Parenting in the climate crisis: how to raise kids who care about the environment
Although it's unfair, it's young people (and the generations to come) who will have to deal with fallout from the climate crisis. So how do you talk to young people about living sustainably and raise knowledgeable kids who care about the future of the planet?
Here are some tips for engaging the next generation on the environment meaningfully.
Damon Gameau, actor, film-maker and director of documentaries including 2040 and the upcoming Future Council, says we have built a system that doesn't value nature – and that needs to change. 'Very quickly, children aren't encouraged to care. They're encouraged to try and extract and conquer and win and compete.'
Instilling care and empathy in children works in a similar way to teaching them most other things: through modelling, education and good conversations.
Susy Lee, author of Raising Kids Who Care and an educator with 18 years' experience, says the first step is being intentional about what you're trying to teach. 'We need kids who know [that they] don't need to be suckered into buying more stuff [and] that generosity and compassion and helping others is actually what makes them happy.'
Good conversations need two things, she says: curiosity and positivity. Don't lecture, be collaborative and be guided by questions. Listen more, talk less.
Involving kids in age-appropriate discussions about what matters, then modelling good choices, leads to positive outcomes. Some starting points are: discussing where to donate money and time, whether to get an electric vehicle or petrol car, or visiting your local MP to raise issues important to your community.
Gameau says adults can also help by acknowledging the size and scariness of the issues, and letting kids feel anger, sadness and fear. Young people already know about the threats, he says, pointing to an international survey that found nearly 60% of young people were either very or extremely worried about the environment.
Then connect kids (and adults!) with the living world again: spend time in nature, get to know the bird varieties and tree species around you, have adventures outside. It's easier to care about things you know, see and experience. Take the time to stop, examine and discuss. Seek out joy, beauty and fun to counterbalance the gloom.
Zena Burgess, CEO of the Australian Psychological Society, emphasises the importance of action and taking individual steps that build a community of people making positive progress. This is echoed by Lee and Gameau, and reflects Bob Brown's catchphrase: action is the antidote to despair.
Start where your kids are. If they love the ocean, take them snorkelling, watch documentaries, pick up rubbish on the beach. Look for ways to reduce plastic in the home and community, join campaigns against single-use plastic. Follow the children's lead, show them hope and possibilities, and steer clear of overwhelm.
It's not the kids' responsibility to fix things, it's ours. But we can support them, combining their ideas, creativity and passion with our knowledge and experience. This help ranges from having good conversations to dealing with emotions, arranging logistics, finding information and joining organisations. And it extends beyond our own children: we'll all be affected by the future we've created, and need to use our skills and connections to make a difference in any way we can.
Look for ways to make it fun. Jump in the surf after you've cleaned the beach; revel in your results. You're joining a community of billions of people taking action across the world. Spread the hope and joy of these stories; seek out the positives. Make sure there's a clear link between doing good and feeling good and make it something others want to join. Make it cool to care.
Raising kids who care is a matter of balancing the truth of where we are with the resilience of both the natural world and human endeavour. As Gameau says, 'There's something beautiful about the human spirit, particularly when its back is against the wall and innovation and creativity get unleashed. We're capable of doing extraordinary and wonderful things.'
