III. United in Grief

Today is my mom’s birthday; she would have turned 48 years old this September 3rd. Today also marks one year since I planted the seedling that is The Ethereal Environmentalist. In a birthday post for my mom last year, I announced my intentions to start sharing my writing in her honor. It’s with a heavy yet optimistic heart that I share a piece of my soul with you today, the final installment of the Chamonix Collection. It took me one whole year and a trip to the French Alps to find the words that speak so deeply to my grief journey and my mission towards environmental justice. This one is dedicated to my Mama Rosa. Happy birthday to you. <3

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I feel your absence during a quiet rain

When you exposed the windows 

To lull your love bugs to sleep

Your calming voice sounded 

Like the gentle dance of rainfall 

And held the comfort of a warm home

I remember the pulse of your spirit 

When I open my windows, doors 

And palms up to the sky

To absorb the soft impact of alpine tears

And hear the cry of summer showers

Breathing your misty morning memory

I dream of a perfect existence where

You hold me close and I cling to you

As we drift off to the dance of rain

But you belong to the spirit world now.

- Ethereal Environmentalist in Chamonix during a summer rain (July 20, 2022)

I am grieving as soon as I wake up in the morning. I am grieving as I breathe in and out. I am grieving as I write these words. Some days are better than others, but I accept that I am a motherless daughter in a constant state of grief.

I grieve for the way things used to be. My mom’s tender voice saying: “Everything’s going to be okay.” Her windows and doors open wide on a rainy day. Salsa dancing lessons in the living room. Dinner dates with too much food for two. The private synchronicity of our thoughts, as if speaking our own language. Breathless giggles in the back of the auditorium hall. Her fingers like a comb, gently parting my silky brown hair until I fall asleep. All the things that made my heart feel at home.

I also grieve for the way things will never be. Her strong words of encouragement throughout my transition to adulthood. Her excitement and pride like a cheerleader on the day of my college graduation. Her verbal approval of the love of my life, who will one day be my husband. Her invaluable presence at my future wedding. Her calmness and compassion on the day I welcome my first born child into the world, when she tells me, “Everything’s going to be okay.” Her unconditional love and affection towards my own blood. Her wrinkled hand in mine, when it’s time to say a final, tender goodbye.

When I try to verbalize what it’s like to grieve, I often find myself cowering away and neglecting to write or speak about it for days or weeks at a time. A piece like this one can take months to write. That’s partly because I easily get lost in feelings of the past, in a world where my mother still existed. I let my obsession with nostalgia consume me to the point where the present isn’t worth living for. There are times when I believe I have no purpose, other than to make my nonliving mother proud of the woman I’ve become. When I sink into that mindset, I realize that I’m not living for myself. I am a lost soul. 

Sometimes, I allow myself to sink for a while. I feel the depth of my feelings. I hurt from a well hidden place within me — I don’t know where this pain lives. I let out a guttural scream. I scream at the people around me (especially those I love). Sometimes I hurt the people I love with my words or lack of affection. This isn’t because I wish to inflict pain on them; it’s a reflection of my own pain that I have yet to tend to. I don’t always know how to process in a healthy way. I don’t always know how to ask for help. I begin to hate myself and the woman I’ve become. 

And then I remember the tools in my toolbox, especially the one that helps me ground myself in the present moment and trust my power. That makes me feel so small in the grand universe, in such a way that all my problems feel much lighter. That reminds me of my own beauty and grace in moments of true, unfiltered vulnerability. That reflects my own resilience in times of great adversity. 

The answer is nature. Being in nature is my save, every single time.

I take a slow walk through a forest, a beach, a park, even the top of a mountain — my senses come alive. I breathe deeply and supply ample oxygen to my whole body, lifting my chest high with every step. I taste the fresh air, as if sunrises and dewy mornings were a gum flavor. I place one foot in front of the other with intention, feeling the weight of each step on the natural floor. I gently brush my hand against the foliage, the sand, the snow, the running water. I embrace a tall, sturdy tree and marvel at its resilience. I think to myself, “In a previous life, I must have been a tree.” I absorb the highly saturated greens, blues, browns and yellows. I exhale a sigh of relief. The warm sun beams down at me, the same sun wherever I am in the world. The elegant moon even peaks through the blue skies to say hello, the same moon wherever I am in the world. I place my hands over my heart and take one more deep breath. In nature, I am at peace. That is…

Until I remember the ephemeral beauty of a melting glacier, or the old growth forest that is victim to an unrelenting wildfire, or a thriving community that is poised to be fully underwater within our generation — all due to human-caused climate change. My grief strikes again. I grieve for all that was, is, and never will be. I grieve for the world that my future children will never know. One without record breaking heat waves each passing summer, the nation’s worst prolonged megadrought, and increasingly devastating and compounding natural disasters. All harming the planet and people that I love so much.

