‘This One Wild and Precious Life’ by Sarah Wilson will make you angry – in a good way

In Sarah Wilson’s profound and confronting book, This One Wild and Precious Life, she tackles the elephant in the room. Or, as she calls it, the elephant in our laps. 

Climate change. 

My friends and I talk about it in hushed and bewildered tones. We exchange recycling tips and follow zero-waste blogs. But we’re also quick to reassure each other when it all feels too hard – which is most days. 

“You’re doing the best you can,” we say, knowing this is both true and untrue at the same time. Because how do you fix a broken system from within? How do you become an eco-warrior when you’re on a hamster wheel that’s inherently unsustainable? How do you transform your lifestyle when you have responsibilities – mouths to feed, bills to pay, jobs to attend?

One of the things Wilson urges us to do is start where we are. To take one step at a time. This is what I’ve been doing since I finished her book in late 2020. I use cloth nappies, avoid single-use plastic, always remember my reusable coffee cup. But in the grand scheme of things, these humble efforts are but a drop in the ocean. Yes, I must continue. No, this isn’t enough.

Which brings me to anger. 

This book rattled me in a way that few books have. There’s a shameful part of me that dislikes Wilson for shoving the climate crisis under my nose in a way that’s impossible to ignore. I was doing quite well at distracting myself from the issue before this book came along, thank you very much! 

Anger is an uncomfortable emotion – scary, even. But Wilson encourages us to embrace it. We’re supposed to feel angry about the climate crisis. Life as we know it is in a terrifyingly precarious situation: this is meant to be enraging. 

Instead, we feel numb. We read about climate catastrophes, we acknowledge the data, we feel a flicker of fear roll through our bodies, and then we reach for the nearest distraction – usually in the form of some kind of digital device. Then we go about our days. Because it all feels too big, too insane. 

“It’s an evolutionary response to shut down and go numb like this,” Wilson writes. “When we can’t fight or flee from a horrible threat, we lie down and play dead – we freeze.”

Anger is a good thing

Wilson reminded me that anger is a good thing – but only if we channel our rage in the right direction. Too often, we hurl anger at ourselves (for not being good enough), at our neighbours (for not doing as much as they ‘should’), and at vague powers (the ‘establishment’, ‘society-at-large’).

Getting angry at ourselves and each other is a waste of our precious energy. And while governments are a much better place to direct our rage, we must do so in a way they will listen – by marching, signing petitions, and voting. Not just engaging in political banter around the dinner table. 

There are also a few obvious issues we can – and should – feel extremely angry towards. Fossil fuels. Fast fashion. Tax evasion. Just to name a few. And, according to Wilson, neoliberal capitalism. 

Below is one of my favourite – though gut-wrenching – sections of the book. 

“Who’s meant to fix this? Ah, well, according to the neoliberal individualistic model, the answer to that one, comrades, is the individual – you and me. Having got rid of the moral umpires, the neoliberal system has left the gargantuan role of navigating these kinds of mammoth quandaries squarely on our shoulders. We are expected – as individuals – to do the job that massive institutions used to do. All while trying to keep roofs over heads and meals on tables and coping with being human. Oh, and dealing with the overwhelm, guilt and blame. This is despairingly, panic-raisingly too much. Right? I’ve fallen for this ‘we’re to blame’ mindset. Take my takeaway coffee cup rage. I’ve let myself be convinced that we – the consumers – are responsible for solving the climate emergency by recycling, and using reusable cups, when 71 per cent of carbon emissions are contributed by 100 corporations, and governments are failing to provide infrastructure (like building large-scale recycling facilities) to support our various earnest efforts.”

Or, perhaps you’d enjoy the short version: “How do a bunch of isolated, competing individuals navigate such a collective clusterfuck?”

And that is ultimately the question Wilson tries to answer in her book. Once she’s got you feeling suitably pissed off about the state of our world, she explores ways we can all engage with the climate emergency without becoming numb and tapping out. 

Though I should note, if you’re looking for simple actions you can take to come out on the ‘right’ side of this fight, look again. Wilson calls this book “a soul’s journey”. She’s inviting us to go deep, think big, and open our minds and hearts to a new way of being. And getting angry is a good place to start. 

Anger begets action

Rage can be a magnificent force for good in the world. Wilson reframes anger beautifully.

“The word courage quite literally breaks down to ‘rage’ of the ‘heart’ (coeur in French),” she writes.

“A raging heart brings us the courage to do what is required.”

I want to write that sentence again as I believe it’s one of the most quietly powerful phrases in the entire book.

“A raging heart brings us the courage to do what is required.” 

Yes. Of course.

The challenge is staying angry without burning out, going numb, collapsing into overwhelm, or even just getting distracted. (Wilson describes this as the “fear-guilt-anger-despair-overwhelm cycle”). 

Some days I feel white-hot rage about the climate emergency – and I channel that rage into finding petitions to sign or looking for opportunities to lead a more sustainable lifestyle. Other days I’m completely absorbed by something on Netflix or scrolling through Instagram. That’s not to say these things are bad – escapism can be wonderful – but the trick is not getting stuck in fantasy-land for too long. 

We have to stay angry enough to remain engaged, but joyful enough to remain hopeful. To do that, Wilson says we must practice living at “our edge” – as often as possible. 

Transformation happens at “our edge”

Of all the techniques Wilson shares in her book, her concept of “our edge” has stuck with me the most.

