Climate Anxiety as Moral Distress and Six Things We Can Do To Break Free

I believe that the intense anxiety many people feel about the climate crisis often stems, not from a psychological disorder or even a fear response, but from a sense of “moral distress”. Indeed, psychologists observing young climate activists have noted that their eco-anxiety is fueled by witnessing powerful people fail to act on climate change, which violates their core moral values​ (1). In other words, climate anxiety can be understood as a moral emotional reaction to systemic inertia and injustice. It is the pain of watching those with responsibility shirk their duties, leaving vulnerable communities and future generations to face the consequences. This anxious distress is not a sign of personal disorder; it is, as some scholars suggest, a rational moral response to an urgent ethical crisis​ (1).

At its heart, climate anxiety reflects a clash between what should be done to avert catastrophe and what is being done (or not done) by our societies. When we see governments make bold pledges but continue subsidizing fossil fuels, or corporations advertise sustainability while lobbying against emissions targets, a feeling of betrayal arises. This betrayal triggers moral emotions—outrage, guilt, sorrow—alongside the worry. The climate crisis confronts us with harm on an enormous scale, yet our social systems respond sluggishly. The result is often a feeling of powerlessness fused with ethical indignation. Introducing climate anxiety in this light helps us see it not merely as fear of environmental doom, but as moral distress at the failure of systems to do what is right.

In this essay, I hope to discuss a few of the of the wicked challenges that have us stuck in this state of moral distress  and what we can do to break free from them. In doing so, I will discuss:

1.      entrenched power and systemic inertia,

2.      the diffusion of responsibility in a global crisis,

3.      psychological defenses like denial and distance,

4.      ideological manipulation and misdirection,

5.      the paralysis of complexity, and

6.      the fear of destabilization and clinging to the status quo.

Entrenched Power and Systemic Inertia

One major barrier to decisive climate action is the entrenched power of those who benefit from the status quo. In every society, powerful economic and political interests tend to resist changes that threaten their position. Fossil fuel companies and their investors, for example, have spent decades leveraging their clout to slow down climate policies. The latest U.N. climate reports even call out these “vested economic and political interests” for obstructing efforts to cut emissions, noting how they fund rhetoric and misinformation that undermine climate science​ (2). This kind of power is structural: it’s baked into our institutions, economies, and media. Pierre Bourdieu, the sociologist known for dissecting power dynamics, observed that every established order naturalizes its own arbitrariness – in this case, making a fossil-fueled economy seem inevitable, even as it imperils our future. Entrenched elites use their resources to shape policies and public opinion, maintaining a carbon-intensive “normal” that serves their interests.

The inertia caused by entrenched power is keenly felt by those with climate anxiety. It is morally distressing to realize that knowledge and technology to transition to clean energy exist, yet progress is blocked by powerful actors clinging to profit and dominance. We see this in how some governments prioritize short-term economic growth or geopolitical advantage over long-term habitability of the planet. It often requires what one scholar called “tectonic shifts in political power structures” to break this deadlock, because meaningful climate transition “challenges entrenched power structures” at their core​ (2). The frustration and despair many feel—especially young people—is tied to this sense that the system is rigged in favor of polluters and that moral appeals alone fall on deaf ears at the top.

What can individuals do?

While no single person can single-handedly dismantle entrenched power, everyday people are not helpless. History shows that even the mightiest structures can be moved when enough ordinary citizens unite. Political scientist Erica Chenoweth’s research famously found that nonviolent movements engaging just 3.5% of the population have never failed to bring about change​ (3). This means that building collective pressure is powerful, even against big interests. Individuals can contribute by joining climate justice campaigns, supporting organizations that hold polluters accountable, and voting for leaders committed to reform. Equally important is chipping away at the legitimacy of unjust power: we can educate our communities about how fossil fuel lobbies operate, expose greenwashing, and amplify the voices of frontline groups. Anthropologist James C. Scott noted that everyday forms of resistance—small acts of non-cooperation or creation of alternatives—can over time erode the authority of unjust systems. In practical terms, this could mean organizing local cooperatives for renewable energy or community gardens, which bypass corporate control and demonstrate new ways of living. Each person who steps up helps shift the cultural common sense away from deference to the powerful and toward solidarity with the vulnerable. In essence, by coming together and asserting moral demands, ordinary citizens can begin to reconstruct the social fabric that keeps entrenched elites in check.

