Living Fully While the World Burns
Or, "Am I allowed to post something happy on Facebook?"
This past weekend was dreary and cold where I live. Our whole region was under weather warnings of various extremes: from extreme rain leading to flooding, to high winds, and then immediately into a wintry mix of snow and ice. Whenever these circumstances arise, we worry about whether we will lose power (and therefore heat and water), or whether we will be able to get off our hill. We worry about damage to our home from the many trees that surround it. We worry about the folks living along the creeks and rivers below us, knowing that the water will likely encroach into their yards and–dreadfully–some homes.
At the same time, this was a three-day weekend, one bookended by Valentine’s day and Washington’s Birthday1. We didn’t have any serious obligations and, if we were forced to cancel social plans due to weather… well, something about that just made the weekend at home seem that much more cozy. I am often stressed by my work on environmental and climate issues, and the thought of tuning out, reading for fun, making some hearty soup, and hanging out with my Valentine filled me with feelings of relief and joy.
I was looking forward to the time at home, while also feeling a fair amount of helplessness to offer aid to our neighbors.
And so, the days unfolded in a strange tension between anxiety and comfort. The dogs curled up beside me, the house was warm, and I had the luxury of unhurried time. Then our power went out for a while and with the rain continuing to pour down, I thought about the nearby communities still trying to recover from relatively recent, catastrophic flooding. The wind howling through the trees and the sheets of rain on my windows reminded me that beyond this hill, beyond this moment, the world was unraveling in ways far more consequential than a passing winter storm.
It’s a dissonance I feel often these days—the weight of knowing how bad things are, and how much worse they can get, along with the desire (and ability) to have fun, relax and be joyful.
The Burden of Awareness
How do we live fully, with joy and intention, when the world is on fire? How do we let ourselves breathe in a moment of peace without feeling like we’re ignoring the destruction of our natural world, our democracy, our collective future?
It’s hard to reconcile. One moment, I’m drinking coffee and staring out at the frost-covered trees and the next, I’m reading about species extinction, voter suppression, climate disasters, corruption, and greed. The whiplash between the personal and the global, between my small world and the vast, broken one outside of it, is enough to leave me feeling untethered, particularly when the devastation of the existential is visited upon my own community.
I can’t allow myself to remain swaddled in bed, too overwhelmed to face the day and the many people and animals who deserve my attention and care. But, without humor and some semblance of situational light-heartedness, I’m afraid that’s exactly where I’d end up.
Some days, I wonder if this dissonance is just part of being alive in this era—to hold grief in one hand and gratitude in the other, to recognize the urgency of action while still making space for joy.
Joy vs. Dissociation
For a long time, I thought happiness in the face of crisis was selfish. That to truly care, to truly fight, meant to bear the weight of it all—to let it press down on me until I became indistinguishable from my grief. But I no longer believe that. Now I know that joy can be, in and of itself, an act of resistance. Going out with friends, playing with the dogs, riding horses: these things give me life. Without life-affirming, joyful activities, I fear I would check out completely.
And, yet, it’s easy to confuse joy with escapism, or even dissociation. They’re not the same. Joy is about being fully present—it doesn’t ignore reality, it exists alongside it. It lets us acknowledge the world’s unraveling while still holding on to the things that make life worth living. Escapism, on the other hand, is about checking out—turning to distractions like entertainment, scrolling, or overindulgence to avoid the weight of it all. That’s not always a bad thing—we all need a break—but if we rely on it too much, we risk numbing ourselves instead of refueling.
I tend to have periods when I am escaping too often, down the rabbit hole of TikTok, or with excessive trips to Home Goods. I try hard to make sure that I’m consciously choosing escape, rather than indulging in it mindlessly. And–now that the oligarchs are at the gate–I’m trying to create a list of escape methods that are not going to cause more destruction. (By this, I mean making sure that my consumerism favors antique shops, not Amazon. Second-hand stores instead of superstores.) I’m also trying to limit the amount of time I allow for escapism. Moderation is not my strongest suit.
Then there’s dissociation, which isn’t a choice so much as a survival mechanism—the mind’s way of shutting down when reality feels like too much. Boy, do I know about dissociation: ask my parts. There are days when it feels easier to detach completely than to keep carrying the weight of knowing. But real sustainability, real resistance, means figuring out how to stay present without drowning, to bear witness without losing ourselves, and to make space for joy without pretending everything is fine.
Walking the Line Between Hope and Despair
So, where does that leave us? How do we stay present and engaged without losing ourselves?
For me, it looks like:
Setting boundaries with the endless stream of bad news—enough to stay informed, not enough to drown. (The struggle to maintain this boundary is real.)
Finding meaning in small, tangible actions, rather than feeling powerless against the enormity of it all. (I can make the calls, send the emails, say the prayers.)
Spending time with horses, with trees, with dogs, with people who make me feel alive.
Letting myself have days like yesterday, where I did nothing except exist in my home, warm and safe, because moments like that are not a luxury—they are what I want for all of us. For me, they are the whole point.
Holding Both
This is the paradox we live in now: the world is on fire, and yet, here we are. There is work to do, but there is also love to give, beauty to witness, moments to cherish. The tension between the two won’t go away. But I think part of our survival—part of our resistance—is learning to hold them both.
How do you hold both?
I’ve reverted to using the original name of this Federal holiday for what I think are obvious reasons.