Mapping collapse and its alternatives
A 100-year journey of regeneration
Over the past month, I stepped back from writing to be where I was most needed – with my family, and with my own nervous system. The pause was necessary, and it offered clarity. Since then, I’ve joined a 40-day container led by The Reconnected, committing to daily pranayama – conscious breathwork to help me build the capacity to stay centred while being visible online. That practice began this week, and as part of it, I’m returning here with fresh intention. I plan to use this space more deliberately: to share what feels meaningful and useful, without feeding urgency or the content machine. One foot here, the other grounded in breath, family, and community.
Like many of you, I’ve been feeling the pressure – from climate news, political tensions, social fragmentation, the online world, late-stage capitalism and the sheer pace of it all. It’s no surprise we’re all exhausted, wound up, and collapse is in the air, and recently, I’ve seen a few particularly bleak pieces about it here on Substack. While I understand the need for realism and even despair, I also think there’s more to say. Something else is possible, and it begins when we stop treating collapse as the end of the story. So I’m writing this as a kind of personal and communal reorientation. I’ve been working at the edges of collapse for a while now – psychologically, ecologically, imaginatively – and I want to offer a different view. Still grounded in science, but with more nuance, a dose of hope, and just enough optimism to keep us moving.
Thank you for your patience. Let’s begin again – with a conversation about collapse, what it will really look like, and what could possibly come next.
What Do We Mean by “Collapse”?
“Collapse” sounds scary, but what does it actually mean? In simple terms, collapse refers to a society or ecosystem breaking down – losing the complexity and capacity it once had. Scholar Jared Diamond defined societal collapse as “a drastic decrease in human population size and/or political/economic/social complexity, over a considerable area, for an extended time”. In other words, it’s not one apocalyptic bang, but a long decline in how society functions – fewer people, less convenience, failing institutions. Collapse isn’t just the stuff of movies like Mad Max or The Road. Diamond’s research shows many past civilisations (from Easter Island to the Maya) unravelled due to ecological stress, resource depletion, or bad decisions.
Today, when scientists warn of collapse, they’re often talking about our global industrial society under ecological strain. We’re in an era of ecological overshoot, meaning humanity is using more resources than Earth can regenerate. (Think of Earth Overshoot Day, the date each year when we’ve used up a full year’s worth of planetary resources – everything after that date is “borrowed” from the future.) We’re also pushing up against planetary boundaries – critical limits in Earth’s systems (climate, biodiversity, freshwater, etc.) beyond which the environment may become unstable. In fact, updated research suggests humanity has transgressed six of nine planetary boundaries already. Crossing these boundaries raises the risk of “large-scale abrupt or irreversible” changes in Earth’s systems. The impacts might not be immediate apocalypses – more like a slow, uneven erosion of the life-support systems we rely on. Climate scientists, through the IPCC’s Sixth Assessment Report (AR6), underscore that every fraction of a degree of warming escalates the risks – including triggering irreversible climate tipping points if we overshoot temperature targets. These could include ice sheet collapses or Amazon dieback – changes that, once started, we cannot easily undo.
When we talk about collapse in the 21st century, we’re not predicting a single doomsday where everything falls apart overnight. Instead, think of it as a process – a drawn-out unravelling of systems. Professor Jem Bendell, known for his work on deep adaptation, puts it plainly: “Collapse is a process, not an event”. He and others observe that this process has likely already begun in various forms around the world. We see hints of it in more frequent climate disasters, failing crops, economic turbulence, and political upheaval. Collapse can look like rolling blackouts and empty reservoirs in one region, or rising food prices and social unrest in another. Crucially, it’s unevenly distributed – it hits the most vulnerable communities first, while others may feel insulated for a time.
We should also clarify: collapse is not the same as the end of the world. Societies can shrink or shed complexity and still continue in new forms. Think of the fall of the Western Roman Empire – it was a messy, centuries-long decline, not a meteor strike that wiped everything out. Humanity lived on (albeit with fewer paved roads for a while). In ecological terms, collapse could mean a painful reduction in human numbers and consumption, but not human extinction. In fact, some scientists explicitly distance collapse from apocalypse. The IPCC, for example, projects severe disruption if we continue high emissions – but also emphasises that outcomes depend on what we do.