The Diffusion of Responsibility in a Global Crisis

A second barrier to action is the diffusion of responsibility. Climate change is a truly global problem—caused by billions of emitters and affecting billions of people. When responsibility is so widely distributed, there is a dangerous tendency for each actor to assume someone else will take care of it. Psychologist Albert Bandura described how people can disengage morally when their sense of personal agency is diluted in a crowd; if “other people are responsible, not me,” then one’s own inaction feels more acceptable​ (4). With climate change, this manifests as governments pointing fingers at other countries, corporations blaming consumer demand, and individuals thinking their personal choices won’t matter since others continue to pollute. The result is a classic bystander effect on a planetary scale: everyone waits for someone else to lead.

In day-to-day life, diffusion of responsibility shows up in subtle climate silence. Surveys have found that a majority of people concerned about climate change “rarely or never talk about it” with friends or family​ (5). This silence can stem from an implicit belief that it’s not one’s place to raise such a daunting issue—or that it’s a topic for scientists, activists, and politicians to handle. Bandura would call this a form of moral disengagement, where we avoid self-examination by assuming someone else will solve the problem​ (5). But the fewer people talk and act, the more the responsibility further diffuses, creating a vicious cycle of inaction. For those experiencing climate anxiety, this social apathy is agonizing. It feels like being trapped in a slow-motion disaster where everyone knows the danger, yet normal life continues as if nobody is accountable for preventing the collapse. The moral distress here comes from a sense that we are all complicit in doing too little, even though no single individual can carry the weight of such a vast challenge.

What can individuals do?

The antidote to diffused responsibility is to actively claim responsibility together. This can start with breaking the climate silence. Simply talking more about the issue in your circles chips away at the false notion that “no one else cares.” Studies suggest that moral arguments and open conversations can raise others’ awareness and confidence to discuss climate change​ (5). By voicing our concerns, we signal that this crisis is our shared problem and not someone else’s duty. On a personal level, one can cultivate what Bandura called collective efficacy: the belief that by working together, we can make a difference​ (5). For example, you might start or join a local climate action group, where each member takes on tasks—from lobbying local officials to organizing tree planting—that contribute to a larger goal. This builds a feeling of agency that counters helplessness. It’s also important to lead by example in everyday life not because individual carbon footprints alone will save the world, but because visible action inspires others and builds momentum. When you ride a bike to work, initiate a meat-free community dinner, or help install solar panels at a school, you are showing those around you that citizens can and will take responsibility. Such acts, when multiplied, begin to fill the leadership void. The key is to remember that responsibility is not a zero-sum game: by each of us taking initiative, we actually lighten the load on everyone, creating a culture where doing nothing is no longer seen as an option.

Psychological Self-Defenses

The third barrier involves the psychological defenses that humans deploy to avoid uncomfortable truths. Climate change poses threats on a scale that can be deeply frightening and dissonant with our daily lives. To protect ourselves from anxiety and guilt, we subconsciously erect mental barriers. Per Espen Stoknes, a psychologist who studies climate responses, identifies five main defenses he calls the 5 Ds: Distance, Doom, Dissonance, Denial, and Identity​ (4). These are ways our mind deflects climate reality. For instance, we tell ourselves the problem is distant – far off in time (the year 2100) or space (the Arctic) – so it feels abstract and less urgent​ (4). We feel overwhelmed by doom messages and tune out to avoid despair. We experience dissonance when our high-carbon habits (driving, flying, eating beef) conflict with our knowledge of climate harm, and to resolve that inner tension we downplay the harm or rationalize our behavior​ (4). Some go into outright denial, rejecting the scientific consensus or seizing on fringe doubts to dismiss the issue, because accepting it would require them to change or feel culpable​ (4). And identity plays a role: if pro-climate attitudes don’t align with one’s political or cultural identity, the facts themselves can be reflexively dismissed to preserve one’s worldview​ (4).

These psychological defenses are normal in that they arise from self-preservation instincts, but in the context of climate change they are collectively disastrous. They create a kind of mass psychic numbing—a state where society carries on in a dreamlike trance, intellectually aware of the danger but emotionally disengaged. For someone who feels climate anxiety acutely, witnessing this widespread denial and dissociation is a source of moral distress. It’s as if a house were on fire and half the family is unwilling to even acknowledge the smoke. The anxious individual often oscillates between trying to jolt others awake and doubting their own sanity when so many seem unfazed. In truth, the prevalence of these defenses is itself a testament to how disturbing the climate emergency is to our psyche. As one climate psychologist noted, humans have “ingenious ways to minimize perceptions of their complicity” in environmental harm, easing guilt at the cost of reality​ (6). Overcoming these defenses is thus not just an intellectual task but an emotional and moral one—facing the truth of our situation, however painful, in order to respond ethically.