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The Guardian
4 hours ago
- The Guardian
My best friend of 50 years knew me better than anyone. But when she died, no one seemed to take my grief seriously
I don't remember a time in my life when Chrissy wasn't in it. We were born 11 days apart and were both one when our families moved on to the same street in Geelong, a port city an hour south-west of Melbourne. We had a very Australian childhood; summers spent in our bathers, running through sprinklers; swimming in back yard pools; eating sausages in bread on New Year's Eve, when we were allowed to stay up late while our parents drank cask riesling with the neighbours, and we'd lie on the cool evening grass listening to crickets. During those blisteringly hot summer days of our childhood, we lived at the beach, where shark alarms were constant and the waves dangerous. Occasionally, Chrissy would paddle out on her inflatable red and blue raft to the big waves out the back where the serious surfers were. Sometimes, I'd panic when I'd lose sight of her, only to see her come rolling in on a massive wave, perched on top, laughing her head off. She was fearless. But I did lose her, five decades later. When Chrissy died at 51, I discovered a new and terrifying grief: that for a best friend. It was shocking, painful and incredibly lonely. Friends know you differently from family, but where do you sit in the pecking order? Below immediate family, ahead of a cousin, behind a current workmate? Our lives began together and the sheer amount of time spent with each other – the years of conversations and experiences, silly and serious – gave our friendship depth and meaning. Chrissy knew me in a way nobody else ever will. She saw me through experiences no one else ever knew about, not even my family. So why is it so hard to talk about the specific pain of losing a friend? Though we'd spent most of our childhood and early 20s together, Chrissy and I diverged in our mid-20s when I moved cities and, eventually, countries, to America. But despite the distance, our friendship remained strong, rooted in a shared history. We were like branches on an old tree that had grown in and around each other. 'I've got a damned brain lesion,' Chrissy had messaged from Melbourne while I was on the runway at LAX in Los Angeles, about to fly home to New York after a raucous weekend celebrating a friend's birthday. 'It's happened so fast. I have to go straight into hospital to get it removed, so I don't know if it's straightforward and they just get it or if I need follow-up treatment,' she'd written. 'I just wanted to let you know the bad news rollercoaster is still taking rides,' she'd added, referring to my wife, Mika, who'd been successfully treated for breast cancer a few years before. 'But they said it's in a good spot and they can access it, so I'm feeling OK.' I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me as the plane began taxiing down the runway. 'Sorry this is a message,' she'd ended, betraying a deeper anxiety. 'I reckon I'd cry too much if I called you.' Chrissy's initial surgery didn't go well; the surgeons couldn't get to all of the tumour and a leak on her brain left her in intensive care for weeks, with a drain in her skull. Friends sent voice messages and songs that reminded us of her. (Mine were Friday I'm in Love by the Cure, Modern Love by David Bowie and Eye of the Tiger by Survivor – she loved the Rocky movies.) Chrissy was diagnosed with stage 4 glioblastoma, which has a survival time of 12-18 months. When she was discharged from hospital after five horrific brain surgeries, she was given a brief respite before going straight into radiation and chemotherapy. Talking was hard, so we would message and she'd put on a brave face and say she was 'doing as best as I can be'. She made jokes about her 'crazy hair', half-shaved because of the drain in her head. She refused to cut it purely to annoy the people who kept asking why she didn't. The tumour ('the fucking toomer,' she called it, using a Schwarzenegger-Terminator accent, which made us laugh) was aggressive, but she remained optimistic. I flew to Australia to see her, catching a train from our home town to Melbourne where Chrissy lived with her British husband, Kev, and two teenage children. I looked out at the steel-grey skies and low winter sun reflecting off the paddocks, making them a deep golden as troops of kangaroos sat on their hind legs, affronted by the train speeding past. I held my overnight bag to my chest and thought about what I would say to her. Kev met me on the platform while Chrissy waited in the car. When she saw me, she got out slowly, laughing, before the tears came and I held her close to my chest. She felt so fragile, I had to swallow a sob. We went out for Vietnamese food and talked with Chrissy's kids about TikTok videos, the aerial silks classes her daughter was taking, and part-time jobs. I looked round the packed restaurant and wondered how people could sit there, eating, drinking and laughing, enjoying their lives, while my friend was dying. Chrissy is that friend who is embedded in every important memory in your life: she was there through primary school, high school and university – where we did the same degree and lived in each other's pockets. After graduation, when I did what every other wide-eyed Australian has done for generations before me and moved to London on a working holiday (and, yes, I did land in Earl's Court), Chrissy and Kev called in to see me while they backpacked around Europe. When I returned to Australia, Chrissy often took up residence on my old brown velvet couch, and when I moved to New York she made the trip across the Pacific a few times, most memorably for my wedding, where she commandeered the dancefloor until the early hours. But the most vivid memories I have are of early childhood. The slumber parties where we'd stay up watching The Empire Strikes Back in my parents' wood-panelled, brown-carpeted rumpus room, when we would cocoon ourselves in piles of blankets and pillows, waking up to morning cartoons and my mum cooking us bacon on toast with Worcestershire sauce. She was a natural at sport and every game we played felt like it had a grand slam title at stake. Her strength and agility, always so apparent, made it difficult to see her so depleted now. The endless cycles of radiation and chemotherapy she had undertaken in the hope they would extend her life were brutal. The steroids she was given to mitigate the side-effects of the 'chemo bombs' made her ravenous, but she found it hard to eat, and the keto diet the doctors put her on to slow the growth of the tumour made her excruciating headaches worse. She apologised for 'being a burden'. 'I don't want to die,' she said. We'd had intense conversations before – in the early 90s, she was among the few people I had told I was gay – but this one threw me. 'I know,' I said, adding hopefully but pitifully that the treatments 'could still shrink the tumour' and give her more time. We'd go for short walks on Williamstown Beach in Melbourne, where she had liked to swim and take her rescue dog, Polly, for a run. She took me to her favourite bakery – in a former textile factory – where I ordered the sausage roll and custard doughnut. She had the Reuben pastrami sandwich and key lime pie. 