So, in accessible terms: collapse = a long and bumpy downturn in society’s ability to sustain itself. It’s driven by things like climate change, resource depletion (like hitting “peak oil” leading to energy descent, a forced decline in energy use), ecological degradation, and sometimes social factors (inequality, conflict). It means more emergencies and fewer resources to meet them. But (and this is vital) it’s not a sudden game-over for humanity. Understanding collapse as a gradual, complex process actually empowers us – because processes can be anticipated, influenced, and even navigated.
Naming the Unravelling (Why Talk About Collapse at All?)
Okay, you might ask: this is bleak. Why even use the “C-word”? Why not just talk about climate change or economic crisis and skip the doom? The reason is clarity and honesty. By naming collapse, we confront the full scope of what we face – and that can ultimately be freeing. Environmental philosopher Joanna Macy emphasises the importance of “naming and deep recognition of what is happening to our world” as the first step toward a life-sustaining society. She notes that when we frankly acknowledge the “Great Unravelling” (her term for systemic breakdown), we “survive the first two stories” – i.e. we don’t succumb to panic or denial – and we make space for a third story, the “Great Turning” toward a sustainable future. In short, naming collapse helps us move through despair into action. It’s like finally admitting an illness – only then can healing begin.
Moreover, collapse is not a single moment – it’s a backdrop of necessary and inevitable change. Author and activist Bayo Akomolafe puts it poetically: “The time is very urgent – we must slow down.” In urgent times, he suggests, slowing down means facing the truth of our situation rather than racing to quick fixes. By speaking openly of collapse, we slow down our thinking – we stop assuming business-as-usual will continue and instead ask deeper questions. Akomolafe’s work invites us to abandon “solutionism” and acknowledge that the crisis is not just technical but civilisational. Paradoxically, accepting that things are falling apart can spur a more profound, imaginative response. It’s a bit like a forest fire clearing deadwood – it’s destructive, but it also clears space for new growth. As he and other wisdom-keepers from the Global South remind us, this unravelling might contain an invitation: to “re-member our humanity” and “summon other worlds” in the shell of the old.
There’s also a psychological benefit to naming collapse. Many people privately feel that society is on a precipice, but they’re afraid to say it. When Professor Bendell published his paper in 2018 concluding collapse was likely, he received gratitude from readers who said putting it in words helped them process their emotions and change their lives. Suppressing our anxiety about the future doesn’t make it go away – it just isolates us from each other as we continue to avoid confronting the reality. By contrast, when we name the possibility that, for example, “climate change will lead to societal breakdown”, it validates our intuitive fears and lets us grieve together. From that emotional honesty can come resilience – the resolve to prepare, adapt, and care for one another. As Bendell has reflected, public figures have resisted collapse-talk because it seems unscientific or defeatist. But many regular people find it a relief: finally, someone admits what we’re all quietly sensing! Once it’s out in the open, we can get to work on what to do about it.
Economist Kate Raworth, known for her Doughnut Economics model, also implicitly supports naming our overshoot. She argues we must recognise that endless GDP growth is a “myth” that has failed us – delivering neither social wellbeing for billions nor environmental safety. Raworth instead calls for a new goal: meeting “the needs of all people within the means of the living planet”. Her famous doughnut diagram draws a clear line: fall short of the inner social foundation and people suffer; overshoot the outer ecological ceiling and the planet suffers. By explicitly marking those boundaries, Raworth’s work names the possibility of collapse if we don’t correct course. Doughnut Economics isn’t about collapse inevitability; it’s about collapse avoidance through redesign. But to avoid it, we first must admit the trajectory we’re on. In Raworth’s words, “nothing grows forever; things that succeed do so until it is time to grow up and thrive instead”. A mature economy must know when to stop growing and start healing. That begins by naming the crisis of overshoot.
