The plastic straw isn’t the problem
Our denial is
When I started Ugly Inside, I made a promise to myself: I would spend real time with Step One—the admission that we have a problem, and our efforts to solve it have only made it worse. We’re not bad people. We are good people with good intentions. But despite that, the evidence is clear: what we’re doing isn’t working.
I’ve focused on the sharp rise in greenhouse gas emissions (Chapter 1.0 Ugly Outside)—that despite our strategies, our innovations, our designs, our well-intentioned goals to reduce them … emissions have only continued to climb. But that’s just one part of the much bigger story.
I decidedly have not written about the many other ways we’re making the planet worse:
the rapid loss of biodiversity, the collapse of ecosystems, deforestation, desertification, ocean acidification, plastic pollution in our water and bodies, and the relentless extraction of resources that leaves land and communities stripped bare.
This information is everywhere. It’s in our newsfeeds, our social media scrolls, the pages of countless books, including mine, Fashion Fibers: Designing for Sustainability, published ten years ago. It’s been there all along—it’s not a secret.
People have been working tirelessly to scream it from the rooftops (shout out to Rafe Pomerance). It’s a story we’ve been warned about for decades—in the rhymes of The Lorax, in the absurd “satire” of the Idiocracy movie from twenty years ago—both have a lot of resemblance to today.
The more we look away, the more the algorithm tries to nudge us elsewhere and the more distant the truth becomes ….
But the truth is there. It sits quietly—lovingly—in the comfort of our hearts, waiting for us to be ready.
Because we are connected to the planet whether we choose to live that way or not. Every time we harm the planet, we harm ourselves. Humans, animals, plants, insects, oceans, forests and all living things: We live on the same planet, breathe the same air, drink the same water (all filtered through the miraculous hydrologic cycle!).
No matter how hard we try to disconnect or look away, we can’t outsmart the intelligence deep within each and every one of us: we are of this Earth, what we do to the Earth, we do to ourselves.
And the more we try to ignore it, the louder it becomes. That denial—the quiet ache we bury, the ugliness we’re afraid to face—is the root of the problem. We are solving the wrong problems, in the wrong ways, and we’re doing it faster than ever before.
I’ve invited myself back to Step 1
I’ve invited myself back to feel the root of the problem, to remember what it was like, so I could remember my experience, and remember what you may be feeling right now.
I’ve been here before; I know this terrain well. I know that the ugliness we carry—the denial, the fear, the disconnection—is not permanent. I want to invite you to stay. Even though it may be terrifying.
One time I went this deep—back in 2010—I found myself thoughtfully considering whether I wanted to stay alive. I was not depressed. I was not suicidal. In fact, I was quite joyful and happy. I had amazing people in my life. I was helping others navigate hard times. I felt a strong sense of purpose. I was studying something I loved.
And yet, beneath all of that, I was haunted by what felt like a certainty: that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough to make a meaningful difference. We were fucked.
I would find myself drifting into visions of a dark future—thick black smoke hanging in the air, visibility reduced to a single foot ahead. I’d be wearing glasses (because in the apocalypse, there are no contact lenses), and a gas mask strapped to my face, just trying to breathe, trying to survive a wretched reality of pain and suffering.
The second time this wave came, I had just had my daughter, Violet. I was in the thick of postpartum. And this time, it wasn’t just me in the gas mask—it was her too. I pictured her at thirteen, walking through a darkened world, torn t-shirt on her skin and bones. It was disgustingly hot. She was struggling to breathe, mask strapped to her face too. Obviously, our dogs were long gone—unable to survive the toxic air, or maybe just the absence of groomers in this new world.
The apocalypse was not a beautiful place in my mind. It looked like the hell those Catholics warned me I’d end up in—choked skies, scorched earth, a kind of silent suffering that seeped into everything. Except I’d be alive.
