Multiple times, almost every day, I think about having a baby.

It is everything I think about but everything is about more than just a baby.

So, before you make any assumptions, this isn’t a personal essay about my experience with the biological clock. I know for many reasons, in the practical sense, that I’m not ready to make such a drastic life-changing decision. I’m not ready because although I’m starting to build a bit more financial stability, I know I likely need to find some more stability in myself, first – but it is very rare that I ever go a day without thinking about it.

Every day, something will trigger the thought, like watching a parent pushing a pram or cautiously tail behind a wobbly child on a bike. I think about it when I watch my niece innocently playing with her dolls, pretending they’re ordering pizza before sliding them down the side of a plastic chimney of a toy house. I think about it when my nephew speaks in a way that reminds me of how fast he’s growing, growing up so fast that he’s almost as old as I was when he was born.

Sometimes, I think about it without any prompting, as if the thought is always there like it’s my default setting, tuned in to the frequency of the future.

For a long time now, I’ve wondered how best to communicate what it’s like to be acutely aware of the fact that the world is forever changed and changing. I’ve wondered how to express the complexity of it, how to accurately depict the day-in, day-out cycle of the thoughts that come with being an actively ‘climate aware person’. I’ve been looking for ways to express the confusion that it all comes with, the dilemmas that I face on an everyday basis.

I think I’ve figured out that what I need to do is lay it all out as if you don’t know me. I must peel back the layers and shed them, on the off chance that you might understand part of what I see, a little clearer.

I write this all knowing I’m one of the lucky ones who gets to watch it all unfold slowly, from the safety of my home which has yet to be devastated by our changing climate’s full force. Somewhere, somehow though, my words might reach the right person and so, I will try.

Multiple times, almost every day, I think about when the right time to have a baby will be. Should we start a family in the next couple of years? Will it help if they see the world as it is now, rather than the world it will become if we wait? Why is it that when I look at the children already in my life, I don’t question their timing? Their timing was always meant to be.

I think about how certain I feel that having a child will be the right decision for me. I have debated it over and over in my mind but I have an overwhelming feeling that it is a deeply profound human experience that I have the right to, which wins over every doubt. We are on a small rock in the middle of the universe, and I am – or at least, I really hope I am – able to create life, with my body. It is a miraculous thing, like something born of stardust.

Multiple times, every day, I think of other things, too. I think about the single-use rubbish I put in my bin. I think about the plastic tofu containers with the non-recyclable film I haven’t peeled off; the oat milk carton that must be thrown out; the toothbrush tube that will end up in a landfill; the broken pieces of jewellery that I find when clearing out my flat to move house, tossed in a black bin bag.

I think about the strawberries I forgot to eat in my fridge, going mouldy. That half-empty packet of microwavable rice. I think about the microplastics on my cheap flimsy chopping board as I cut up an onion. Rinse and repeat.

In the new home I’ve recently moved into, I tap myself on the back for all of the second-hand furniture we’ve managed to source before looking at the gas bill I’m now responsible for. I think about the petrol-guzzling car I’m a frequent passenger in and the freedom it brings me.

At least a few times a week, I think about flying. I look at other people jet-setting across the world, booking holidays without thought, exploring far-flung places and soaking up warm sunlight which I so desperately yearn to feel across my skin. I think about what it would mean to do the same, what a betrayal it would be, knowing full well that there are plane tickets sitting in my email inbox, justified by friendship.

I wonder if what I’m really doing is self-sabotaging under the guise of doing good, holding myself back from experiences people don’t even question; even the people who I look to and think they’d hold back, too.

Every now and then, I have to excuse myself and leave a room, not explaining my reason for escape because what I’m thinking and feeling feels too big. I’ll be triggered by a throwaway remark about how the future is doomed, from someone who is doing nothing to stop it. I want to sit them down and show them the tears I’m trying to hide and ask, “Why, no seriously, why aren’t you crying with me, too?”.

There are people in my life who haven’t seen the tears I’ve shared with my partner as we come to terms with the science spelt out in front of us. There are people who haven’t seen me loudly cry and sob and weep in the cinema at a film depicting the very future I’m afraid of.

I don’t think about the big dramatic, record-breaking headlines as frequently anymore – there’s only so much one can think about, after all – but I do think about whether that makes me avoidant, sleepwalking like everybody else.