'I know you can probably get better ones in New York,' she'd said. 'But I love them.' She tired quickly and needed to lie down. I walked her home the few blocks from where we had eaten lunch; the unsaid hanging in the air between us that she couldn't go anywhere alone because her balance was affected by the tumour and she could fall or, worse, have a seizure. She hated being dependent on anyone. 'This fucking toomer,' she said, trying to smile as we walked slowly along her street in the bright winter sun. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion I never had to question the strength of our bond or what it meant to my life. But when Chrissy became ill, people seemed to either interrogate me about how deep our friendship really was or avoid the situation – I even felt a vibe from some of, 'Why are you making such a meal of this?' Some friendships were damaged. When I told one friend of 20-plus years I was flying home to Australia to see Chrissy as she was dying, he said, 'Jesus, I'm so sorry,' before moving on to tell me about some dramas he was having at work. He never asked me about it again. A colleague spoke about the death of a friend's father. 'He's had to fly home – it's your worst nightmare,' she said after I'd returned to New York from seeing Chrissy for the last time. When I got back to work, my boss never mentioned it and we just carried on as normal, as if my month off had been a jolly holiday. Some people asked about Chrissy once, and you could almost hear the sigh of relief vibrating through subsequent conversations when they could go back to talking about holidays, parties, work. Some friends, at least, were honest. 'I'm sorry. I've wanted to message,' a good friend who'd known Chrissy in our early 20s texted. 'But I didn't know what to say.' I rang a close friend of 15 years to let her know that there was a possibility I might have to fly back to Australia and not be in New York to help her through a medical procedure, suggesting she put a Plan B in place, in case I had to leave quickly. 'Of course you're backing out,' she said, clearly annoyed, which left me speechless. 'Why aren't you there already? She's still alive,' she said, which felt very much like an accusation. 'Why would you wait for the funeral?' When I said goodbye to Chrissy in Melbourne (we'd cried and said we'd 'see each other soon'), I had known I likely wouldn't see her again, but I'd made peace with that decision. I also knew I would go back for her funeral – not just to celebrate her, but for myself as well, and to be among friends and family. But my friend's comments made me doubt myself. What is the appropriate course of action to take when your oldest friend is dying in another country? Is one trip enough? Should I have gone five times? Should I have moved back to Australia? Even if I'd wanted to go and sit by her bedside for a month, there were barriers that stopped me from doing what I wanted to do because when you work on contract as a journalist, a dying friend doesn't merit the involvement of HR. There was also the crushing sense brought on by some of those around me that a dying friend didn't warrant the grief I felt. 'We have socially constructed templates for losing a parent, a child or a life partner, but the lack of social templates in the death of a friend plays a big role in isolating people in their grief,' says Rebecca Sokoll, a New York-based relationship therapist. 'If I tell someone my mother has died, they immediately reflect back their own understanding over a type of suffering that is established. The response to the loss of a friend is not established, and that requires people to listen and to understand, and few people are going to truly know they need to do that.' In hindsight, I think I craved some kind of acknowledgment over what I was losing; that I shouldn't need to explain or justify my grief around a 50-year friendship and how devastating that was. Two days before Chrissy died, I spoke to her on FaceTime. By then, she was mostly asleep but, in a kind and moving gesture, Kev put headphones on her so I could speak to her in private. I told her I loved her; what she and our friendship had meant to me. She frowned slightly and moved her mouth as if to speak, before exhaling deeply and going further into sleep. The memories of our friendship had been ours and now they were mine. I promised her I would remember all the stories for her kids. Kev kissed her hands for me – hands I would know anywhere – and I said goodbye, almost a year to the day since she had been diagnosed. Mika, a teacher, asked for bereavement leave to fly with me to Melbourne, which was denied because Chrissy did not qualify as a direct family member. The New York City Department of Education gives its employees four days off for deaths in the immediate family, plus an extra travel day if the funeral is outside New York. Mika, who had her own special relationship to Chrissy over the 15 years she'd known her, watched online as I gave a eulogy. I still talk to Chrissy (God, she loved a chat!) but the loneliness I've felt since her death has been painful. Her absence has made me question other relationships in my life. Some I once considered strong have fallen by the wayside. Others have been reignited and some have flourished unexpectedly. None of us will escape the devastation of losing a close friend. I can only say, cherish those relationships, nurture them and protect them. I thought Chrissy and I would know each other when we were 80, still talking about music and still eating strawberry doughnuts, but she wasn't afforded the privilege of growing old. A couple of weeks after her funeral, I went for a swim at Ocean Grove, a rugged beach on the Victorian coastline near my parents' house, a haven for surfers, seals and, occasionally, great whites. It was an uncommonly hot November day but the ocean still had a chill, the waves were enormous and the current was strong. I inched in deeper and deeper, sucking in air from the chill, hopping from one foot to the other as the cold of the ocean rode its way up my back. Beside me, a group of teenage girls had run full throttle into the water, screaming and laughing at the shock of the cold. Without fear, they had dived straight under the waves, emerging still laughing and clinging to each other. When did I get so timid? Once – like those girls – I would've gone straight under, brazen and unafraid. On the horizon, a monster set of waves started to rise, rolling in so quickly that I had a second to decide – go over or go under. There was only one course of action. I breathed deeply and went down into the water as low as I could go, fighting against the washing machine-like cycle of the ocean, which thrashed me around for what felt like an eternity. I knew I couldn't resurface because there'd be another wave right behind it before the swell could reset and calm itself ahead of the next rising onslaught. I held on until my lungs felt as if they were about to burst when, finally, the endless churn started to subside, and I could come up for air.
