Introduction

Six years ago, in Nature Climate Change¹, we warned that grief over the loss of iconic ecosystems like the Great Barrier Reef could stall climate action. Today, grief is no longer anticipatory; it is lived, embodied, and unavoidable. As the climate crisis intensifies and the 1.5°C threshold slips beyond reach, we must confront this grief not as paralysis but as a catalyst. Next month, we return to the Reef with our young son – a journey shaped by love, loss, and reckoning. The Reef’s vulnerability mirrors our own, and the grief we carry is ecological, intergenerational, and deeply personal. As white, middle-class academics from a WEIRD society, we acknowledge our privilege and complicity in systems that enable mobility and leisure for some, while excluding many. Tourism contributes 8% of global emissions, reminding us that even acts of connection can be implicated in harm. This moment demands more than technical solutions; it calls for emotional and ethical reckoning. Confronting carbon violence requires systemic transformation and a reimagining of our relationship with nature and each other, grounded in grief, justice, and the courage to hope.

Understanding Carbon Violence

Today, nearly half the world’s population – 3.6 billion people – live on less than US$6.85 a day². In stark contrast, the wealthiest 1% control nearly 45% of global wealth³. Since 2015, their wealth has surged by over US$33.9 trillion, enough to end poverty 22 times over⁴. This staggering inequality is no accident; it is driven by neoliberal policies, ‘trickle-up’ economics, and the relentless concentration of power and privilege.

Wealth drives carbon intensity. The top 10% of the global population are responsible for nearly half of all emissions, contributing two-thirds of global warming between 1990 and 2020⁵. In contrast, the bottom 50% emit less than 20% of total emissions⁶. This is not just inequality, it is carbon violence – systemic harm resulting from disproportionate contributions to, and unequal exposure to, climate change impacts. While WEIRD societies have historically driven this violence, rising elites in some low- and middle-income countries increasingly share responsibility for its continuation. Ironically, those least culpable are expected to become more ‘resilient’⁷.

The dominant narrative frames our era as the Anthropocene, defined by human impact on Earth’s systems. But critical scholars offer alternative framings. The Capitalocene foregrounds the role of extractive capitalism in ecological collapse. The Racial Capitalocene deepens this critique, exposing how colonial logics of exploitation, racialised violence, and dehumanisation have fuelled both environmental destruction and systemic inequality⁸.

The theory of nonviolence⁹ reminds us that violence is not only direct; it is also structural, cultural, and slow, unfolding across generations and often rendered invisible¹⁰. Indigenous and marginalised communities have long borne the brunt of this violence. Intersectional inequalities – where race, class, gender, and geography converge – intensify its impacts. Lands have been stolen, cultures suppressed, and knowledge systems appropriated. As Said¹¹ reminds us, the ‘other’, the ‘invisible’, and the ‘forgotten’ remain largely excluded from decision-making.

This is the architecture of carbon violence: a system that privileges the few, burdens the many, and erodes the foundations of life. It must be dismantled.

Grieving Our Backyard

Carbon violence is not a distant abstraction; it is lived, felt, and unfolding in our own backyard. As the cascading impacts of climate change intensify – disrupting livelihoods, wellbeing, culture, and place¹² – we find ourselves at a crossroads in deep time. Shaped by centuries of extraction, this moment is decisive for generations to come. It marks an epoch of ecological and social rupture, defined not only by planetary boundaries but also by human ones: who holds power, who bears the burden, and who is left behind.

In Australia, the climate crisis has arrived not as a distant threat but as fire, flood, loss, and grief. The fires of 2019/20, widely described as apocalyptic, marked a national turning point. Nearly 19 million hectares burned, over a billion animals perished, thousands of homes were destroyed, and 33 lives were lost¹³. These fires were not only ecological disasters; they were emotional ruptures. Then came the floods. In towns like Lismore, entire communities were submerged twice within weeks. Lives were upended, homes swept away, and trauma etched into the landscape.

The emotional toll has been immense. Communities were physically devastated and emotionally overwhelmed. Diagnoses of post-traumatic stress, anxiety, and depression surged, while regional mental health services buckled under demand. People mourned not only homes and livelihoods, but entire ecosystems, species, and a sense of stability.