I feel so deeply about these issues that my grief attacks my subconscious mind. I’ve had about three or four recurring dreams about tsunamis that end in terror-stricken evacuations — when the wave takes me, everything goes to black. I don’t know why I started dreaming of them, but every time I do, it's visceral and intense. All my emotions and fears are locked in this potent little bottle, and when the wave hits, it feels like I’m exploding from the inside. 

Tsunamis and typhoons happen to be some of the most prevalent and devastating natural disasters that occur in the Philippines. A friend of mine who was recently in the Philippines for her Peace Corps assignment experienced a total of FIVE tsunami evacuations during her 2-year stay. Seriously, five evacuations?! I may not have been there with her physically, but the empath in me has seen where she’s been. When my people hurt, I feel their pain, even from thousands of miles away.

Experiencing dreams like this on a regular basis puts me in an odd state when I wake up. I start to ponder my own mortality and the reasons why I’m put so close to the edge in my dreams. I wonder, is this my fate? Every day I consider the fragility of life. I often wish that when my time is up on this Earth, that I can just go out peacefully. It’s a pretty common consideration for someone who lost their parent suddenly and tragically. It’s also understandable for someone who studies and communicates the dangers of climate change on people and the planet every day.

My grief is especially heavy when it comes to the people who are disproportionately impacted by climate change, because I view access to safe and healthy water, air and land to be a basic human right. Vulnerable, low-income communities experience the most devastating effects of our climate crisis, yet are least responsible for perpetuating it. These communities often live adjacent to polluting industrial facilities, like plastic producers, oil refineries, and landfills that poison their bodies and their land. The only ones who benefit from these environmental injustices are the rich, white folks who lead the operations and reap the profits. Of course city planners and governments would never allow this kind of siting in rich communities, for example in Beverly Hills or Malibu. It’s easier for them to dump pollution in places like Compton or Long Beach — where the majority of residents are BIPOC, low income, and have little political power to prevent these injustices. Environmental justice communities are already overburdened with grief, fear and pain from ongoing racially motivated violence. As resilient as they are, this way of life is painfully unfair and unsustainable.

My empathetic heart overwhelms me with grief and anxiety for the many losses of life — from the trees, to the animals, to the people. My emotions fuel my passion for a better society, but they also push me to the brink of burnout. I spiral down the cycle where I anxiously wait for the grief to strike me again, so that I can be prepared. Each time it comes, it hits me harder than the last. When it impacts me, I shatter to pieces. Everything fades to black for a moment, just like in my tsunami dreams. I wonder if all my hard work to “be strong” has amounted to nothing. I know that I cannot continue my mission towards environmental justice in this state. I just wonder how it’s possible for me to operate on a daily basis with all this grief weighing me and my community down. 

I recognize that the only path forward involves people coming together and adopting a shared mission in life — protecting our communities and our planet. 

I think centering grief can be a powerful tool to move towards this goal. Grief is the most potent expression of love. It’s what tethers our human experiences to something beyond our own knowing, something that happens after death. When our loved ones leave this Earthly plane, they take a large part of us with them. We are the survivors, forever changed by our loss. So how do we continue, when we have so much love and no one to share it with?

When I lost my mom, I lost my purpose in life. I forgot how to experience joy. I hurt from a place deep within me. After years of coasting by, trying to hide away my pain, I eventually allowed myself to heal enough to reconnect with my mother’s spirit. In the process, I became kinder to myself and validated my grief. I remembered my mom’s words of encouragement on the toughest days. Her warm presence that made me feel so safe and heard. Her empowerment and belief in me as a strong, independent woman — capable of anything I set my mind to. It’s an important reminder at a time like this, when uniting under one goal is imperative to our success as a human race.

The truth is that we have a small window to reverse the effects of climate change before it’s too late. What gives me hope are the fearless community members holding polluters accountable, standing shoulder to shoulder during this fight for environmental justice. We are the empathetic majority who are united in grief — determined to co-create a better society. One where all people are treated with respect and dignity and have access to basic necessities in life. Ensuring these basic rights will allow historically disadvantaged groups to move out of survival mode and into abundance, giving them the room to focus on their creative and fulfilling pursuits to advance society forward. 

It’s difficult to move forward when those in power refuse to acknowledge their faults and heal the deep wounds they have inflicted on the community. Their apathy kills innocent people every day. But the inverse is also true that empathy saves lives. Policies and infrastructure rooted in empathy have the power to uplift people and the environment, helping them to thrive as one. At a time when political divides and individualistic beliefs are deeply set, we need to see ourselves in each other and acknowledge our shared pain to create sustainable solutions. We all experience grief at some point in our lives, whether it’s from a loved one who’s passed on, a broken relationship, or an entire species gone extinct. We can choose to wallow in that loss, or we can persevere in love, using grief as our armor. I choose to lead my life with love because I see there is far too much worth saving on this Earth. I choose to lead this vision for our home of Mother Earth, in my own mother’s honor.

Thank you, Mama Rosa, for inspiring me with your unconditional love every single day.