Naming collapse is important because it grounds us in reality. It cuts through complacency (“technology will fix everything”) and denial (“surely someone will think of something”). It invites us to mourn what’s lost (species, glaciers, a sense of certainty) – and then find meaning on the other side of that mourning. As Macy teaches in her workshops, “honouring our pain for the world” is what frees us to act on its behalf. Far from paralysing us, looking at collapse squarely can galvanize communities to build resilience and pursue profound change. And crucially, it reframes collapse not as an apocalypse to passively await, but as a collective journey that we’re already on. If it’s a journey, we can navigate it. We can even imagine a decent outcome beyond the troubles. Let’s imagine that now.
Beyond Collapse: Envisioning 100 Years of Regeneration
Here’s where the imagination comes in. If collapse is one path (the path we tumble down by default), what might an alternative 100-year journey look like? Let’s sketch a scenario from now to 2125 – a scenario of regeneration, in which humanity responds to crisis with courage and creativity, and gradually turns things around. This isn’t some utopian blueprint or even best-case scenario. It’s one possible trajectory, grounded in science and shaped by real-world shifts already underway.
Years 0–20: The Unravelling and the Advent of Adaptation (2025–2045).
In the next twenty years, we unfortunately see an acceleration of collapse symptoms. The late 2020s through 2030s bring more extreme weather events – think unprecedented heat waves, crop failures, megafires, and coastal floods – which strain economies and infrastructures. Climate scientists call this period “the critical decade” for mitigation, yet emissions only plateau rather than plummet. As a result, we likely overshoot the 1.5 °C warming limit for some years. We begin hitting those climate tipping points we’ve been warned about (for instance, parts of West Antarctica start irreversible ice retreat, committing us to higher sea levels). Humanity is shaken. However, amidst the chaos, adaptation and community resilience kick into high gear. Local communities form mutual aid networks to survive disasters – neighbours band together to share food, water, generators, skills. We rediscover the importance of social resilience – how diverse, connected communities can absorb shocks better than isolated individuals.
At the same time, seeds of system change are planted. Early policy shifts begin as enlightened leaders realise incremental tweaks won’t suffice. A few pioneering cities and countries declare a transition to a “post-growth” economic model. Influenced by economists like Tim Jackson and Giorgos Kallis, they question the dogma of GDP growth at all costs. Degrowth economics, which is based on the idea that endless economic growth is both unsustainable and unnecessary for genuine wellbeing, begins to move from the margins into mainstream discourse. As climate shocks and energy constraints intensify, some governments start to adopt policies that deliberately reduce material and energy use. This shift might involve shortening the working week, setting limits on resource consumption, or redirecting subsidies from fossil fuels to renewable energy and environmental restoration.
During this period, energy descent is a lived reality. By the mid-2030s, global oil production is in decline, either due to geologic limits or deliberate phaseout. People in wealthier nations adapt to using less energy per capita. It’s painful at first (no more imported foods, petrol becomes a luxury, air travel is rare), but also transformative. The once obscure concept of an “Energy Descent Action Plan” – proposed by Transition Network visionary Rob Hopkins – is widely implemented. Communities invest heavily in public transit, retrofit buildings for efficiency, and revive low-energy practices (like passive cooling and local agriculture) to cope. Elders teach fermentation and clothes-mending. Kids grow up learning knitting, gardening, bike maintenance and water harvesting. In place of “more, faster, newer,” a new mantra circulates: use what you have, share what you can, build for resilience.
Socially, these two decades are challenging – a rollercoaster of disasters and breakthroughs. There are echoes of Bendell’s “deep adaptation” agenda here: people focus on building resilience (securing basic needs locally), relinquishment (letting go of high-consumption lifestyles as needed), restoration (protecting and regenerating nature to stabilise the environment) and reconciliation (acknowledging harm, and committing to repair). Mental health support and community grief rituals become as vital as physical infrastructure, because everyone is touched by loss in some form. Importantly, Indigenous voices and knowledge gain prominence in adaptation efforts. The world begins to grasp that Indigenous peoples – stewarding much of Earth’s remaining biodiversity – have a great deal to teach about living in balance. We see more partnerships where Indigenous land stewardship practices (cultural burning, holistic land management, sacred agriculture) are used to restore ecosystems and prevent catastrophes.
