sinking into my husbands’ arms or burrowing under covers with my kids while marveling at how little legs that used to curl up at my hips now stretch to my ankles.

Try and expand into those moments. What do you notice in your body? How are the quality of your thoughts? What is your mood? Practice noticing it, expand into it, and hold onto it for a moment longer before you move onto whatever in life is calling for your attention. Every so often, as if embracing yourself, wrap your arms around yourself and say out loud, “I am safe, in this moment I am safe.”

If the moment of peace and safety feels too fleeting to grasp, orchestrate one. I love a guided meditation in which you imagine yourself in a place where you feel safe. Slowly imagine what it looks like, then feels like, sounds, and smells like. It does wonders, especially when done regularly.

Make your own list and ritualize the practice of doing it. Don’t skip a dose, treat it like medicine. It is.

For those still in survival mode, deep in the trauma of epic loss, lean on those you love and trust for support. Ask for help finding a therapist if you need it.

All that is happening is too much for one person alone. Connect with your community. Who do you feel safe with? Who brings you joy? Be thoughtful about it and protective of your own tender heart. We are communal, social creatures and we survive (and heal) in groups of belonging.

Stepping outside of yourself, expanding your perspective both literally and emotionally can also help us get out of a loop of worry. Listen to someone else’s stories, engage in small talk with your neighbor, volunteer, connect with your spiritual practices and honor being part of the greater human experience.

Your anxiety is, in part, a shift in consciousness, a call for change. It is part of our natural defense response saying, “beware, something isn’t right. This is not safe.” It can be helpful to contextualize anxiety as excess energy in the system, use that excess energy to tackle small, actionable items.

Once you are grounded, think about what matters to you and what your superpower is. Think of how that can be put towards creating positive change or supporting those who are doing good work.

Take time to think about your relationship with the earth. How can you be more involved in a reciprocal relationship with our home and all of its creatures? Who can you model yourself after? Who is forging the path that aligns with your values and concerns?

It is easy to feel overwhelmed in these times. It can be paralyzing. Part of healing from trauma comes from many small, but impactful corrective, connected experiences of goodwill. These many moments help to soothe our worry and correct a stress response that has suffered from unpredictability.

Maybe that’s how we need to think about healing our relationship with the Earth and healing our trauma related to the climate crisis. While big things need to change, the salve for our eco anxiety, the answer to those sixth graders, might not be one thing, but rather in the many, small moments that we create in love and harmony with the Earth.