What can individuals do?

The first step is to gently confront these defenses in ourselves and others. Instead of demonizing people for denying or avoiding climate change, we can recognize these behaviors as coping mechanisms—and then try to replace them with healthier coping strategies. One approach is to reframe the narrative away from pure doom. As Stoknes argues, fear-based messaging can backfire and make people more passive​ (4). So in our conversations and advocacy, we can pair honesty about risks with stories of resilience and possibility. For example, talk about communities that restored a forest or shifted to agroecology with great benefits, not to ignore the danger but to inspire action despite it. To reduce psychological distance, we can localize the issue: learn about how the climate crisis is affecting our own town or region right now (be it through wildfire smoke or floods) and discuss those tangible impacts instead of only polar bears on ice caps. To address dissonance, it helps to encourage and normalize lifestyle changes as a group. It’s easier to align actions with values when you join neighbors in a carpool challenge or a meat-free week—suddenly sustainable choices feel rewarding and shared, not a lonely sacrifice. We can also cultivate mindfulness about our defensive reactions: notice when we’re slipping into willful ignorance or blame-shifting (“it’s the Chinese… it’s corporations…”), and then pivot to ask, “What can I do within my scope?” Crucially, supporting others emotionally is key. Climate anxiety can be paralyzing, so building communities (even online support groups or climate cafés) where people can share fears and hopes helps us lower our psychological shields. In such spaces, denial can melt into concern, and concern can be channeled into courageous action. By validating each other’s feelings and then focusing that energy on solutions, individuals collectively can disarm the very defenses that once kept society stuck.

Ideological Manipulation and Misdirection

A fourth barrier is the deliberate manipulation of public opinion and values—the ideological smoke and mirrors that obscure the moral urgency of the climate crisis. Powerful industries and political actors have long engaged in campaigns to mislead the public about climate science and to frame the debate in ways that protect the status quo. The fossil fuel industry’s history of funding climate denial is well-documented: from think-tank reports sowing doubt about carbon pollution to advertisements celebrating “clean coal,” these efforts confuse people and erode the sense that climate change is a clear and present danger. In the words of the recent IPCC review, “misinformation... undermines climate science and disregards risk and urgency”, leading to public misperceptions and polarized attitudes​ (2). But ideological manipulation goes beyond outright falsehoods. It also includes subtler narratives, like promoting the idea that individual lifestyle changes alone are sufficient (thus deflecting attention from structural reforms), or insisting that rapid decarbonization is “too radical” and will ruin the economy. Such messages often originate from those with something to lose—oil executives, lobbyists for heavy industry, or politicians aligned with those interests—but through repetition they seep into popular consciousness. Bourdieu’s insight into symbolic power is apt here: those in power shape the discourse so that their preferred worldview becomes the “common sense” view. If the public is constantly told that any serious climate policy is economically ruinous or un-American, many will internalize that belief, making them less likely to support necessary changes.

The effect of ideological manipulation is a kind of moral confusion and paralysis. People may feel vaguely concerned about climate change yet be inundated with conflicting claims: one news segment shows a climate-fueled disaster, but the next commercial break features a car company touting “clean diesel” or an influencer mocking climate activists as alarmists. This can breed cynicism (“both sides exaggerate”) or complacency (“technology will fix it, no need for upheaval”). For those keenly aware of the crisis, watching society succumb to “greenhouse gaslighting” – being told not to trust one’s eyes about environmental breakdown – is infuriating​ (2). It adds a layer of injustice on top of the physical threats. Climate anxiety in this context includes anger at the lies and propaganda that delay action. There is also a feeling of alienation: if you see through the spin, you might feel like a stranger in your own community, which seems lulled by comforting falsehoods. The moral distress here is not only about the harm being done, but about the distortion of truth and values. It’s painful to realize that good people can be misled into supporting harmful practices, and that bad-faith arguments often get more airtime than sincere pleas for stewardship.

What can individuals do?