BBC News
9 hours ago
- BBC News
Hundreds of farmers to open gates for Open Farm Sunday
Hundreds of farmers will open their gates this weekend as part of an event designed to showcase the world of farming to the wider public. Open Farm Sunday is organised by Linking Environment And Farming (LEAF), a charity that promotes more sustainable farming to create a resilient food system for future its 19th year approaches, those in the industry say they feel there is a "disconnect between people and food".Annabel Shackleton, LEAF's Open Farm Sunday manager, said the event was all about "breaking down barriers, challenging outdated perceptions, and showing everyone just how innovative, diverse and forward-looking farming really is". David Jones, project manager at The Woodlands Farm Trust in Welling, said the open day shows "how farming plays a part in sustainable living".He said: "There was some recent research about how disconnected young people were with agriculture so I think it's important that they have the opportunity to come out and see for themselves what happens on a day-to-day basis on the farm." This research, based on a survey of 2,019 respondents, found that just one in five people believe farming is essential to tackling climate were also some interesting findings among the Gen Z demographic 90% of those adults agree that farming is relevant to their lives, 37% of this group believe you have to be born into a farming family to work in the industry - a belief that is considered works at Chandler and Dunn farm in Canterbury in Kent, which has been run by his family for over 200 said: "I have a real enjoyment when the public come on to the farm and connect with nature and embrace the countryside."He added it was a "real privilege to share farm with local community". Charlie hopes the open day will inspire the next generation of added: "We have a family farm here and are keen to have youngsters who want to learn."It's a free day with tractor and trailer rides."Any food and drink and profits raised will go to the local charity Scope."
The Herald Scotland
10 hours ago
- The Herald Scotland
'Hard work and dedication' at the heart of Edinburgh schools
A softball to kick things off: what are the strengths of city education? How are schools able to use the unique resources available in Edinburgh– the universities and colleges, the proximity of the Scottish Government, major industry partners–to expand offerings to students? We are incredibly lucky to have the rich cultural and historical resources that Edinburgh offers available to us and encourage our primary and secondary schools to access the unique learning experiences the city provides, to support the school curriculum. Schools are actively encouraged to make the most of the unique resources on their doorsteps, including visits to the various museums and galleries. Schools also make the most of Edinburgh being a festival city, with many or our young people experiencing visits to world-class performances and experiences. Edinburgh is home to many prominent education institutions, and we partner with a number of the cities Universities and Colleges to support our learners in both their everyday learning and through a number of partnerships that provide our young people with access to college courses and career opportunities. What is the biggest challenge facing Edinburgh schools? In line with the national trend in this area, we are seeing a growth in need across our schools and settings. We support staff in our schools to address the ever-changing societal challenges that teachers and school staff encounter, including poverty, mental health, the role of technology, and meeting the individual needs of learners. In tandem with this, we are continuing to improve outcomes for learners across the board, and this remains a key priority for us. We want to sustain the positive improvements we're already seeing across our schools and settings. How is the city addressing capacity in its schools, and how will new build and expansion projects affect students and families? We have a team of officers who monitor and review capacity in our schools, with primary and secondary school roll projections reported every year to the Education, Children and Families Committee. This includes details of any school building projects underway or being planned to manage any projected increases in capacity. At present we don't have concerns around capacity in our primary or secondary schools. Compared to 2024, there has been no significant change to the number of s1 or p1 learners registered to start inAugust 2025. In our primary schools, our school rolls projections suggest a gradual citywide decline in school rolls until around 2029, this is consistent with birth rate data for the city. At some schools where capacity issues have been highlighted, we have renewal works underway or planned including at Newcraighall and Frogston primary schools. Some of our secondary schools are already undergoing major renewal projects including Wester Hailes High School, Liberton High School and Trinity Academy. A brand new Currie High School is nearing completion. Officers are monitoring the impact that the change in VAT status of independent schools might have, but the data currently available does not suggest that a high number of pupils have or intend to transfer from