Sometimes, I think about other things but none of it ever truly goes away. I tune into conversations in cafes, hoping to catch a glimpse of other people thinking the way I think too. I feel a strange sense of comfort when it does eventually happen, their words like a pinch to my skin, reassuring me that I’m really here existing in the messiness of it all.

Every sunset feels momentous, like something to be treasured. Every storm feels like one to make note of, every hot day a reminder.

Every sunset feels momentous, like something to be treasured. Every storm feels like one to make note of, every hot day a reminder.

Multiple times, almost every day, I think about having a baby. I think about what it would mean to hold them in my arms and know that everything I’ve done and everything I do is for them. I think about whether it would push me to do more or whether they would see what I do as enough.

I think about the fossil fuel executive who told me to my face that he works for an oil company on behalf of the three children he’s already had. I think about how his words made me crumple into a ball as a young woman who can only hope she gets to have a family of her own before it all feels too late. I think about the young women whose lives have been threatened, harmed and ended too soon.

I know it could be very easy to read this and worry, to rush to solve my concerns and soothe them over with some sort of reassuring balm but I must remind you that there isn’t a wound within me that needs healing. A rush to try and calm my nerves or to try and point me in another direction is a rush to fix the wrong problem.

The problem is that we have created a world that needs healing.

And just like the many people who feel they have a right to look the other way and try to suppress it for as long as reality will allow them to, I have the right to look it head on and hold on tight, with everything I’ve got, even if it’s painful.

Even if it means that multiple times, every day, I think about having a baby and what the world will look like when they first open their eyes.

I desperately hope that what they see is beautiful.

The post This is Everything I Think About appeared first on Tolmeia Gregory.

On climate action and why we need to ask for more.

How do you ask for more when you already live in a world of abundance? How do you ask for more when looking out your window on a blue sky day, you can roll an endless list of beauty off your tongue just from a quick glance?

How do you ask for more when sitting in a room full of decision-makers, you are thrown back a repetitive script full of answers as to why it can’t possibly happen? How do you ask for more when there are many who are still asking for what you already have?

This is the dilemma I face when I contemplate the idea of asking for more. It’s the heart-racing feeling I get when I’m sitting in a room opposite decision-makers or when I join a Zoom meeting of business people who expect me to play the role of the inspiring activist but will watch on uncomfortably when I push back against their proposals and ideas a little harder than they would have liked.

Asking for more when you are the only one brave enough to do it can feel vulnerable and isolating. I am often left to feel like what the mainstream media might call a ‘snowflake’; too sensitive, too fragile, too inconvenient to just accept that, in the words of Bo Burnham, “That is how the world works”.

There are times when my own ideas make me feel small too, like when an egregious force decides to inflict pain on an entire country and region overnight despite the millions of calls not to. Like when an obvious solution to suffering is right there and possible, even temporarily put into place – like supporting those experiencing homelessness during a global pandemic – but is purposefully not put into action, purposefully taken away overnight by those who are supposed to be looking after us.

Those of us who decide to highlight these injustices, those of us who use almost every waking breath to channel some light into the darkness, are met with namecalling and stereotypes and abuse (and for some, even extreme violence and murder), more often than not, when our light is just trying to highlight something simple.

In my fight toward climate action, I am really only ever asking for one thing – a livable future. In the newest IPCC report, it was quoted that, “Any further delay in concerted global action will miss a brief and rapidly closing window to secure a liveable future.”.

When we talk about something which is ‘livable’, we reference something which is good for living in, so, in the context of the climate and our home on Planet Earth as a whole, a livable future is not asking for much. We are simply asking for something good.

Life right now, for many people, is categorically not good. Whether it is families being forced into fuel poverty by a government insisting on supporting fossil fuel companies over the general population, whether it is those living in areas devastated by recent or ongoing war or whether it is the endless toll of capitalism on people’s everyday lives, there are a vast array of examples of things being ‘not good’.

But all of these things, on the face of it, have very simple, easy solutions. I say, ‘on the face of it’ to placate that part of me that rises up within to say, “But it’s not that simple! There are policies to write and people who will never be convinced!”, even though I know the policies are already written and most of the population are no longer denying that the problem actually exists (they just might not agree on why it exists).