Years 20–50: Turning the Tide – Policy Shifts and Cultural Transformation (2045–2075).
By the mid-21st century, the pressure cooker of crises yields a profound shift. History shows that often it’s darkest before the dawn – and indeed, a series of late 2040s events become the catharsis that awakens global cooperation. Perhaps a devastating cluster of climate disasters or a near-miss collapse of the global food supply finally forces world leaders to act in unison. In this scenario, around the 2050s we witness a “Regeneration Renaissance” in policy and culture.
First, economics is reborn. The Doughnut Economics model gets adopted by more and more cities (as indeed started in Amsterdam in 2020). By 2050, multiple nations have formally dumped GDP as the primary measure of success. Instead, they track indicators of human and ecological health – how many people have secure housing, how rapidly carbon emissions and extinction rates are dropping, etc. The influence of degrowth thinkers bears fruit: policies focus on redistributing wealth and cutting waste rather than chasing growth. As economist Tim Jackson wrote, “Prosperity consists in our ability to flourish as human beings – within the ecological limits of a finite planet… creating the conditions for that is the most urgent task of our times.”. By 2050, this idea guides governance. Through trial and error, mechanisms like a universal basic income or job guarantees in green sectors help maintain social stability as old industries wind down. Unemployment from the shrinkage of fossil fuel and luxury-goods sectors is offset by massive public works in ecosystem restoration, renewable energy deployment, and climate adaptation infrastructure. It’s a retooling of the economy akin to a wartime mobilisation – except the “enemy” is climate collapse and the goal is a livable future.
Culturally, a “Great Turning” is visibly underway. People in 2075 live differently than in 2025. The consumerist ethos of the 20th century – “more stuff is better” – has been widely discredited, even considered gauche. A new narrative of “sufficiency and solidarity” takes hold. Education systems teach ecological literacy and emotional resilience as fundamentals. The arts celebrate themes of renewal, interdependence, and even the beauty of simplicity. It’s not that everyone is a saint or that conflict vanishes – but there is a broad recognition that we’re all in this together on a small, fragile planet. This recognition is partly born from the shared adversities of the prior decades. Just as the Great Depression and World War II shaped the mindsets of mid-20th century generations, the collapses of 2030s–2040s shape a generation that is both sobered and earnest about change.
On the ground, what really turns the tide is the success of various regenerative practices. Agroecology becomes the backbone of food security. Industrial monocultures prove too brittle (they failed when supply chains did), so by 2050 the world sees a flowering of agroecological farms – farms that apply ecological and social principles to the design and management of food systems. These farms are smaller-scale, diverse, and often community-run. They rebuild soil, conserve water, and can withstand climate extremes better. Studies show that agroecology not only boosts resilience but also empowers farmers and reduces hunger. Alongside this, rewilding and restoration initiatives gain momentum. Large swaths of land are set aside or returned to Indigenous management to heal. By 2075, some depleted ecosystems (a rainforest here, a wetland there) show remarkable recovery, becoming carbon sinks and buffers against climate impacts.
Politically, the period 2045–2075 features some radical moves. Perhaps a global agreement (a “Montreal Protocol” of climate) finally kicks in when climate damages peak – enforcing a crash reduction in carbon emissions and direct carbon removal efforts. Imagine a scenario where by 2060, nearly all energy is renewable and a significant amount of atmospheric CO2 has been drawn down through massive reforestation, kelp farming, and new technologies. It’s late, but it prevents the worst-case warming. Also, resource extraction is dramatically scaled back. Influenced by the concept of post-extractivism, nations (especially in the Global South) transition away from mining and drilling as their economic base. Post-extractivist thinkers like Alberto Acosta argue for ending the commodity export obsession and instead building sustainable, localised economies. By mid-century, some countries in Latin America, Africa, and Asia take this to heart, implementing policies to leave remaining oil/minerals in the ground and invest in their people instead. It’s not easy – there are trade-offs and resistance – but it gradually leads to more diversified economies that are less destructive. Globally, we see the rise of circular economies (maximally reusing and recycling materials so extraction drops) and the enforcement of limits on per-capita resource use, aligned with fairness principles.
