As I sit in my backyard in Abuja, Nigeria, looking out at the open landscape around me, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of loss. The rolling hills that were once vibrant with a rich carpet of wild ferns, daisies, lupines and goldenrods are now dotted with invasive species that have choked out the native flora. The river that once flowed crystal clear, reflecting the azure sky and teeming with darting fish and dragonflies gliding gracefully by, is now muddied by sediments and pollutants from nearby construction and agriculture.
This feeling of loss and dislocation, a combination of nostalgia for what once was and a profound sadness for what has been irretrievably altered, has a name: solastalgia. Coined by philosopher Glenn Albrecht, solastalgia describes the emotional distress caused by environmental change, particularly when it affects the place we call home. Essentially, it is the feeling of being homesick while at home.
But despite this feeling, there is hope. Solastalgia has inspired me. It serves as a strong motivator to push for the protection and rejuvenation of our environments. It reminds us of the intrinsic value of nature and the importance of stewardship. When we acknowledge our grief and channel it into positive action, we empower ourselves to fight for the landscapes we love and to safeguard biodiversity, transforming our sorrow into tangible steps for change. Our bonds with nature are resilient and worth nurturing for future generations.
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Growing up, I spent countless hours in the woods behind my childhood home surrounded by majestic oaks with their sprawling canopies, towering pines reaching for the heavens and graceful willows swaying gently by the river’s edge. I would often find myself in the embrace of the ancient pines, their earthly scent grounding me as I wandered beneath their branches. The woods were my sanctuary. Each tree had a story, a memory attached to it. I remember the laughter of friends echoing throughout the canopy as we played hide and seek, the sun filtering through the foliage, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, and the quiet moments spent sitting up against a tree trunk, feeling at one with nature.
When I returned home after five years in college, I was struck by how much the ecosystem had changed. As climate change accelerates and development encroaches on familiar spaces, I find myself grappling with an unsettling reality. The vibrant tapestry of my childhood is unraveling. In its place lies a landscape marked by change—change that feels invasive and alien.
Today, in my backyard, I find myself thinking about the day years ago that I encountered a friendly female waterbuck while wandering through the lush Stubbs Creeks forests. The forest was alive with playful squirrels, the occasional fox darting through the underbrush. Chirping robins and warblers and buzzing insects created a symphony that felt like home. Now I realize many of those trees had been felled, replaced by sterile housing developments devoid of the life and character.
Nestled within this vibrant landscape was Ibeno Lake. I had taken pride in its clear water, where families of ducks and geese often swam gracefully by. The lake was joy: a place for summer swims, lazy afternoons spent floating on rafts, evenings filled with the laughter of friends gathered around bonfires. It was here that I learned the rhythm of nature. Now I watch in dismay as algae blooms choke the water, turning it murky green.
The emotional turmoil is not mine alone; it resonates with many people who are witnessing similar transformations in their environments. The deep sense of solastalgia manifests as a grief that is often overlooked—a sorrow not for a person but for a place. It is a longing for a connection that feels increasingly out of reach, as the landscapes we once knew and loved are irrevocably altered.
Every time I see a familiar landmark disappear or a beloved habitat shrink, I can't help but reflect on how a once-vivid tapestry of biodiversity is transforming into a homogenized landscape. This transformation induces a precarious tipping of nature’s equilibrium. Climate change is a fundamental cause, but pollution from nearby industrial complexes has contributed significantly to the degradation of the natural environment. Deforestation spurred by the relentless pursuit of urban development continues to erode extensive forestland, and unsustainable resource extraction has stripped the land of its natural resources, leaving scars that are slow to heal.
I cannot stand idly by. I began to educate myself about conservation efforts shortly after I returned home, driven by the changes I witnessed in my environment. I have joined local conservation groups, participating in tree-planting initiatives to restore native species and combat the invasion of non–native flora. I have also engaged in cleanup efforts at Ibeno Lake, rallying friends and family to help remove litter and debris from the shorelines, to help restore its natural beauty. Education is vital, too; I strive to raise awareness in my community about the importance of preserving our natural spaces.
In my conversations with family and friends, I find that solastalgia is a common experience. We often reminisce about the landscapes of our youth, remembering the places that influenced our lives. There is a somber tone in these discussions, as we realize that our memories are becoming more associated with what we are losing rather than what is left. The world is changing, and as a result, so are we.
As I reflect on my journey with solastalgia, I realize that it is not merely a feeling of loss but also a call to reconnect. It urges us to find new ways to engage with our surroundings, to create memories in the face of change and to honor the beauty that still exists, despite the challenges. Although the landscape may shift, our appreciation for it can remain steadfast, reminding us that our bond with nature is resilient and worth nurturing for future generations.
In an era where environmental challenges loom large, solastalgia serves as a poignant reminder of the stakes involved. It is an invitation to cherish our homes, to advocate for their protection and to cultivate a deep-rooted sense of responsibility for the world we inhabit. As we confront the realities of a changing climate, may we find solace not only in our memories but also in our collective capacity to create a thriving future for both people and the planet, in a harmonious balance that nurtures the vibrant tapestry of life.
This is an opinion article; the views expressed by the author are not necessarily those of Scientific American.