“Our edge is when we get jolted out of acedia – our collective asleepness – and pushed into bigness.”

She goes on to list examples: parenting, sickness, near-death experiences, war. Global pandemics!

“The edge is where the elements knock you around, where you’re battered by the winds of truth. But it’s out at the edge you are also forced to flex and fend. You have all your faculties on, you are alert… It’s out at the edge that you come fully alive. You experience the sharp air, the harsh light, you see and smell and feel everything. It’s not easy or comfortable, but it’s definitely alive. And it’s definitely where the truly big, noble, creative and meaningful stuff in life tends to happen for humans.”

Now, Wilson isn’t suggesting we all need to get sick or risk our lives to go to our edge. Nor is she trying to glamorise suffering. I’ll tell you about a time when I went to my edge recently, and maybe you’ll see what she means.

My ‘edgy’ car-less experiment

After finishing This One Wild and Precious Life, I decided I wanted to sell my car. We’re a two-car family. My husband works across the city – selling his car isn’t an option. But I realised nearly everything I needed was within walking distance. Shops, beaches, parks, my daughter’s kindergarten, even a few friends. I figured I could just walk everywhere during the week and then use my husband’s car on the weekends to venture further afield.

I was thrilled about my idea. I was going to become one of those radiant eco-mums who walked everywhere and therefore glowed. My children would be calm and centred after spending so much time in nature. Nothing could deter me – rain, hail, or shine, I was going to become at one with the weather through daily pilgrimages across my community. People would ask me how I do it, and I’d respond oh, it’s so easy! I’d start a car-less revolution of walking mums pushing prams or riding bikes with kids on the back, hair flowing in the wind. It was going to be GLORIOUS.

My husband and I agreed if I didn’t use the car for three months, we would sell it. I remember smirking: just you watch me. You’re looking at an eco-goddess! Nothing will stop me! 

Enter: rain. 

On day two of my experiment, it was pouring. I’d barely slept the night before – my son was only a few months old – and I was exhausted. But, I put the rain cover on the double buggy, donned a raincoat, and ventured out into the elements.

The walk to my daughter’s preschool is about 25 minutes each way. On the way there, I was optimistic. Maybe the rain will stop? Maybe this will be fun? I arrived drenched, but the kids were dry. I kissed Zoey goodbye, made sure Finn was still cozy and warm, and headed for home: determined, but less joyful. 

The rain worsened. As I trudged home, feet soaked and hands numb, I began to feel angry. I was angry that, at just a few months postpartum, I was feeling so anxious about the climate crisis that I was risking my health – and using up my very limited energy – in cold, wet weather. I was angry that I cared so much and yet felt so powerless. I was angry that I was going to ‘fail’ in my pledge to sell our car, because if I couldn’t cope with a summer storm, how would I fare in the depths of winter? 

I had found my edge. 

That simple act of pushing a pram in torrential rain took me right to my edge. It challenged me on a physical and soul level, even though it was so simple and safe. I don’t have to go bungy jumping or ocean swimming to get out of my comfort zone. I just have to walk in the rain. And I think that might be the point of Wilson’s book: that we’ve become so comfortable, we risk sleeping through the climate crisis. When I’m warm and cocooned in my car, I’m not angry at fossil fuel companies – indeed, I’m rather grateful for the experience they provide. So I stay quiet and comfortable and sleepy – and do zilch about climate change. 

No, I didn’t sell my car. But, after that walk, I realised the true power of going to my edge isn’t about having life-changing, adrenaline-filled experiences (though that can be a bonus). It’s about getting uncomfortable enough to get angry, and to channel that anger towards activism (in this particular case, I donated to 350 Aotearoa). We should all be pissed off about a lot of things – but unless we get uncomfortable on a regular basis, how do we muster the effort to care?

Now, every time I do something mildly uncomfortable – like scrub poop off cloth nappies – I remember that trying to live an eco-friendly lifestyle isn’t about ‘ticking boxes’ or ‘getting it right’ – it’s about staying engaged. Of course, I’d rather choose ease over effort – we’ve all been conditioned to choose ease, after all – but then complacency kicks in. And if I’m complacent, I don’t read about climate policies, donate to activist groups, remember my Keep Cup, or care about how much plastic I bring home from the supermarket. 

“Care begets care”

This is another one of Wilson’s pearls of wisdom, and the last one I’ll share with you for now. “Care begets care”. One small thing leads to another. It’s worth dipping your toes in this murky, deep pond. We don’t have to understand how we’re going to clean up this mess, but we do have to be willing to try. 

Let me be clear: I’m at the very beginning of my ‘eco journey’. I get a lot of things ‘wrong’. I drive a big SUV, my kids play with plastic toys, I waste too much food – the list goes on. I’m part of a generation where it’s often cheaper to buy new things than to fix anything broken. Just last year, I threw out some bath toys because they were mouldy. My mother-in-law fetched them from the bin and taught me how to clean them properly. This is how tapped out of the climate crisis I used to be.

This One Wild and Precious Life changed my perspective and gave me strategies for staying engaged without burning out. I’m in awe of Wilson’s work in the world and her unwavering commitment to humanity. Yes, there’s still a small part of me that wants to find flaws in her arguments so I can sweep her words under the rug – especially on days when it all feels too much. But then I remember that it IS all too much, and we’re meant to acknowledge this, often. Because diving straight into the too-much-ness – going to our edge – is exactly what needs to be done.