Socially, inequality is actively addressed, because it became obvious that resilient societies cannot exist alongside extreme inequality. New economic thinking (inspired by Raworth’s distributive economy and degrowth’s emphasis on equity) leads to progressive taxation, debt jubilees for poorer nations, land reforms, and empowerment of women and marginalised groups. By 2075, the world isn’t perfectly equal by any stretch, but the gap has narrowed in many places. There’s a recognition that social resilience – the ability of communities to withstand shocks – depends on cohesion and justice. One notable cultural shift: the concept of Ubuntu or inter-being (the idea that “I am because we are”) becomes a guiding principle in many communities, replacing the hyper-individualism of previous eras.
Years 50–100: Full Circle – Regeneration and Stewardship (2075–2125).
In the latter half of the century, humanity embarks on the long project of global regeneration. By 2100, the climate has stabilised (perhaps overshooting 2 °C at mid-century but then dropping back below 1.5 °C due to concerted carbon drawdown efforts). Sea levels are still higher (we live with some loss of coastal cities), but worst scenarios were averted. Populations have adapted by relocating from high-risk zones, often in planned “assisted migrations” of communities. The human population likely peaked mid-century and then declined somewhat (partly due to choice – education and empowerment lowered birth rates; partly due to the hardships earlier on). By 2125, the world population might be significantly less than today, but those who are alive live in a more ecologically balanced way.
By this point, the economy looks very different to what we knew in 2025. It’s not some kind of barter dystopia, but it’s no longer built on extraction, carbon, or endless growth either. Energy is mostly renewable – solar, wind, maybe some newer tech we can’t quite imagine yet – but people are using less of it overall, because the way we live has changed. Society has reorganised around natural regions such as watersheds, ecosystems, coastlines instead of political borders. It turns out managing things like water and food makes a lot more sense when you work with the landscape, not against it. Think of something like the Murray–Darling Basin in Australia: instead of states competing over water rights, it’s managed collectively, with decisions grounded in what the land and rivers actually need to survive. Local self-sufficiency becomes more common – not isolationist, but practical. Each region tries to meet its own basic needs in regenerative ways, and trades with others when it makes sense. Long, fragile global supply chains give way to more resilient local systems.
The concept of “planetary stewardship” becomes a cornerstone of international relations. Remember how we once had treaties for managing shared resources (oceans, ozone layer, etc.)? By 2100, it’s taken to the next level: a binding framework where nations (or rather, bioregions, as governance is more localised) jointly ensure the health of the global commons – the atmosphere, biosphere, and oceans. It’s understood that Earth is our common home and that humanity’s role is as a steward, not a conqueror. This might sound idealistic, but there are historical precedents in smaller scales – think of Indigenous confederacies that managed forests or rivers sustainably for centuries. Those models inform the global level now.
Practically, rewilding is huge in this era. Large animals, forests, and wild ecosystems make a comeback as human land use has contracted and become smarter. There are wildlife corridors spanning continents, helping restore migration routes. Efforts to boost biodiversity – from bringing back pollinators to protecting coral reefs – pay off in more robust natural systems, which in turn support human life (through pollination, clean water, etc.). The late 21st century might see something beautiful: kids could once again grow up in towns where, say, a nearby river is clean enough to swim in and full of fish, thanks to 50+ years of restoration work.
