For much of the late 20th century, environmental writing oscillated between alarm and reassurance. One strand emphasized catastrophe; another urged optimism. A smaller, more demanding tradition insisted on neither denial nor consolation, but attention. It asked what it meant to remain fully present to ecological loss without turning away or hardening into fatalism.

That question animated a body of work that emerged alongside the nuclear age and matured as climate disruption moved from prediction to lived experience. Its premise was disarmingly simple: despair is not a failure of character, nor a symptom to be treated away, but evidence of care. If people could be helped to face grief for the world directly, the argument went, they might discover not paralysis but agency.

The scholar who developed this approach drew from Buddhist thought, systems theory, and what came to be called deep ecology. She was less interested in prescribing solutions than in changing the conditions under which people perceived themselves and their place in the living world. Humans, she insisted, were not observers standing outside ecological collapse, but participants within a larger body that could be injured and renewed.

Only after those ideas had begun to circulate widely did their author become a recognized figure. Joanna Macy, who died in July at 96, spent decades teaching that emotional honesty was a prerequisite for environmental action. She rejected the language of motivation and instead spoke of belonging. What people needed, she believed, was permission to feel what they already felt, in the company of others, without being told to stay upbeat.

Her early work was shaped by the anxieties of the Cold War. Nuclear weapons forced humanity to contemplate extinction not as myth but as policy error. In that context, Macy observed what she called psychic numbing: a widespread retreat from unbearable knowledge. Rather than counter this with more data, she experimented with group practices that allowed fear, grief, and anger to be named aloud. The effect, she found, was often clarifying. Shared distress became shared responsibility.

From these experiments grew what later became known as the Work That Reconnects, a framework used in workshops across continents. It was not therapy, and Macy resisted clinical labels. Participants were not asked to manage emotions but to move through them, recognizing pain for the world as a form of compassion. The work’s structure was deliberately modest: gratitude, acknowledgment of suffering, a shift in perspective, and a return to action. Its ambition lay elsewhere, in helping people experience themselves as part of an interdependent whole.

Macy’s writing returned repeatedly to this point. In books such as World as Lover, World as Self and Despair and Personal Power in the Nuclear Age, she argued that ecological awareness was not only intellectual but moral and emotional. To feel grief for disappearing species or damaged landscapes was not indulgent. It was a measure of connection. “Pain for our world,” she wrote, “is a measure of caring.”

As climate change displaced nuclear war as the dominant existential threat, her focus sharpened rather than shifted. She described the present era as one of unraveling, but resisted the language of inevitability. Hope, in her formulation, was not optimism about outcomes but a practice: choosing to act on behalf of life without guarantees. This “active hope” asked for stamina rather than reassurance.

Late in life, Macy spoke of a possible transition toward a life-sustaining society, which she called the Great Turning. The phrase was aspirational, but her emphasis remained grounded. What mattered was not whether transformation arrived on schedule, but whether people could stay present to one another and to the world they loved as conditions worsened.

She retired from teaching only in her mid-90s. The workshops continue, led by others. So do the questions she insisted were unavoidable: how to live without denial, how to grieve without collapse, and how to act without certainty. In an era inclined either to panic or to distraction, she offered a third discipline, one that asked people to look steadily at what was happening and decide, together, how to respond.