Combating ideological manipulation requires both critical thinking and proactive communication. As individuals, we can educate ourselves to recognize disinformation tactics—learn how to distinguish credible climate science from lobby-funded pseudoscience. This might involve following analyses by climate communication experts or organizations that debunk myths. When you encounter a dubious claim (say, “climate change is natural cycles” or “wind turbines wreck the economy”), take a moment to fact-check it against reputable sources and then politely challenge it in your circles. It’s important to engage in conversations, whether online or at the dinner table, to correct false narratives. Research shows that talking about climate change more often can inoculate communities against misinformation​ (5). Share articles, documentaries, or personal observations that connect the dots between extreme weather and climate trends. In doing so, try to avoid a dismissive or superior tone—frame it as seeking truth together. Another practical step is to support independent journalism and media that report responsibly on climate. If large media outlets give undue attention to contrarian voices for the sake of “balance,” we can write to editors or support alternative outlets that prioritize scientific accuracy. On the values front, we can promote a counter-narrative to the dominant individualistic ethos. For instance, instead of letting the conversation be about “sacrifices” and “limits,” we can talk about climate action as a chance to build a fairer, cleaner economy. Highlight how transitioning away from fossil fuels can create jobs in renewables and improve public health by reducing pollution. By reframing the issue in positive, justice-oriented terms, we undercut the fear-based manipulation that claims climate action will wreck society. In short, everyday people become ambassadors for reality and fairness: through persistent dialogue and exemplifying ethical media consumption, we collectively reinforce truth over propaganda. Bit by bit, this effort rebuilds public understanding and lays a moral foundation for accepting the changes we need.

The Paralysis of Complexity

The fifth barrier is the sheer complexity of the climate crisis, which can lead to paralysis. Climate change is often dubbed a “wicked problem” because it involves an entangled web of factors: atmospheric physics, global economics, energy technologies, political negotiations, cultural values, and more. Unlike a simple problem with a clear solution, a wicked problem like this has no easy answers and many interdependencies. Donella Meadows, a pioneer of systems thinking, emphasized that in complex systems a small change in one area can produce big effects elsewhere​ (7)—but identifying the right leverage point is hard. Many leaders and citizens feel overwhelmed by the complexity: if we cut emissions in one sector, will it cause job losses? If one country acts but others don’t, is it futile? How do we coordinate globally, ensure fairness, and handle uncertainties in predictions? These layers of complexity can stall decision-making. It’s far easier to tinker at the margins (promoting a bit of recycling here, a new tech research there) than to overhaul the fundamental systems – energy, transport, food, finance – that drive climate change. Thus, we often see a kind of analysis paralysis: endless conferences, reports, and scenario models, but too little concrete action. Even the public can get lost in debates about the “best” solution (is it nuclear power? carbon tax? individual lifestyle changes? systemic revolution?) and end up taking no action at all. Complexity can also lead to fatalism: the problem appears so huge and multifaceted that people throw up their hands and hope some experts somewhere will sort it out.

For someone anxious about climate, the complexity barrier is a source of profound frustration and despair. It is maddening to realize that our political and economic systems may simply not be equipped to handle a problem this complex in a timely way. Climate anxiety often involves ruminating on all the worst-case scenarios that could unfold from our failure to coordinate effectively. One may lie awake not only fearing the droughts and storms, but also the social breakdown that could accompany climate stress—precisely because our institutions seem too fragmented to respond coherently. Complexity paralysis is evident when, for example, climate policies get bogged down in technical minutiae or hijacked by competing interests in climate summits, while the carbon dioxide concentration relentlessly rises. Each year of delay due to “it’s complicated” reasoning feels like moral failure—because it is clear that delay itself is a decision, one that places short-term comfort over long-term survival. As Donella Meadows taught, complex systems do have weak points where transformative change can be triggered (so-called leverage points), but finding the courage to push those points often means upsetting entrenched arrangements. When that courage is lacking, complexity becomes an excuse for inaction, and those aware of the stakes feel the burden of a system seemingly paralyzed by its own intricacy.

What can individuals do?

