Tangelic Talks – Season 03 | Episode 03
From Grief to Greatness: Navigating Climate Anxiety & Building Resilience w/ Elizabeth Doerr
9 minutes to read
We sat down with Elizabeth Doerr, a writer and communications strategist focused on climate justice, climate grief, resilience, and disaster preparedness. Elizabeth shared she has re-learned on her journey that justice work is rarely linear, and resilience comes from embracing interdependence. What gives her momentum now is community, the power of storytelling, and the hope she finds in her child’s generation, a reminder that even in uncertainty, there is space for joy, creativity, and collective action.
Why Cramming for the Apocalypse?
The title of Elizabeth’s newsletter captures both urgency and irony. She explains that the word apocalypse doesn’t mean the end of the entire world. Instead, it refers to the localized collapses that many communities have already experienced: from Gaza, to Indigenous peoples facing centuries of displacement, to neighborhoods destroyed by wildfires or floods.
For Elizabeth, “cramming” reflects the urgent need to prepare, even if imperfectly. Much like cramming for a test, we may not feel ready for climate disruption, but we must start learning skills and building resilience now.
Climate Grief and Acceptance
A key theme in this episode is climate grief—the sadness, anger, and anxiety that come with living in a world altered by climate change. For Elizabeth, acknowledging grief is the first step toward resilience.
“The more prepared you get, the more you realize you can be resilient. We are incredibly adaptable as humans.”
Rather than being paralyzed by doom, Elizabeth encourages listeners to move toward acceptance. Climate change is already happening. The question is not whether we can stop it entirely, but how we adapt, prepare, and care for one another in the face of it.
Preparedness as Social Responsibility
Preparedness often conjures images of doomsday preppers, but Elizabeth redefines it as a form of social responsibility. By having basic supplies, go-bags, or water storage, individuals not only protect themselves but also reduce the burden on already-stretched emergency services.
Preparedness can look like:
- Storing food and water for a few days of disruption.
- Learning first aid or fire safety.
- Knowing evacuation routes.
- Building local support networks with neighbors.
By preparing, individuals create space to help others, rather than competing for scarce resources in crisis.
Skills as Empowerment
Elizabeth emphasizes that learning practical skills is a path to empowerment. From foraging to fire safety to basic carpentry, skills connect us to nature and give us agency in uncertain times. They also replace despair with action.
She points to Dr. Ayana Elizabeth Johnson’s Climate Venn Diagram, which helps individuals identify where their skills, passions, and the needs of the world intersect. That intersection becomes a personal climate action plan—proof that no one must do everything, but everyone can do something.
Fire, Forests, and Rethinking Solutions
Drawing on her experiences in the Pacific Northwest, Elizabeth explores the complex role of wildfire in ecosystems. While fire often inspires fear, she notes that Indigenous communities historically used controlled burns to maintain forest health. Decades of suppression policies, driven by elites and policymakers rather than practitioners, created fuel buildups that now fuel catastrophic megafires.
The lesson: not all fire is bad. Sustainable fire management, including prescribed burns, is an essential part of climate adaptation.
Finding Balance: Rest and Community
One of Elizabeth’s most powerful insights is that resilience is not just about constant action—it’s also about rest and community. Climate grief can overwhelm individuals exposed to constant doomscrolling. Her advice:
- Step back from headlines when needed.
- Spend time in nature—literally “touch grass.”
- Join support groups like climate cafés or the Good Grief Network.
- Embrace rest as a form of resistance, echoing the ethos of The Nap Ministry.
“We can’t save the world if we burn out. Rest is part of the work.”
Climate Justice and Urban Equity
Elizabeth connects climate preparedness to broader issues of climate justice and equity. Through her co-authored book Roads for People, she explored how transportation and urban planning intersect with racial and environmental justice. In Portland, for example, the construction of light rail hubs displaced Black and Brown communities, making neighborhoods unaffordable while branding the city as “green.”
She calls for climate solutions that prioritize vulnerable communities—ensuring that parks, green infrastructure, and resilience projects are built not only in wealthy neighborhoods but also in areas most impacted by heat islands, pollution, and displacement.
Lessons for Climate Communicators
As both a writer and strategist, Elizabeth stresses the importance of storytelling in climate communication. Facts alone rarely inspire change. What moves people is narrative: the human stories of loss, adaptation, and resilience.