In terms of technology, it’s a “appropriate tech” future. We have high tech where it serves ecology and people (e.g. open-source designs for renewable energy microgrids, or biotech aiding conservation), but we’ve abandoned tech that was energy-intensive for trivial gains. A lot of daily life is simpler and more analog. People bike and walk in re-designed green cities, grow some of their own food in community gardens, repair and repurpose goods instead of tossing them – not out of forced austerity but because it’s become second nature. There’s a profound integration of Indigenous knowledge with modern know-how – a true collaboration of wisdom traditions and science. For instance, fire management in 2125 might blend satellite monitoring with Indigenous fire stewardship techniques to keep forests healthy. Agriculture might integrate permaculture principles globally, essentially making agroecology the standard. As a result, by 2125 the planet’s forests, soils, and oceans are in recovery, soaking up carbon and cooling the planet.
Politically, smaller-scale democracy flourishes. Bioregional councils and local cooperatives handle a lot of governance, with higher-level federations ensuring coordination. Because the 21st century taught us the dangers of top-down technocracy and also the dangers of chaos, by 2125 we’ve settled into a middle path of networked localism: strong local communities connected by global solidarity networks. Think of how the internet emerged in the 1990s – by 2125, we use its descendants not for mindless scrolling, but to coordinate disaster responses, exchange knowledge, and maintain a sense of one human family across distances.
Is everything perfect in this scenario? Of course not. We still have conflicts, we still have to stay vigilant that we don’t slip back into old extractive habits. The climate in 2125 is not the paradise of 1700 – some damage (like species extinctions) is irreversible, and communities continuously adapt to the changed environment (higher sea level, etc.). But the key is, we avoided the worst case of runaway collapse. We pulled back from the brink and began the long healing. Future historians might call it the Great Regeneration – a tough but ultimately successful effort to renew Earth and human society.
Resilience from the Inside Out: Breathing Through the Upheaval
Facing a collapsing and regenerating world requires more than innovation “out there” in systems – it demands resilience within ourselves. How do we develop the emotional, physiological, and spiritual strength to stay present, grounded, and engaged? I want to share some personal reflections here, because this is where my research and lived experience converge: building inner and collective resilience is as essential to our future as solar panels or food forests.
One powerful insight from psychology and neuroscience is that our nervous systems shape how we react to crisis. When we feel threatened or unsafe, the body defaults to survival responses – fight, flight, or freeze – governed by the autonomic nervous system. In times of ongoing stress, like climate collapse, many of us find ourselves in chronic activation or shutdown.
To meet this era without burning out or shutting down, we need tools to bring ourselves back into safety and connection. Breathwork, mindfulness, movement, and community ritual are more than wellness trends – they’re essential practices for navigating existential threat.
Take breathwork: modern research validates what ancient traditions have long known. Slow, conscious breathing, especially with extended exhales, activates the parasympathetic “rest and digest” response. Stimulating it through breath can shift us out of fight-or-flight and into physiological calm. I’ve experienced this firsthand – through micro-practices like extended exhalations or breath retention, my thoughts settle, my sense of fear recedes, and I can meet the day with more grounded optimism. It's like anchoring in a storm.
Importantly, nervous system literacy – learning to notice your state and apply appropriate regulation tools – is a teachable, transferable skill. Practices like cold water immersion, humming, orienting (noticing five things), or shaking are all simple ways to shift states. In a collapsing world, this kind of embodied self-awareness could be as important as teaching literacy or arithmetic.
And we don’t do it alone.
Humans are social beings. We co-regulate each other’s nervous systems. Being around calm, grounded people helps us find our own centre. This is why community rituals matter, even simple ones like shared meals, singing circles, or lighting candles together. It creates shared safety, coherence, and meaning. Traditional and Indigenous cultures have long understood this. Now, in the face of collapse, we’re re-learning what they’ve always known: that ritual is not for nothing. It’s functional. It binds communities through grief, change, and uncertainty.