Grappling with complexity requires us to balance humility with initiative. No individual can comprehend every facet of the climate crisis, but we can each strive to understand some piece of the puzzle deeply and take action there. A practical step is to educate ourselves in systems thinking: learn how feedback loops, tipping points, and interconnected causes work in the climate system. This doesn’t require a PhD; there are many accessible resources that explain, for example, how reducing food waste can alleviate pressure on land use and emissions, or how empowering girls’ education has climate benefits (through slower population growth and resilience). Understanding these links can replace paralysis with purpose by showing that our actions can have ripple effects. Donella Meadows’ work on leverage points reminds us that changing something like the rules of the system (for instance, laws that govern corporate emissions or incentives) can yield bigger change than isolated efforts​ (7). So as citizens, we can push for systemic interventions—support policies like carbon pricing or renewable energy standards that simplify the path for everyone to do the right thing. In our communities, we can convene diverse stakeholders (business owners, local officials, activists, educators) to brainstorm climate action plans, thus distributing the problem-solving across many minds rather than one office. This collective approach prevents any single person from being overwhelmed and often uncovers innovative solutions through collaboration. On a personal level, it helps to focus on a specific domain: maybe you are passionate about sustainable food, or transportation, or climate education. Dive into that area, join networks or initiatives related to it, and contribute there. Trust that others are tackling other pieces of the puzzle. Essentially, we combat complexity by building networks of problem-solvers. Finally, it’s important to remember that complexity doesn’t mean impossibility. We can recall past societal challenges that seemed insurmountable—like the rapid industrial mobilization during World War II or the coordinated global effort to phase out ozone-depleting chemicals—and draw hope that complex problems can be managed when there is collective will. Each individual who pushes for clarity, whether by asking elected officials to stop stalling or by simplifying a climate issue for their neighbors, helps cut through the fog of complexity. Bit by bit, this turns paralysis into coordinated motion.

Fear of Destabilization and Clinging to the Status Quo

The sixth barrier is the fear of destabilization—the apprehension that the cures for climate change might be worse than the disease, at least for our familiar way of life. Rapid, decisive action on climate requires transforming energy systems, rethinking consumption, and restructuring economies. These are massive changes that understandably unsettle people. Many worry that moving away from fossil fuels could bring economic hardship: job losses in oil, gas, and coal; higher prices during the transition; perhaps even energy shortages if we move too fast. There is also a psychological comfort in the status quo, even if the status quo is unsustainable. People tend to prefer the devil they know over an uncertain future. This extends to social and political stability: some fear that aggressive climate policies could spark unrest or require government interventions that they equate with unwelcome “big government” or loss of personal freedoms. In short, there is a fear that tackling climate change at the scale required will fundamentally disrupt societies and lifestyles. This barrier often manifests as arguments like, “Yes, climate change is real, but don’t wreck the economy over it,” or “Our way of life is not up for negotiation.” (Indeed, a U.S. president once declared “the American lifestyle is not up for negotiation” when resisting climate action​ (6).) Such statements crystallize the fear of sacrifice: giving up comforts, conveniences, or cultural norms is seen as too high a price, so the can is kicked down the road.

Yet the irony is that refusing to change course because of fear of disruption only guarantees a far worse disruption later—when unmitigated climate change itself destabilizes everything. Those with climate anxiety often see this clearly: they fear the collapse of ecosystems and societies if we don’t act, whereas others fear the upheaval that acting might bring. This divergence can cause a moral rift. The anxious person might view the clinging to status quo as a grave moral failing—prioritizing one’s own immediate comfort over the welfare of future generations and the planet. In moral terms, it echoes the parable of the burning house: one neighbor is willing to endure the inconvenience of evacuating and rebuilding to save everyone, while another refuses to leave because their room isn’t yet on fire and they don’t want to get wet from the fire hose. Overcoming this barrier is as much about courage and imagination as it is about practical planning. It requires envisioning a different world and trusting that the risks of change are worth the vastly greater risk of inaction. However, it’s important to acknowledge that some fears are valid: coal miners will need new jobs, communities built around certain industries will need support. The moral call, then, is not to ignore the fear of destabilization, but to answer it with a credible promise of a just transition—one that shares burdens fairly and leaves no one behind.

What can individuals do?

Each of us can help society overcome the fear of change by demonstrating and demanding that climate solutions can coexist with justice and improved well-being. One powerful action is to support just-transition initiatives. This could mean backing policies that fund retraining programs for fossil fuel workers, or community-led renewable energy projects that give locals ownership and dividends. When people see practical pathways for change that don’t spell personal ruin, their fear tends to ease. Individuals can also engage in dialogues across ideological divides, emphasizing shared values. For example, if you have family or friends who are skeptical of climate measures because they fear economic collapse, talk about how unchecked climate change itself threatens economic stability, and highlight job opportunities in green industries that could revitalize their region. Citing historical examples can help: remind folks how economies adapted during major shifts (like the move from horse-drawn carriages to automobiles, or the rapid mobilization of industries during wartime) and emerged stronger. Another thing individuals can do is to embrace some discomfort in their own lives as a sign of commitment. This might mean voluntarily simplifying one’s lifestyle—driving less, flying less, consuming less—and framing it not as a loss, but as a contribution to the common good. It is a form of self-sacrifice, yes, but done in solidarity with others and with an eye on the prize of a livable future. When others see neighbors or public figures making modest sacrifices cheerfully, it starts to normalize the idea that we can live well with less and that doing so is honorable. Importantly, building solidarity is the ultimate antidote to fear. If people feel that we are all in this together, they are more willing to endure the disruptions needed for big changes. As social beings, we take courage from each other. So, join community resilience projects, whether it’s a tool library, a disaster preparedness team, or a local climate assembly. These forums build trust and show that when crises (or transitions) come, we have each other’s backs. By fostering that sense of shared fate and mutual support, individuals help transform fear into resolve. The message becomes: yes, the road ahead will be challenging, but we will walk it together and come out better on the other side.