This grief echoes globally. Emotional distress linked to human-induced planetary change has long been documented, from Inuit communities in Canada to farmers in rural Australia and across the Pacific¹². Depression, stress, and anxiety, alongside anger, hopelessness, and despair, are increasingly recorded as cascading disasters unfold in a warming world. This is not just climate change. It is climate trauma.

These traumas – fires, floods, and ecological loss – are symptoms of a deeper system of carbon violence, driven by high per capita emissions, fossil fuel exports, and inadequate climate commitments. While Australia positions itself as a climate leader, its actions often reflect geopolitical interests more than genuine care. This reveals a troubling dissonance between rhetoric and reality.

In urban centres, where over 86% of Australians live, grief may be less visible but no less real. Rapid urbanisation and technological saturation deepen our estrangement from nature, especially among younger generations. Solastalgia – the distress caused by environmental change close to home – is growing, as grief over the transformation of one’s homeplace becomes increasingly common. Yet within this grief lies possibility. Cities can be reimagined not as centres of consumption, but as places of ecological connection, community care, and climate leadership. Efforts to restore ecosystems, reconnect communities with nature, and centre Indigenous knowledge in climate responses are already emerging. These glimpses of change do not erase grief; they arise from it. They remind us that healing is possible, and that from grief, courage can grow.

Reimagining Together as Nature

Humans are carbon-based beings, sustained by photosynthesising species. Yet we have become extractive, releasing ancient carbon reserves without regard for consequence. To change course, we must reframe our relationship with carbon: shifting from exploitation to responsibility. This transformation calls for an ecosocial worldview, one that recognises humans as part of nature rather than separate from it¹⁴. Only by acknowledging the harm we inflict on ecosystems and ourselves can we grieve meaningfully and act with courage. Justice demands that those with excess act with restraint and responsibility, recognising their disproportionate impact and obligation to repair.

We stand at a pivotal moment where the future is not fixed. Just as in ecological systems, liminal zones can spark renewal. We must resist binary views, such as humans versus nature or grief versus action, and instead embrace the complexity of ecological and emotional ties. Change demands moving beyond the pathologisation of grief. We need active hope: a mindset that fosters emotional resilience and motivates climate action. As Joanna Macy¹⁵ reminds us, active hope is not passive optimism, but a practice rooted in engagement and possibility. This involves recognising our interdependence with nature and supporting community, cultural memory, and Indigenous knowledge.

Across Australia and the Pacific, this reimagining is already underway. Indigenous-led cultural fire practices are restoring Country and reducing risk. Community gardens and urban farms are reconnecting people with land and seasonal rhythms. Youth climate movements are challenging extractive systems and demanding accountability. Bushcare groups and citizen science initiatives are regenerating ecosystems and rebuilding relationships with place. These efforts show that healing is not abstract. It is relational, embodied, and already unfolding.

The concept of the Symbiocene, a future defined by mutualism and ecological connection, offers a framework for rethinking our place in the world¹⁶. As Thich Nhat Hanh¹⁷ reminds us, “Mother Earth is not outside of you. She is inside”. Healing begins with recognising that our wellbeing is inseparable from the health of the planet.

Bearing Witness: Legacies of Climate Grief and Justice

Six years ago, we began exploring how grief, fear, and hope shape our responses to ecological loss. That journey continues. As we prepare to visit the Great Barrier Reef, we do so not as tourists, but as witnesses to a fragile world, and to the emotional and ethical reckoning that climate change demands.

Grief is no longer distant or abstract. It is woven into daily life, into landscapes altered by fire and flood, into species lost, and futures uncertain. Yet grief holds power – the ability to feel deeply, face uncomfortable truths, and imagine new ways of living. Moving beyond carbon violence requires climate courage, grounded in love, justice, and collective responsibility. The future remains unwritten, but it is ours to shape with courage, care, and shared resolve.

Climate justice and racial justice are not parallel struggles. They are inseparable. Addressing one requires confronting the other, with honesty, solidarity, and systemic change.

References

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