And although there is a long list of ‘not good’ things, there is also an even longer list of ‘good’ things that our calls for a livable future are simply wanting to protect and give longevity to. I believe that even in our darkest moments, we are all able to make a list of our own ‘good’ things, even if that list ends at 3. For a start, here’s a list that comes to mind as I write this –

1. Having the time to watch a sunset
2. Beaches
3. Live music
4. Having the time to create art
5. Having the time to spend with family
6. Sharing food
7. Wildflowers
8. Swimming in clean water
9. Fresh, unpolluted air
10. The sound of a peaceful woodland

I am fortunate enough that my list is made up of things I have experienced in recent times but you might notice that none of it is especially extraordinary. I am not asking for the world to be reinvented in a way that only makes sense in sci-fi novels and Hollywood movies, just in ways that protect what we already know to be special and valuable. Just in ways that give us more of what is already good.

Because I believe we deserve more than this – more than a couple of hours after a long day at work to spend with our loved ones, more than two weeks a year to spend how we like, more than towns that are full of toxic fumes, more than fighting amongst ourselves, more than seeing nature destroyed in the name of profit. More. More. More.

I want to be greedy in the goodness I am asking for, turning greed from something that is selfish into something that is good for all of us. I want to harvest all of the things worth protecting in a basket and plant new fruits for us to share. I want to listen to which crops you want to be planted, too, so, what grows is a collaborative effort.

As part of a recent Climate Crisis Advisory Group meeting, Ade Adepitan responded to my comment about often feeling like a snowflake by saying, “We need an avalanche of snowflakes.”. Despite how it often makes me feel, I have to agree.

Imagine if I, or us, (if you ever feel similarly), were not the only ones in the room to say the uncomfortable thing. Imagine if we didn’t have to find the other frustrated face in the room, to seek out comfort from the only other person who might see things the way we do.

Imagine if raising our hand to question the way something is being done was greeted by the welcome arms of imagination, rather than the arms of limitation?

I think we would get to where we need to go a lot quicker if we dared to want more for ourselves, even if we are one of the lucky ones who already have so much.

We deserve more than this, even more than what is already beautiful and joyful, especially for those who are still fighting desperately to experience those things.

Want to start asking for more? Listen to my podcast, Idealistically, where we discuss what we would idealistically want in an ideal world.

The post We Deserve More Than This appeared first on Tolmeia Gregory.

What I learned in 2021 is that falling in love with the earth is very similar to falling in love with someone.

During my time in Scotland for COP26, I visited Loch Lomond, just north of Glasgow. I stood beside the water, surrounded by hillsides of green and autumnal colours and it hit me, simultaneously, how beautiful yet scary it was. How in awe I was of what beauty the natural world could create and yet how fearful I was that one day these pockets of wonder will no longer exist in their current form.

How one day, future generations – whether it is my nephews, my newly-born niece or my own, potential children – may never experience these moments in the same way I can.

Falling in love with the earth is similar to falling in love with someone because both mean taking the risk of losing them. It goes for anyone you love. The more you learn about them, the more you bring them into your world, the more you appreciate them, the more you risk losing.

I was fearful before my niece was born, that the first time I would hold her, I would break down in tears over the world she was entering. I would break down in tears because she was another life to fight for, another reason to not stop, even when I am tired and hopeless and wishing that other people would step in for me.

(Which by the way, is the majority of the time. Please step in for me and for all the other climate activists. We need everyone.)

The more I learn about this planet, the more I stop to appreciate its beauty and what it does for me, the more my heart breaks when I see it slipping through my fingers. Every day the risk becomes greater, as I fall more deeply and submit to knowing that I will fight for this in every way that I can. Every day the risk becomes greater as the world continues on a trajectory of simply not doing enough.

It also feels similar to loving someone in the sense that I have started to love myself more, too. When everything is stripped back and I am in my messy, flawed, tear-stained state, vulnerable to all that life throws at me, I know I will be supported just as I am. Nature has a place for me and a place for you. Nature wants nothing from you but for you to exist just as you are and there is nothing I find more loving than that, for someone or something, to love me for me.