Reclaiming Our Moral Agency

Ultimately, addressing climate anxiety as moral distress points us toward rebuilding solidarity and collective power. Each of the barriers above—entrenched power, diffused responsibility, psychological defenses, manipulated ideologies, complexity paralysis, and fear of change—thrives in a society that emphasizes individualism and distrust. In many ways, the neoliberal age has eroded the communal bonds and public institutions that might have responded forcefully to a crisis like climate change. Neoliberal ideology, as Pierre Bourdieu argued, is essentially “a programme for destroying collective structures which may impede pure market logic.”​ (8) Over decades, this ideology has promoted a hyper-individualistic culture: “save the planet” became a matter of personal consumer choices, while collective solutions were downplayed or blocked. The result is a populace that feels isolated and powerless in the face of a global threat—prime conditions for moral distress. To overcome this, we must consciously overturn neoliberal individualism and rekindle a sense of common purpose. Climate anxiety, for all its pain, can be a catalyst: it is a sign that our conscience is alive, prodding us to seek connection and justice.

The ultimate solution to climate anxiety does not lie in numbing those feelings, but in acting on them by joining with others to correct the underlying injustices. Solidarity is both the salve and the strategy. When we come together in community—whether through activism, support groups, or local projects—we transform isolated anxiety into shared resolve. We begin to see that we are not alone in caring; millions of people around the world feel the same moral urgency. This realization is empowering. It helps rebuild social trust, the belief that we can rely on each other to do our part. Reconstructing trust means holding institutions accountable so that people believe promises will be kept, and also extending trust to strangers across cultural and national lines, knowing that climate change is a common enemy. Importantly, building a global climate movement requires reaching across diversity. We must forge collective power across diverse cultures, rich and poor, Global North and South. This will undoubtedly require discomfort and vulnerability—listening to those who have different life experiences, owning up to historical injustices (like how industrialized nations created most of the emissions), and being willing to share resources and decision-making. It will also require some self-sacrifice, particularly from those of us who live in high-consumption societies. But sacrifice in this context is not a loss; it is an ethical choice to redistribute effort and risk so that the burden of change is carried fairly. It might mean paying a bit more for clean energy, or accepting the inconvenience of new regulations, or simply sacrificing pride to admit we need each other.

The reward for entering this discomfort zone is a renewed sense of agency and hope. As we build solidarity, we perform what psychologists call “moral repair”—healing the breach between our values and our reality. The very act of working with others on solutions, no matter how small, starts to alleviate the moral pain, because we know we are at least living in accordance with our conscience. Philosopher-activist Albert Bandura advised that we “cultivate... collective efficacy to manage the whole spectrum of environmental threats”, reinforcing that hope and confidence are born from collective action​ (5). And indeed, history teaches that when ordinary people unite in a cause grounded in moral truth, they can topple dictators, win civil rights, and remake social norms. Climate change is no different. The alliances we build—from indigenous land defenders and scientists to students and faith groups—are stitching together a new social fabric resilient enough to carry the weight of this challenge. In these alliances, climate anxiety finds its purpose. No longer a paralyzing despair, it becomes, in the words of one youth activist, “the fuel for our courage.”

In conclusion, climate anxiety as moral distress is a powerful lens that illuminates why we suffer in the face of inaction: it hurts because we care, because we know things could and should be different. By understanding the barriers that have held back systemic change, we also illuminate the path forward. Each barrier contains the seed of its own solution—power can be confronted by people power, responsibility claimed through shared action, denial overcome by truth-telling, manipulation countered by education, complexity navigated by collaboration, and fear soothed by trust and justice. The task now is to carry this understanding into the world, to transform justified anxiety into just action. It is in fighting for a livable and just future together that we will ultimately find relief from our moral distress. In solidarity, we will discover that hope is a practice, not a feeling—built step by step, hand in hand, as we repair our world and our souls alike (1, 2).