This is what fear does—it pulls us into the future, where everything is dark, distorted, and hard to see. It’s too hot. It’s flooded. It feels hopeless. It feels like death. Except we’d have to be alive and feel the pain.
Seeing tragedy in the future creates a standstill in the present. We freeze. We can’t move. (And in my case, the fear was so strong I nearly made myself permanently immobile.)
Fear does that. So then we give denial a shot.
Because when the future feels too dark to face, we look away. We tell ourselves it’s not that bad. That someone else will figure it out. That we’re doing our part. We have other things to manage.
We avoid looking because it feels too “doomsday,” too negative, too overwhelming. We tell ourselves we don’t have the tools to handle something this big. So we protect ourselves from the truth—not because we’re careless, but because we’re scared of what might happen if we really let it in.
In doing so, we begin to resemble abusers in denial—unable or unwilling to fully acknowledge the harm we’ve caused, even as the consequences multiply around us.
We decline the plastic straw at dinner. We bring our reusable tote to the grocery store. But the straw and the tote become stand-ins—tiny little gestures that placate our conscience. We feel like we’re doing something, yet they keep us from confronting the deeper truth.
When we have a situation that needs real action - both fear and denial are fatal. They are two sides to the same coin.
For you, I did it again. I went back in. I dove into the research. I re-read Losing Earth: A Recent History by Nathaniel Rich. And this time, instead of turning to fear or denial, I stayed with myself. I let the grief come. I felt the sadness, the mourning, the overwhelming loss of life.
But I didn’t do it alone. This time, I partnered my inner nature with outer nature. I went into the woods each day to feel the presence of the living world—to remember its vitality, its beauty, its persistence. The blackberries were just starting to grow!
And what came through, beneath all that sorrow, was something else: a deep, steady connection to life. To this planet. To my own humanity.
I came out the other side grounded and clear, with a stronger conviction than ever: there is a way through this. But only if we’re willing to face the truth.
Turns out, I’m strong.
And I believe you are too. I believe that we, as humans—beautiful, dynamic, adaptable creatures—do have the tools to cope with what we’ve created. But we have to be willing to look. To see. To feel.
There is no duality in reality
I’m not being negative. I’m telling the truth. We must move away from this habit of labeling everything as “good” or “bad,” “positive” or “negative,” or we’ll stay stuck in a binary that keeps us from seeing clearly. We will not get to the truth. And without the truth, we can’t solve the problem in front of us.
Life isn’t good or bad. It just is. Life is life. It holds death and birth, heartbreak and fried chicken, panic attacks and popsicles, deep love and mental illness, bloody noses and wild joy. It’s sweet and brutal and mundane and holy—all at once. It’s always been this way.
When we start to face the truth, the so-called “bad” we were always afraid of—becomes the real a gift. It is the door to freedom and the solution that works.
When ugliness becomes our greatest asset
People often wonder why alcoholics introduce themselves in meetings by saying, “I’m an alcoholic.” Why repeat that painful truth over and over?
Because it’s the truth. And that honesty is the door to freedom.
Admitting the truth, even if it once was the ugliest thing about ourselves, and reminding ourselves of it daily, is how we walk through that door. It’s the entry point to the real solution. Because without acknowledging the problem, there is no path forward. Nothing will work.
And through that solution, many have found a powerful, unexpected gift: their pain became the touchstone of their purpose. Their humanity. Their reason for being here. What once felt like shame became a source of deep connection and meaning—a life rooted in service, honesty, and the kind of riches that can’t be bought.
We have one more chapter to go that may not feel so pretty, and I ask that you stay with me.
In the meantime, pay attention to the words you use—both in your mind and in your conversations. Notice the tone. The story behind them. Instead of pushing your feelings away, try naming them. Speak honestly about how all of this makes you feel.
Then—step outside. Get yourself into nature. Let the beauty of the world remind you what’s worth protecting. Let it soften you.
Because the opposite of fear and denial is admission. And in admission, I’ve found a freedom I never imagined.
That’s where we’re headed.