Eco Anxiety and EMDR

I grew up in the small town of Tofino, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. Back in the ‘80s, it was a place where fishing and logging were the backbone of the local economy. My dad, an adventurous Englishman, had crossed Canada doing odd jobs until he found himself logging in in the area. My mother, a curious Chilean, ended up on the wild side, by a stroke of luck. By the time these two unlikely characters met, my dad had stopped logging. Story goes, that one day, while working, he paused to truly take in the majesty of the old-growth trees around him. In that moment, it hit him—what he was doing was madness. Right then and there, he quit. That decision marked the start of his journey as a committed environmentalist.

Both of my parents were environmentalists before it was mainstream. My mom was on the frontlines—literally. Before I can remember, she took me along to protests, waking up at ungodly hours to block logging trucks on remote roads. My dad took a broader approach, co-founding the Biosphere Project with two friends. They brought students from around the globe to study the incredible ecosystems of Clayoquot Sound, our home. As the fight to save the old-growth forests heated up, Tofino began rebranding itself as a tourist destination—a move to preserve the environment. Even Midnight Oil, the legendary Aussie band known for its activism, held a concert in a clear-cut forest to bring attention to the cause. The haunting lyrics, “How can we sleep while our beds are burning?” stayed with me.

Our house was always alive with energy—local friends, environmental activists, and even TV crews from as far away as Chile would fill the rooms. Lively, late-night discussions about politics, nature, and the future were commonplace. As a child, I often sat on my dad’s lap, soaking it all in.

Over time, my mom deepened her involvement in conservation efforts, using her tiny restaurant to support preservation initiatives in southern Chile, her home. Eventually, we traveled to Chile to see the project she had been modestly supporting. It was during that visit that my father fell in love with the country, leading our family to move there. Both of my parents continued their environmental work, each contributing in their own unique way.

I picked up early on how destructive logging was to the planet. I learned that the forests were the Earth’s lungs, and without them, the planet was heating up. By the time I was nine, I was consumed with anxiety about global warming.

Summer days that felt too hot sent me spiraling. Any conversation that veered too close to topics like rising seas, burning forests, dying trees, or anything remotely related to climate change I would escape. I judged anyone who over-consumed or ignored the issue. From my childhood through my early twenties, these fears came in waves. I’d become obsessed with recycling or bike everywhere—even in freezing winters—to avoid contributing to the problem.

In my twenties, I lived like a closeted tree-hugger—following the “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” mantra, but quietly. I convinced myself that since people weren’t talking about “global warming”, as it was still called then, maybe it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. The less I heard about climate change, the less anxious I felt. Ignorance, I guess, was bliss.

Then came my thirties, and suddenly, climate change was everywhere—on social media, in headlines, in casual conversations—the forests were burning, the seas were rising and everyone was talking about it. My anxiety skyrocketed. I obsessed over weather forecasts, avoided temperature readings in my car, and panicked about rising seas and forest fires. I feared a future of chaos, displacement, and suffering—for people, animals, the planet.

The wildfires in Canada pushed me to the brink. I kept it all inside, not telling my husband, family, or friends. When I finally cracked and confided in my husband, he suggested therapy. I tried it, but talking about it was so painful. I felt that even the therapist didn’t get it. I was petrified that someone would confirm my fears, but if they denied them, I judged them as clueless.

Things hit a breaking point after our wedding. Wildfires almost canceled the event; thick smoke grounded planes, delaying guests. The eerie, smoke-covered skies turned what should have been a bright, hot day into a cool, smoky one. I was unraveling inside. That’s when I knew I needed real help.

Enter EMDR. I stumbled upon it after hearing someone mention it as a cure for anxiety. My interested was immediately piqued. EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, is a psychotherapy technique that helps people heal from trauma. It sounds like science fiction: you relive traumatic memories while following a moving object, listening to alternating sounds, or holding vibrating paddles that switch between hands. This back-and-forth stimulation helps the brain reprocess the trauma, desensitizing the emotional response. No one fully understands why it works—but it does.

In just five sessions, my therapist helped me reframe and desensitize the memories tied to my climate-change anxiety. The transformation was life-changing. Today, I have zero anxiety about climate change. Don’t get me wrong—I still believe it’s real and deeply empathize with those affected. I see the dying trees, feel the increased heat, notice the decreased snowfall, and understand the reality of what’s happening. It is real. But now, six years later, I can approach the topic calmly and objectively. I can engage with different perspectives without spiraling and have regained balance in my life.

In the last year, I decided to revisit EMDR for other little t traumas I wanted to address, remembering how effective it had been for me. I started working with a phenomenal therapist, Katie LaRue, who combines EMDR with inner-child work, breathwork, and somatic experiencing. It’s been incredible. Even my husband, initially skeptical, tried EMDR and said it was the most effective therapy he’s ever done. He’s overcome lifelong phobias in just a session or two.

If anxiety or trauma has you in its grip, I can’t recommend EMDR enough. It’s wild, it’s fascinating, and it works.