Zero-Waste Lifestyles Aren’t the Answer to the Climate Crisis — Collective Action Is
We Are
My freshman year of college, I shifted my self-care routines to heavily incorporate baking soda. The nontoxic powder became much more to me than a rising agent in baked goods. I used it as toothpaste, which I kept in a small mason jar next to my bamboo toothbrush, as shampoo, and as a skin exfoliant. I mixed it with coconut oil and arrowroot powder to make my own deodorant. I rinsed the baking soda from my hair with apple cider vinegar, and became well acquainted with the tart smell that rose in the shower steam. I purchased the baking soda, along with everything else I could, from the bulk food section of a nearby co-op store.
These changes in my consumer behavior were inspired by a then new and seemingly radical lifestyle trend called zero-waste, which I had come across on my Instagram feed. A zero-waste lifestyle, I learned, meant cutting back on one’s production of trash, most notably single-use plastics, to as close to zero as possible in the name of environmental sustainability. This meant avoiding plastic, recycling all that could be recycled, and composting. Products purchased were to be as natural and additive-free as possible. Zero-waste bloggers provided recommendations on sustainable replacements for everyday items — mostly streamlined objects made of stainless steel and unvarnished wood — and showcased their products in perfect lines of glass jars.
My practice of the zero-waste lifestyle was in 2016, shortly after the election of former president Donald Trump, when I was living away from home for the first time. I was testing the borders of myself as an individual, and perhaps feeling especially sensitive to idealism within the utopian bubble of the college campus. I was very worried about the state of the environment and wasn’t sure where to place those feelings.
Zero-waste living provided a desirable sense of control in the face of my climate anxiety by way of a clear moral framework for daily life. I embraced the idea that waste was not inevitable and could be avoided by a prescribed set of rules based on a very specific set of principles — an outlook I now see as absurd strictness.
At first, the lifestyle felt genuinely freeing. Despite my greasy appearance, it forced me to reckon with the necessity of the things I bought. But that reckoning remained inward-facing, and confused with the aesthetics of the movement. The zero-waste blogs all had a clear, defined look that overlapped with the popular minimalist movement of the moment, which was similarly born out of a well-meaning dissatisfaction with capitalism yet became highly commodified. At the time, I felt deeply that I — and everyone else — could be the “right kind” of consumer by buying or not buying the right things. But I was ignorant of the larger powers at play. I focused on what felt and looked environmentally beneficial.
There were many surface-level unpleasantries associated with this lifestyle as I attempted to follow it. The rough grain of my bamboo toothbrush handle rubbed raw the corners of my mouth, and the baking soda wore at the enamel on my teeth, making them sensitive to cold drinks. My deodorant concoction failed to curb my BO. I purchased a stainless steel men’s safety razor, which bloggers claimed would both eliminate the need for wasteful disposable razors and help avoid razor burn. In truth, the new razor didn’t worsen the collection of small reddish bumps along my bikini line, but I did become prone to shaving off great slips of my leg skin like parmesan cheese. I avoided any foods that came in a package. I only purchased neutral-colored basics made of natural fibers that I told myself would go with everything, but instead made getting dressed joyless. I stopped thinking about my life in terms of interest and joy and thought about it in terms of waste.
Mistakes, unfortunately, produced waste. The glass jars I purchased everything in inevitably broke once in a while, forcing me to face the waste I produced. I once ordered a special compostable bamboo hair brush recommended by another zero-waste blogger. It arrived in a too-large box, cradled in a bed of styrofoam packing peanuts. I felt deeply ashamed.
Eventually, I also came to realize that the lifestyle did not address the larger impacts of my environmental footprint.The emissions from my cross-country flights home to San Diego exceeded the small decisions I made, like bringing my own containers on the flight and refusing any drinks and food that came in plastic.
It wasn’t until I was working in a restaurant that I realized the absurdity of the lifestyle I was attempting to uphold. Each day at the restaurant, we filled up bags and bags of trash — more in an hour than I was producing in months. So I let my self-observation loosen its grip. And with that loosening, I started to remember things that used to provide my messy life with joy, such as oil painting, a hobby I had written off for requiring too many paper towels, and getting dressed in the morning in more than neutral hues.
Individual action alone will not solve the climate crisis. For those of us privileged enough to experience climate change as a looming anxiety and not a present crisis, self-centered righteousness doesn’t help. Keeping silent about our feelings doesn’t either. I don’t have the answers, but I know they lie closer to collective action and community organizing that targets systemic change.
Perhaps, as author Rebecca Solnit put it, we can think of our over-reliance on fossil fuels and a sense of doom as markers of austerity, and reframe climate change as a way to seek a deeper sense of abundance: in reclaiming our time, our generosity, and our connection with others.
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This story was originally published on November 16, 2023, and was updated on May 1, 2024.
Originally Appeared on Teen Vogue
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