She frames writing as puzzle-solving: taking complex, overwhelming climate science and piecing it together into a narrative that readers can understand and act upon. In this way, writing itself becomes a resilience tool.
Thought Provoking Q&A Session with Elizabeth Doerr
I didn’t expect the conversation to go down the fire track, but it was on my mind because I think about it a lot. It really clicked with me because I love the forest, and I care deeply about it. But there’s often this misunderstanding among people who love the forest — that fire is always bad, or that culling is always bad. In reality, you need a certain level of interaction with the forest; you can’t just leave it untouched.
That’s why we’re seeing these megafires today — because we’ve ignored the forest. Have you ever read The Big Burn by Timothy Egan? It gave me nightmares. It’s such a powerful book, written almost like a thriller. It tells the story of the 1910 fires in northern Idaho and western Montana, where three million acres burned in just days.
I grew up really close to that area, so the story hit home for me. The book shows how that fire shaped U.S. fire policy, cementing suppression as the approach for decades afterward. It’s such an engaging read, but also terrifying — the idea of fire moving that quickly. Fire is just so scary in general.
When you do so much research, sometimes it reaches a point where it feels impossible to communicate it clearly. That’s why I love writing — it’s like a puzzle to me. At the beginning, it feels like all these disparate pieces scattered everywhere, and I think, “I’ll never make sense of this.” But writing is how I process the world.
By piecing things together into a narrative that’s tangible and interesting for the reader, I’m also making sense of it for myself. Along the way I have these “aha” moments where suddenly it clicks. That’s why good climate journalism — and good writing in general — matters. It helps people understand complex topics in a way that’s engaging and accessible.
Writers like Timothy Egan do this so well. He doesn’t just state facts; he tells a story that gives you background, context, and connections. That’s what I try to do too: help people put the puzzle together.
I live in Portland, which is often thought of as a green city. But this is where the conversation shifts from just “environmentalism” to climate justice. It’s not only about the environment in the abstract — it’s about how environmental policies affect people, and who is most impacted.
For example, Portland’s light rail system, the MAX, was developed in the 1990s as a greener transportation option. But building those hubs and rail lines also pushed Black, Brown, and lower-income communities out of their neighborhoods, because suddenly those areas became more desirable and unaffordable.
That’s why climate justice needs to be part of the conversation around transportation and city planning. We can’t just look at emissions or green spaces in isolation. We also need to ask: what happens to the most vulnerable people when we make these changes? How can we design environmental policies that not only avoid harming them but actively benefit them?
Too often, harmful infrastructure — like waste dumps — ends up in Black and Brown or low-income neighborhoods. And when we’re creating new green spaces, they tend to be placed in wealthier, whiter parts of the city instead of in neighborhoods without parks, without tree cover, and with higher exposure to extreme heat. That inequity is also a climate issue.
This is where landscape architects play such an important role. Their work isn’t just about aesthetics — it’s also about safety. For example, one way streets are being made safer is by carving out green spaces on corners. These spaces act as barriers that slow down traffic, creating a “street calming” effect. But at the same time, they double as rain catchment areas planted with native grasses.
There are so many creative approaches like this. On 82nd Avenue in Portland — one of the most dangerous corridors in the city and also one of the most diverse — I’ve seen these changes firsthand. Medians are being redesigned with green space and trees, which not only cools the street and contributes to climate goals but also makes drivers slow down. It transforms the area from feeling like a highway into more of a livable main street.
Fifteen or twenty years ago, I was always concerned about racial justice, but I often felt frustrated with environmentalism because it seemed like you had to choose one or the other. As a privileged white woman, it took me time to really understand the intersectionality of these issues.
I came into writing from a background as a social justice educator, so I was already familiar with the language, but there’s still a big learning process. For a while, I saw environmental activism as something led mostly by privileged white people — and often it was. That’s also why so many communities of color doing environmental justice work for decades were ignored.
For example, in New Orleans, communities have been working on environmental justice for a long time, but because it didn’t look like the “mainstream” version of environmentalism — like Greenpeace campaigns — it wasn’t given the same visibility.
Now, I do think environmental justice has become more mainstream in climate change conversations, but one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that we have to think intersectionally. And for white people in particular, it means stepping outside of our boxes to really see and honor that work.
Elizabeth Doerr
Writer and Communications Strategist
