Chapter 3. Climate Grief, Eco-Anxiety, and Cultural Mourning
“My biggest fear of climate change is losing everything. Losing our tradition over the weathers, over melting ice,” said one First Nations father, a hunter from Peawanuck, Ontario (6). “If we lose what we have now, what will we have to show our children in the future?” These words capture the heart of climate grief and eco-anxiety among Indigenous peoples. They speak to a deep sorrow and worry that goes beyond the environmental statistics – it is the fear of losing a way of life, of mourning not only changes in the land but also the culture and identity tied to that land.
Defining Climate Grief and Eco-Anxiety
Climate grief, also known as ecological grief, refers to the emotional response to the losses caused by climate change (4). This can include grief over tangible losses (like the death of trees, animals, or the loss of a homeland) and intangible losses (like the change of a beloved landscape or the eroding of cultural practices). Eco-anxiety is the chronic fear of environmental doom – a persistent worry about the future of the Earth and our communities under climate change. For Indigenous communities, these terms are not merely abstract. The grief is often acute and personal, and the anxiety is tied to very real threats to ancestral lands and resources.
Imagine an Elder watching a glacier that has fed their community for generations dwindle to half its size, or a young person who has grown up hearing about abundant caribou herds that are now disappearing. The feeling that arises is akin to mourning a family member. Psychologists note that climate-induced losses can trigger a process much like bereavement – sometimes called solastalgia, a term meaning the distress of seeing environmental change at home (4). In Inuit communities, people have described it as a feeling of homesickness while still at home, because the home itself is changing so drastically (4). There are even local expressions for these feelings: In some Arctic communities, the loss of reliable winter ice and snow has been called “winter grief,” and the anxiety about unseasonal weather is dubbed “snow anxiety” (4). These terms capture how specific and nuanced climate grief can be – it’s not just general sadness, but often tied to particular cycles or elements of nature that are beloved and expected.
Cultural Mourning – Losing More Than Land
For Indigenous peoples, climate grief is intertwined with what we can call cultural mourning. When the land is hurting or changed, it threatens the practices, stories, and relationships that form the core of our cultures. For example, if rising sea levels flood a First Nation’s ancestral burial grounds or force relocation from a sacred island, the community isn’t just losing land; they are grieving a part of their heritage. If warming rivers mean salmon runs collapse, a tribe is not only facing economic loss, but mourning the potential end of ceremonies and diets that revolve around the salmon. One young Indigenous climate activist described it like this: “It’s like watching pages of our history burn in a fire we can’t put out.” The pain is visceral because the connection to place and species is akin to kinship. Many Indigenous languages have terms that equate animals and features of the land to relatives. So, when the white pine forest or the caribou or the polar bear is in decline, it can feel like a beloved relative falling ill or dying.
This cultural dimension of climate grief makes it distinct from the way others might experience environmental loss. It layers on top of historical trauma. Indigenous communities have already endured waves of loss – from colonization, forced removals, residential schools, and degradation of our lands through industrial development. Climate change is now compounding these traumas. As one report noted, Inuit who are otherwise resilient are experiencing profound sadness seeing their ice and land vanish, “on top of the impacts of colonialism” that have already harmed their mental health (8). In other words, climate change is hitting a wound that was already there, opening it further. Psychologists call this cumulative grief or compound trauma. Each new loss (a dried lake, an extinct species, a tradition that can’t be practiced) can bring back the pain of previous losses.
Consider a community in the interior of B.C. that was displaced from its traditional territory decades ago by a dam project. Now, that dam’s reservoir is drying up due to persistent drought and heat. The people not only grieve the drying of the waters and the fish dying off, but it also resurfaces the pain of having been removed from that place in the first instance. An Elder from such a community might say, “We already lost this land once, and now we are losing it again in another way.” This sentiment is a form of cultural mourning that is unique to Indigenous experiences.
How These Emotions Manifest
Climate grief and eco-anxiety can manifest in various ways among Indigenous peoples. Elders may experience heartbreak and despair seeing the land they knew change so rapidly in their twilight years. They might express sorrow in the form of stories or increased silence and tears when speaking of the old days. Youth might manifest anxiety as anger – anger at the industries and governments that continue to pollute, or anger at the inaction they perceive. Some Indigenous youth report trouble sleeping because of nightmares about environmental collapse, or difficulty concentrating in school because they feel the weight of an uncertain future. Others describe a sense of hopelessness or powerlessness, feeling that the problem is so big that it’s beyond their control. In some communities, mental health workers have noted an uptick in depression and substance use linked, at least in part, to climate-related stressors – for instance, after a series of extreme weather events, more people seeking counseling for anxiety symptoms.
It’s important to emphasize: these emotional responses are not a sign of weakness or “crazy” thinking – they are a reasonable, even healthy, reaction to an existential threat. Indigenous peoples love our homelands deeply; feeling grief when those homelands are in peril is a natural extension of that love. As one mental health expert put it, we only mourn what we cherish. In this sense, climate grief is evidence of our profound attachment to Mother Earth. Our worry comes from our sense of responsibility as caretakers. Far from being irrational, Indigenous eco-anxiety often reflects a sophisticated understanding of what is at stake – we know how intimately our survival and identity are tied to the health of the land.