While the science of trauma recovery – polyvagal theory, somatic experiencing, and others – gives us a roadmap, it’s not just science that sustains us. It’s also awe, reverence, and connection to something greater than the self. For me, this also means maintaining a transpersonal practice: presencing, nature reverence, and moments of prayer or giving thanks. I’m not anchored in one tradition, but I return again and again to the sense that I’m part of a larger unfolding. This connection is protective is the both the psychological and spiritual sense, giving meaning and an embodied experience of being a part of something greater than oneself.
To ground this in a practical example: many of us live with climate (or eco-) anxiety – a chronic, often isolating fear about the future. One powerful practice from Joanna Macy’s Active Hope is to gather in a circle, name these fears aloud, and then do a shared grounding exercise, like slow breathing or simple touch. This combination – naming and regulating – trains us not to bypass our fear, but to metabolise it together. This is what I’d call collective emotional resilience. It’s not therapy and it’s not activism, but it’s the bridge between them – a necessary middle ground for sustaining meaningful action without losing ourselves.
What gives me hope is knowing that the seeds of this regenerative future already exist in the present – in community gardens, in mutual aid groups, in school climate strikes, in the massive trend back to homeschooling, in indigenous movements to protect land, in cities trying doughnut economics, and in each mindful breath taken by someone who chooses to respond to crisis with compassion instead of fear. The great environmentalist poet Gary Snyder once said, “The most radical thing you can do is stay home,” meaning to really know and care for your place. I’d add: The most hopeful thing we can do is start where we are, with small regenerative actions and resilient habits, and trust that they will ripple out.
Let’s treat the coming decades not as an inevitable tragedy but as a story we are co-writing. Your thoughts, your actions, and even your breath are part of this story. By mapping collapse honestly, we illuminate the landscape. By imagining alternatives, we chart a new course. And by tending to our spirits and communities, we find the strength to walk this 100-year journey of regeneration.
In the spirit of tending to what we can, I’ll share a tiny ritual I am taking on this month: when I inhale, I silently say “hello, future” and when I exhale, “thank you, now”. It reminds me that the future is built on the gratitude and actions of the present. We are planting seeds now that others will harvest long after we’re gone – just as we rest in the shade of trees planted by those before us.
Thank you for reading this, for caring, and for being part of the great turning of our time. I look forward to your thoughts. And until next time, may you find moments of peace and courage in each day – perhaps in something as simple as the next deep breath you take. 🌍💚
– Gabrielle (breathing and believing in regeneration)
References & Further Reading
Jem Bendell (2023) – I was wrong to conclude collapse is inevitable
Jared Diamond via Bradshaw (2022) – What does ‘collapse’ mean, and should we continue using the term?
IPCC AR6 via Schleussner et al. (2024) – How to minimise the risks from overshooting the 1.5C limit
Stockholm Resilience Centre – Planetary Boundaries Framework
Earth Overshoot Day (Global Footprint Network) – About Earth Overshoot Day
Kate Raworth (2017) – About Doughnut Economics | DEAL
Tim Jackson (2011) – Postgrowth Publications
Giorgos Kallis (2018) – Degrowth | Columbia University Press
Agroecology Coalition / FAO – What is Agroecology
Bayo Akomolafe (2017) – The Times are Urgent: Let’s Slow Down
Joanna Macy (2019) – Entering the Bardo (PDF)
University of Copenhagen – Post-Extractivism
Earth.Org – Bioregionalism: A Model for a Self-Sufficient and Democratic Economy
Psychology Today – Longer Exhalations Are an Easy Way to Hack Your Vagus Nerve
Scientific Reports (Nature) – Effect of Breathwork on Stress and Mental Health: A Meta-analysis
Gabrielle, Thank you for your thinking and writing. This is quite brilliant. It should be read by everyone who, like me, is currently wallowing in the overwhelm of awful world events. It gives me hope and motivation to work toward a better future for our children, grandchildren and beyond.
Thanks Gabrielle. I do find myself trying to avoid thinking about what is going wrong with our planet and society, but the prospect of this being the start of something new rather than the beginning of the end gives me much hope. Thanks for turning the narrative around.