These places that make me feel safe and seen and loved are also the places I run to when I have something to celebrate. When I am feeling good and happy and at peace, the first place I long to escape to is somewhere where I can run my hands through blades of green and close my eyes in some sunlight. These places hold me, even when nobody can.

It is a beautiful love story. A love story which I wish I had embarked on sooner but one which may also end in tragedy and for that, I am terrified. There is a part of my heart, the part that made me cry whilst stood at the edge of the loch, that is already breaking and bracing for impact.

It is an even more beautiful story when you get to share it with the people you love just as much. That is when the love wins over and when the fear takes a back seat; when winning this fight is the only option because you cannot let yourself lose those moments of shared beauty. It is the drive that keeps us going, the us that keeps us going. Those moments will be in my future, in our future.

My back against a tree that I go to in my darkest and brightest days. My head on your shoulder, sitting on top of a sunlit peak or watching its golden remains sink into darkness across dappled water. My niece, asleep in my arms with my world reduced to her tiny, warm chest rising and falling in front of me.

In these moments I am fearful but ultimately, the love wins over.

The post It Is A Beautiful Love Story appeared first on Tolmeia Gregory.

This is your reminder that hope takes courage.

I’m writing this from outside my parents’ house in Italy. I’m in the shade, tucked away from the blazing August heat, an army of crickets echoing across the surrounding fields. Just up from my laptop screen, I can see grapes growing from a spiralling vine, flowers neatly lined up in terracotta pots and a sky scattered with feathery clouds.

I’m describing this in detail because I’ve just finished The Future Earth, written by one of my favourite climate writers, Eric Holthaus, and towards the end, it encourages you to dig deeper and tune into your surroundings and how you experience Earth.

It feels as if this book entered my life with perfect timing.

For a while now, through a global pandemic; spending several months in a small studio flat on my own (albeit in a very privileged position of being able to work from home, pandemic or not); not having a hug for over 12 weeks and spending many days of the first couple of weeks curled up in bed emotionally exhausted – I’ve been thinking about the future.

My lived experiences and privileges up until now have given me the opportunity to avoid thinking about the future in great detail. I’ve also never purposefully planned to go to university, work my way up the career ladder or strive towards achieving a certain job title by a certain age like some people may have by the time they’ve entered their twenties.

I’ve grown up in a household that works for themselves and has the ability and flexibility to just see how things go – sure, there may be goals and targets to aim for but I’ve never been pressured into planning out my future in great detail.

The Climate Emergency has given me even more reason to avoid doing so, starting with me letting go of my dream of becoming a fashion designer (you can read my Archive post about this year). I suppose that is the only ever future I’ve clearly envisioned. It’s the only future I’ve scribbled in notebooks for, the only future I’ve mocked-up visuals for and the only future that I’ve previously felt like giving my energy and hopes to.

The uncertainty of such a fragile world which could quite easily feature more pandemics, an increasing number of severe weather events and natural disasters, gives me more reason to let go of planning and being able to answer the questions of, “So, what are your plans? Where do you see yourself in five years?” because the world isn’t making it easy for me to know what the next five years will look like.

Now I’m a self-proclaimed activist, I spend a lot of time thinking about the current state and trajectory that our planet and our lives are heading on. So, ironically, although I don’t spend an awful lot of time thinking about my own personal future – Will I have children? Will I get married? Do I ever want to own a house? Should I be saving for a mortgage just in case? – I do spend a lot of time thinking about the worst-case scenario of our shared, global future.

Except, that time thinking hasn’t been spent scribbling in notebooks or envisioning what it actually might look like. It’s been spent grappling with an increasing amount of anxiety, grief, loss and fear because, for the most part, the future I see and the future I’m preparing for is one that doesn’t have a very happy ending.

I don’t see anything wrong with that. In fact, I believe there is a lot of strength in coming to terms with the negative emotions relating to the Climate Crisis and its causes (because the Climate Crisis is the symptom of many different injustices whether its colonialism, capitalism, racism or sexism) as it helps to make them more real and a justifiable cause for concern for more people.

Joyful photos that were taken on a random beach in Italy, wearing a mixture of second-hand and old clothes.

When you express that seeing an ancient woodland being destroyed causes you great pain and distress, it could trigger a thought pattern in somebody else to question why that might be. When I tell you that driving past the remnants of wildfires in Southern Italy frightens me, I hope that it sets off alarm bells because ultimately, we should be scared.