Research shows that populations most affected by climate change (like many Indigenous communities) are indeed more prone to climate-related emotional distress (6). That includes anxiety, sadness, depression, fear, and anger directly resulting from witnessing environmental changes (6). It’s worth noting that in some Indigenous cultures, expressions of grief and worry may take culturally specific forms. Some might channel grief into ceremony – for instance, holding a water ceremony to pray for a sick river, with tears and songs as an outlet for the sorrow. Others might use humor as a coping mechanism, making jokes about unpredictable weather as a way to lighten the emotional burden. Many turn to each other – talking circles and storytelling can act as informal group therapy sessions where people share their climate anxieties and console one another that they’re not alone in feeling this way.
Naming and Validating the Feelings
One crucial step in healing is to name and validate these feelings. In many Indigenous communities, openly discussing mental health was once taboo due to stigmas or simply because people “just carried on.” But there is growing awareness that acknowledging climate grief and eco-anxiety is essential. When a community leader or Elder stands up and says, “We are all feeling this grief together,” it can be a powerful moment of collective validation. It tells youth that they’re not overreacting in feeling afraid or sad – even our knowledge keepers and leaders feel it. Some communities have started using terms like “climate anxiety” in their own languages, or adapting concepts from tradition. For example, an Elder might relate climate grief to the traditional period of mourning one observes when a loved one dies, saying something like, “We need to mourn what is happening to the land, just as we would mourn a relative, so that we can then find strength to carry on.”
By naming these emotions, we also create space to address them. Unspoken fears can fester, but shared fears can mobilize a community to support each other. In later chapters, we’ll discuss how Indigenous practices – such as ceremony (Chapter 6) and community action (Chapter 7) – can help transform and soothe these heavy emotions. For now, in this chapter, it’s enough to affirm: If you feel grief when you see a clear-cut forest where a rainforest stood, your grief is real. If you feel anxiety every time fire season comes around, you are not alone. These reactions are a testament to how deeply we care. They can even be sources of strength – our love for the land, which underlies our grief, can motivate us to protect what remains and restore what’s damaged.
Balancing Pain with Hope
While climate grief and cultural mourning are heavy, it’s also true that acknowledging them can bring about a sense of relief and even hope. Many psychologists suggest that feeling eco-anxiety means you are attuned and connected, rather than indifferent. In Indigenous contexts, one might say that our grief is guided by our ancestors – it’s the voice in our heart reminding us how precious our relationship to Earth is. And where there is love and connection, there is also resilience. Some youth have shared that after initial bouts of climate anxiety, they channeled their worry into activism or cultural education, which made them feel more hopeful. Similarly, Elders who were heartbroken to see changes have found some solace in teaching the young people traditional skills and stories, as if to say: “Even if the world is changing, this knowledge will help you stand strong.”
Towards the end of this guide (Chapter 8), we will highlight resources and support networks for coping with climate-related mental health struggles. But first, the next chapters will delve into how we can draw on our own traditions and community strengths to find that balance. In Chapter 4, we turn to one of the most powerful antidotes to despair: reconnecting with the land itself. If climate grief is caused by losing connection, then land-based healing can be a path to restoration. Before moving on, take a moment to recognize any climate grief or anxiety you carry. It is valid. It is heard. And you are part of a larger circle of people who are ready to support each other through this challenging time, transforming fear and sorrow into action and healing.
Below are some helpful resources related to the content in this chapter:
“Climate Grief: The Emotional Impact of Climate Change” – A blog post on Indigenous Climate Hub that explains climate-related grief and anxiety in an Indigenous context. It defines “climate grief” or ecological grief as the emotional response to environmental losses and uncertainty, and gives concrete regional examples – for instance, Arctic communities describe “winter grief” over the loss of reliable winter weather, and Inuit in Nunavut experience “solastalgia,” a homesickness while still at home, as they witness melting ice alter their ancestral landscape. The article validates these feelings and suggests they are a normal response to profound change.
Health and Climate Change Toolkit (Métis Nation of Alberta) – A culturally relevant toolkit developed by the Métis Nation that addresses climate risks to health and offers coping strategies for Métis individuals and communities. It emphasizes the Métis belief in the reciprocal relationship with the land – the land’s health directly affects people’s health. The toolkit includes the top concerns Métis citizens have about climate change and mental health, and shares resilience tips like drawing on Métis traditions, spending time on the land, and practising cultural activities to ease eco-anxiety.
Attutauniujuk Nunami (Lament for the Land) – A 2019 documentary film co-created by Inuit in Nunatsiavut (Northern Labrador) and researcher Ashlee Cunsolo. It weaves together the voices and wisdom of Labrador Inuit elders and youth to tell a powerful story of “change, loss, and hope” in the face of rapid climate change. Through personal stories, the film shows how melting ice, declining animals, and erosion are not just environmental issues but sources of deep cultural mourning – yet it also highlights Inuit resilience, community solidarity, and hope rooted in traditional knowledge.
Chapter Highlights
Indigenous people experience climate grief as cultural mourning—grieving not just land loss but language, identity, and kinship with animals and places.
Eco-anxiety among Indigenous youth is often tied to fears of cultural erasure and disconnection from sacred responsibilities.
These emotions are not pathology—they are rational, collective, and spiritually significant.
Cultural forms of grief (ceremony, storytelling, humor, silence) are legitimate and healing responses.
Naming and validating climate grief is a critical first step to reclaiming emotional wellness and collective strength.
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