No Neutral Ground: Gender, Climate, and the Cost of Complicity
by Amelio Collins
The world held its breath in 2018 marked by intensifying climate reports, rising global temperatures, and a growing sense that time was running out. That same year, the release of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report warning of the severe consequences of surpassing 1.5°C of warming signaled a turning point in global climate awareness. Public discourse began to shift from distant concern to urgent crisis, as scientists, activists, and policymakers grappled with the reality that immediate action was necessary. Around the same time, a young, eminent activist, Greta Thunberg, emerged as a powerful voice and catalyzed a global youth movement through reframing climate change as not only an environmental issue, but a moral and generational one.
In the face of these mounting challenges, humanity was forced to confront a difficult question: would we continue down this destructive path or finally take responsibility for the future of our planet? I remember holding my breath the first time I heard Greta Thunberg speak out against how we were treating our planet. She was confident, urgent, and quickly became a role model for my generation, Gen Z. The video I was watching in my middle school class about Greta Thunberg speaking out against climate change ended, yet I still held my breath. How in the world are we going to fix this? I wondered.
I was eleven years old when I first learned about environmental sustainability. At the same time, I was also beginning to question my gender and sexual orientation in a world that already felt fragile and uncertain. I worried about the future, the future of our planet and the future of my identity, since it was unknown whether either would be taken seriously or disregarded as something temporary, inconvenient, or unworthy of real attention. Even at such a young age, I knew that both the Earth and my identity—my sense of self—deserved care, protection, and the chance to grow without apology.
At that age, what I did not yet have was the language to understand that these anxieties are not separate. The climate crisis, the politics of gender, and the economic systems shaping our lives were already deeply entangled. What felt personal—fear, uncertainty, and the search for belonging—was already political, shaped by decisions made far beyond my classroom walls.
Today, the overlap of climate policy, economic inequality, and identity-based politics is impossible to ignore. Climate change is no longer treated as a shared moral responsibility, but as a political fault line. Scientific evidence—from rising global temperatures to accelerating biodiversity loss—directly challenges industries built on fossil fuels, mass extraction, and unchecked consumption. Accepting these findings would require a complete structural economic change, threatening the power and profit of those who benefit most from the current system. As a result, climate science is often debated, delayed, or dismissed—not because it lacks credibility, but because it disrupts entrenched economic interests.
At the same time, gender—particularly the lives of transgender and gender- nonconforming people—has become a central battleground in political discourse. In many cases, anti-transgender rhetoric functions as a distraction, redirecting public attention away from widening economic inequality and systemic failures. By framing marginalized identities as threats, political leaders can mobilize fear, consolidate power, and avoid accountability for economic injustice.
This creates a dangerous dynamic: advocating for both environmental protections and gender-affirming care becomes politicized as radical or destabilizing, even though both are rooted in dignity, survival, and human rights. In both cases, urgent realities are reduced to talking points—the Earth becomes something to exploit or defend, and transgender lives are flattened into ideological tools rather than recognized as human lives deserving of care. These debates do not unfold in isolation. They are rooted in economic systems that reward extraction, consumption, and endless growth, even when the costs are borne by the most vulnerable. The same systems that treat the planet as disposable also treat marginalized people as expendable.
And yet, within this political climate, there are signs of social flourishing—quiet and determined moments where people resist oppression and choose care instead. Across the globe, women and transgender leaders were and continue to be at the forefront of climate justice movements. Activists such as Xiuhtezcatl Martinez have taken direct political action—speaking before the United Nations and participating in youth-led climate litigation—to challenge government inaction, while figures like Wyn Wiley have created initiatives like the Outdoorist Oath, using performance and community engagement to advocate for environmental protection and inclusivity. These fearless leaders set an example for others to build community centers, healthcare support, and faith-based initiatives that step in where governments fall short.
I remember pitching into these efforts as an adolescent. While reflecting on these times, I notice that the majority of those who were in charge were being oppressed in different ways due to their identities. But they stood together, no matter how different they were from one another, to create a holistic, healing, and safe community. These efforts remind us that politics is not only what happens in legislative chambers, but it also unfolds in our shared neighborhoods, sanctuaries, and acts of care and responsibility.
Faith traditions are sometimes co-opted by political ideologies that betray care for others and our planet. Faith and religion are not neutral in the political landscape and religious language is often wielded to resist women’s and transgender rights. This tension reveals how faith, like politics itself, can either reinforce harm or cultivate flourishing lives and communities. The question here is not whether faith belongs in public life, but which values it wants to uphold: fear or compassion, control or care. Faith builds a community where individual ethics are channeled into collective action. In my experience, faith has meant being part of a community that supports my right to explore belief on my own terms—whether individually or collectively—while still remaining accountable to others.
Looking back, I realize that the breath I held at eleven years old was not only fear. It was also anticipation. The questions I asked earlier are no longer simply how we will fix what is broken, but who gets to imagine the future and whose voices are trusted in shaping it. If we continue to treat gender, climate, faith, and the economy as separate issues, we miss how deeply they inform one another. But if we recognize their interconnectedness, we open the possibility for more equitable and compassionate ways of living together.
To name the personal as political is not to reduce experience to ideology, but to recognize that our lives unfold within systems that demand moral attention. Gender, climate, faith, and economy intersect not in theory, but within bodies, communities, and ecosystems. In a political climate that often encourages despair, social flourishing still emerges wherever people choose care over disposability. So perhaps, the most hopeful act is no longer holding our breath in fear but learning to breathe together. What we must do is recognize our shared vulnerability and claim our shared responsibility for the world still taking shape, and then choose, together, to shape it.