It is completely natural and very much expected to be experiencing negative, difficult emotions in processing an emergency – just like many of us have over the months of 2020, seeing the death toll from a pandemic increase every day.  

As Holthaus says, “For at least the next few decades we will endure a planet that’s growing dangerously hotter every year. Embracing that cruel truth – and not running from it – will allow us to best ensure not only survival but a good life for as many people as possible during this era of fundamental transition.”

(I’ve written on this topic before and you can read it in my Archive)

But equally, I believe there needs to be balance. If all we can see is a possible apocalypse when we close our eyes and imagine the future, then what are we standing up and fighting for? The answer to that question is nuanced, of course. I won’t deny that I am still in a state of preparing for the worst but wanting to do all I can in the meantime.

When people ask me, “Do you think it’s possible?” – the ‘it’ being climate justice or a revolution in how we live – I often say I don’t know because I truly don’t. I believe in the power of people, but I’ve also become increasingly pessimistic in response to seeing a lack of drastic action when we so desperately need it. It wears you down, but I’d hate for it to wear me down so much that I struggle to even imagine a world where it is possible.

Because what’s a better use of energy? Imagining further demise or imagining something better, something that doesn’t even exist yet?

In The Future Earth, Eric Holthaus quotes NASA climate scientist Kate Marvel who said, “Courage is the resolve to do well without the assurance of a happy ending.”

Maybe that’s what climate action and imagining a better world is all about. Many of us have concluded that we are headed to – or in many cases, are already experiencing – disaster. So, maybe there won’t ever be a happy ending but gosh, isn’t it brave of us to imagine that there could be? That in the face of all this pain and suffering, we might just pause and think of what things could be?

It’s so much easier to see all the bad stuff and only focus on that, to only be angry, only be sad, only fight against rather than for because then you don’t lose anything else. Then you don’t lose that possibility of what could have been and maybe that’s just too much loss on top of everything else.

 “Our future is all about the narrative that you tell yourself. It’s literally how we are unconsciously able to move throughout our day, by trusting that actions we take will lead to specific outcomes. Working for a good future makes that future possible. And working for a good future can’t happen if we don’t believe it’s possible.”

The Future Earth, page 194

I want to start changing the narrative that thinking of a better future isn’t just a form of hopeful naivety. That it is essential – that it is bravery and a sign of your willingness to accept it doesn’t matter if you lose, so long as you tried.

We are in a time where it is no longer acceptable to sit back and do nothing, even if doing something is just talking about it.

Of course, this form of imagining is already essential to the people who are experiencing some of the worsts effects of the Climate Emergency the world has yet to see.

When we talk about the future it’s important to recognise that this isn’t a future problem, whether it’s the 36,000 deaths caused by air pollution in the UK per year, the people fighting to save the Marshall Islands that Eric Holthaus spoke of in his book or whether it’s the Black lives being lost to racism and police brutality (some of the police of which are being funded by the fossil fuel industry), this is all very much happening now and in the present.

For the relatively close future, if we exclude unexpected tragedies and life’s general uncertainties, my future is looking relatively safe but for many it is not. When we move forward in imagining (in whatever way that may be for you), we must keep that at the heart of everything.

Looking back up from my laptop screen and reminding myself of my surroundings, the future I would envision in this precise moment would be a bit like this –

There is no car on the drive and the plot of vegetables my dad’s started growing has taken over the majority of the garden and the plants that grow aren’t just for my parents, they’re for the neighbours, too. The neighbours aren’t just holidaymakers that typically fill the mostly empty surrounding houses during the summer periods – they’re filled with people who need them, no matter where they’ve come from.

I no longer hear any cars on the road in a distance or planes flying up above. I didn’t travel by one either because a slower, more sustainable option is now more accessible. The soundtrack to life is exactly how it should be – animals and nature and people living in harmony and happiness. Instead of planes, we hear only birds.

That’s just a slither of a much bigger picture that I want to make a commitment to start digging into. And just by writing that, I’ve realised that maybe the better world I hope to be possible is a lot simpler and closer in reach than I’d ever thought before.

The post It Takes Courage to Imagine a Better World appeared first on Tolmeia Gregory.