the independent sector to the Council's schools. The attainment gap is a major policy talking point nationally, and I know that local authorities are taking steps to address inequalities locally. What is your assessment of the attainment gap in Edinburgh schools and how are you working to close it? We are committed to offering the highest quality education, starting in our early years settings and continuing through the Broad General Education curriculum phase, which runs from early years at age 3 through primary school and up to S3, and into the senior phase. From the very start of a child's education, we aim to develop successful learners, confident individuals, responsible citizens, and effective contributors We are focused on narrowing the gap between the most and least disadvantaged learners in Edinburgh and recent figures show that the attainment of leavers has improved across most measures in the national benchmarks. One of the ways we are narrowing the gap in Edinburgh is through our curriculum pathways work, which, in line with themes emerging from various education reform papers, is to provide inclusive, relevant and equitable learning opportunities using a place-based approach. We are doing this by offering learners the opportunity to experience a varied, dynamic, and engaging school day, where they see the relevance of their learning in relation to real-world career opportunities. We are optimising partnerships with colleges, universities and local employers to offer a curriculum that meets the needs of learners today. This includes our roofing, construction and stone carving pathway designed for senior phase learners to develop workplace-ready skills, enabling them to gain qualifications and to make informed choices about life beyond school. Read more Analysis of recent SQA exam results has shown a narrowing in the attainment gap between the most and least advantaged pupils in our schools. We also saw the number of passes in National Progression Awards increased by 17%, the measures of performance for pupils taking National 5 and Higher courses either increased or maintained when compared to both 2023 and 2019 performance. In the Broad General Education, the performance in numeracy is improving and the gap is narrowing, in literacy, the performance is in line with that of 2022-23. This is all down to the hard work of our young people, the dedication of our staff, and the support of parents and carers. Edinburgh is home to the first school to implement a strict mobile phone policy. Do you support the approach and have any plans or guidance for other headteachers across the city? I am pleased that two Edinburgh secondary schools have led the way in introducing a fully mobile-phone-free school environment. Research shows the positive impact that a phone-free environment can have on children and young people and the learning environment, both in the immediate and medium to long term. It has been widely reported that a reduction in phone use for a young person can have a positive impact on mental health and wellbeing, in school and at home, and encourages a healthier approach to managing screen time. With mobile phones in classroom settings increasingly competing with teachers for the attention of learners, restricting access to mobile phones during the school day is only a positive step forward. Scottish Government guidance empowers head teachers to make a decision on the mobile phone policy that is right for their learners and their school community as a whole. Two Edinburgh secondary schools, Portobello and Queensferry High Schools, are a few weeks into piloting a phone-free approach to the school, with young people required to store their phone in a lockable pouch during the school day. The leadership teams at these two high school made the decision to pilot this policy following extensive research and engagement with their school community, with research showing that families in their communities broadly welcomed the introduction of this policy. Both schools will pilot and evaluate over the next two-year period. Implementing a pilot of this nature is requires work and not every school in the city is in a position to do this. The market for private schools in Edinburgh is famous, and from the outside, education is often seen through the lens of how many young people attend private schools in the city. What is the impact of this on City schools? Edinburgh is unique, with a higher proportion of children attending an independent school compared to other areas. From the initial point of hearing about the introduction of VAT on independent school fees, we have been strategically planning for any potential impact, including monitoring enquiries and applications for places in our schools. We have always and continue to work closely with colleagues in the private school sector in Edinburgh. We have capacity in our primary and secondary schools to accommodate learners in Edinburgh moving from the independent sector into our schools. We are ready to give all children and young people living in Edinburgh the very best start in life, regardless of where a child's school journey may have started or what part of their school journey they are approach to placing requests remains the same as it was before. We will continue to apply existing placing policy to all placing requests.
