The Climate Crisis Is Scary. I Became a Parent Anyway.

In the fall of 2020, I was pregnant with my first child. It was several months into the pandemic and, at the time, my partner was finishing up his graduate degree in Alberta while I isolated in downtown Victoria, B.C., without any human contact beyond the students I taught over Zoom. With COVID lockdowns in full effect, socializing was nearly impossible, and indoor public spaces were off-limits. I was alone, scared and vulnerable. 

I was already nauseated from my pregnancy, and the wildfire smoke blowing in from California only made things worse. The 2020 wildfire season, dubbed “California’s fire hell” or “gigafire” by the media, was the state’s most devastating: it killed 31 people, levelled more than 10,000 buildings and scorched over 4.1 million acres. In Victoria, I was scared to even breathe, knowing that inhaling the smoke could increase my risk of gestational diabetes and harm my baby’s health. I constantly looked out my apartment window at the haze so thick I couldn’t see across the street, wondered if this was the future awaiting my budding family.

While I was excited to be creating a new life, I couldn’t shake the fear that our child would only ever know a world in crisis. My partner and I asked ourselves, What are the ethical implications of bringing new life into a planet on fire? More and more people are questioning the morality of having kids in such a fragile world. Some claim that it’s unfair to raise children in an inhospitable environment where they may face a lower quality of life. As a professor who studies environmental politics and policy at the University of Victoria, I’m all too familiar with the scary climate scenarios we face globally and locally: deforestation of  the Amazon rainforest, major sea-level rise due to melting ice caps across the Arctic and, ultimately, a billion people potentially displaced due to climate change by 2050. Up to 10 per cent of Earth’s species could vanish by 2100. Many of my students share their anxieties about raising children in such uncertain times. I understand their fears. Deciding to raise a child in the midst of a climate crisis is difficult. But I believe raising the next generation is crucial—because they can help change this terrifying status quo. Supporting them as a parent is critical to this shift.

In the spring of 2021, my son was finally born. That year, B.C. faced a triple threat of state of emergency declarations: a brutal heatwave in June that reached 49.6 C, wildfires that burnt the town of Lytton to the ground and devastating floods in November. To keep our little family cool during the sweltering heat dome, we made ice baths and closed blinds and windows. We gathered with friends, soaking our feet in kiddie pools. As I held my newborn, the reality of a warming planet hit home like never before, filling me with a deep sense of alarm for the world my child had just entered.

The early days of parenting are tough enough—but throw a climate crisis into this mix, and it’s a whole new challenge. I got a Baby’s Best Chance take-home manual when I left the hospital and had regular check-ins with public health nurses, but nobody offered advice about handling extreme heat with a newborn. My body was my son’s main source of sustenance, so I was nursing him multiple times a day. But I had no idea how much water it takes to keep up with both breastfeeding and a heat wave. Two months after he was born, despite constantly refilling my one-litre bottle, I struggled to drink enough water, and I couldn’t produce enough milk to keep him nourished. After a week of debilitating nausea, migraines and even vomiting on my son during a particularly scorching morning, my partner insisted I get help. That’s how I ended up in an emergency room, separated from my newborn for the first time since his birth. The nurses hooked me up to IV fluids—I was so dehydrated that they couldn’t find my veins.

That same summer, the deadly heat waves claimed 619 lives in the province. They exposed just how unprepared we were, as a society and as a family, to handle such extreme climate change. The experience pushed me to team up with researchers to investigate how pregnant and nursing bodies are impacted by intense heat; public health advice on managing these risks for nursing parents remains woefully scarce.

But kids can make a difference and shape outcomes. This begins with nurturing a deep sense of care and connection to our environments, both locally and globally. Watching my son interact with the environment around him—hugging every tree we pass, naming all kinds of sea creatures during our shoreline walks and giggling as the recycling truck passes—reminds me that parents and caregivers have the power to foster a deep connection to the environment in our children. This bond is critical to shifting perspectives. When we care about something, we are more inclined to protect it, raise awareness, speak out and create alternative possibilities. As I raise my son, I aim to instil this sense of cautious optimism.

Every day, I consider how to be an eco-conscious and responsible parent. In the documentary The Climate Baby Dilemma, science communicator Britt Wray reframes the conversation about whether or not to bring a child into this world and asks, What is required to parent well in the climate crisis? That question stays with me. My partner and I began with cloth diapers, but all the extra laundry soon became overwhelming. We used homemade baby wipes made from repurposed spit-up cloths, and I read my son books with themes that express care for the environment. His first colouring book was about sustainability and the impact of extraction. We bought a used stroller, shopped at second-hand children’s stores and mostly commute by electric bike, often riding past a nature sanctuary on our way to daycare. 

Of course there’s so much more that my partner and I would like to do to create a sustainable home. An electric vehicle would cut our dependence on fossil fuels, and a heat pump would offer far greater energy efficiency for heating and cooling. However, both come with hefty price tags that remain out of reach for many families, including ours. 

This past summer again shattered global heat records. And once again, I found myself watching wildfire smoke darken the skies—now with a toddler in tow, as fires burn in the nearby municipality of Sooke. But it doesn’t have to be this way. 

Instead of avoiding parenthood out of fear for the future, I vote to embrace the joy that comes with intergenerational connection and care as we interact more meaningfully with our environments. I encourage my students to think about whenever we undertake ecological restoration projects, like removing invasive species to create spaces where native plants can thrive. We do this in W̱SÁNEĆ territory with organizations like PEPAKEṈ HÁUTW̱, a non-profit that focuses on restoring native plant ecosystems.

There’s no simple answer to the question of whether to have a child amid a climate crisis. For me, responding to this moment as a parent goes far beyond lifestyle choices. Raising children can be a radical political act when we transform homes into environments of care and community-building. This is the best chance we have to collectively strive for climate solutions. I must. My son’s future depends on it. 

Sarah Marie Wiebe is the author of the upcoming book Hot Mess: Mothering Through a Code Red Climate Emergency.