I'm a therapist. In helping people deal with their climate anxiety, I'm learning to manage my own
More of my clients have been evacuated or fight fires on the frontlines
This First Person column is the experience of Amy Green, a registered psychologist who lives in Salmon Arm, B.C. All specific client stories and quotes have been used with their consent. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
"I'm doing a lot better this year," Julie said when I asked how she's coping this summer. "All the rain in June was a huge blessing."
I'm a psychologist and Julie is a client in my private practice in Salmon Arm, a rural community in the southern Interior of B.C. Our August meeting was the latest in several sessions since she'd reached out to me a couple of years ago for help with her climate anxiety.
That anxiety ramps up each year during fire season.
"I'm just grateful I can attend my cousin's wedding next weekend," she added, her voice cracking.
"If there was a local fire right now and we were on evacuation alert, I wouldn't be able to go. And that's where the anxiety feels like it cripples me."
Her words resonate with me more than she knows. Over the past few years, my own climate anxiety — defined by The Handbook of Climate Psychology as heightened distress in response to the threat of climate change — has become at times all-consuming.
And I'm not alone. A recent summary of public opinion research showed most Canadians are worried about climate change and want governments and corporations to do more about it.
My anxiety sometimes becomes so heavy it's suffocating. As a mom to three- and six-year-old daughters, I'm plagued by nagging questions.
If it's 40 C in 2024, what will the forecasts of my kids' future look like? Will they have clean air to breathe and fresh water to drink? Or will it be all famine, floods and water wars?
I also realize that, on a global scale, my carbon footprint is massive. I live in a large home — well above the average Canadian square footage — that we heat with natural gas. Although I'm limiting air travel now, I've already taken more plane rides than I could possibly count.
Guilt, grief and other emotions
I feel infinitely guilty that those who've contributed the least to the climate crisis suffer the most.
In Canada, Indigenous communities make up 42 per cent of wildfire evacuations and experience disproportionate mental and physical health impacts. During last year's Bush Creek East fire, which burned more than 45,000 hectares near Salmon Arm, 31 homes in the Skwlāx te Secwepemcúl̓ecw First Nation were lost.
We're no strangers to forest fires in Salmon Arm, but the Bush Creek fire hit particularly close to home, as one client after another shared their stories of grief and loss. Some were forced to evacuate in truly terrifying conditions while others worked on the ground as first responders or behind the scenes in support roles.
A year later, I'm helping some of them slowly and carefully process their trauma.
We use therapies that help transform memories of flames and smoke into images that feel more distant and organized. Pervasive negative thoughts of "I'm in danger" shift into "It's over now" and "I'm safe." One client visualizes a powerful grizzly bear leading her to safety every time the flashbacks come.
More and more teens — anxious and angry about the climate mess they're inheriting — are also landing in my office. Many think the future is frightening.
One of my teen clients told me she has come to dread summer break because of the ever-looming fire threat.
She worries about things like collapsing Atlantic Ocean currents, food security and Hajj pilgrims dying in scorching heat.
I asked how she copes with the anxiety.
"Mostly just distraction, I guess," she shrugged.
"Maybe there are some other strategies," I suggested gently.
We started with validating her feelings — her grief for a long-gone childhood when summertime felt full of promise. We talked about the difference between distraction (zoning out on TikTok) and containment, which is a more intentional way of putting distressing thoughts aside. I guided her in visualizing a box that she could tuck those thoughts into when they become overwhelming. I reminded her that we can open the box together when she feels ready and able to deal with those thoughts.
At a later session, the same empathetic client told me she's been walking barefoot outside every day for 15 minutes, taking mindful breaths.
"It's called grounding," she beamed. "I think it's really helping."
That inspired me to revisit the strategies that help me, like being in nature and spending time with people who make me laugh. I went to a reiki session and imagined my worries leaving my body as black rocks of obsidian. I've limited my social media feed to climate-positive stories and learned about many existing initiatives that can turn things around for our planet.
Ways to find healing
Recently, my teen client and I struck a deal to both start daily gratitude journals, and I began focusing on the many things I have to be thankful for.
I know that taking action and giving back are important steps in helping combat climate anxiety, so I talk about this with my clients. One teenage client wrote an essay on the impact of climate change on Indigenous communities in Canada. In my family, my husband bikes instead of driving and I write to local politicians.
We also try to be ethical consumers, something I recognize to be a privilege since affording sustainable options often requires a certain amount of disposable income. And, at the end of the day, consumption is consumption; maybe what we really need is to become a lot more comfortable with less: less stuff, less flying, less red meat, less instant gratification.
Maybe, in doing so, we somehow become a lot more content.
In looking at my gratitude journal — which I've actually stuck with for once, thank you to that teenage client — I see some recurring themes. My kids, my family, my health, rainy days.
And my clients, who inspire me daily with their resilience and bravery and who are helping me heal, too.
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