Doomee, Baby! Same Doom, Better View.

When my mom was dying of cancer, we bought oodles of books, vitamins and magic elixirs hoping beyond hope that we could save her. It was too late. And we "knew" that. We just didn't want to know that.

We wasted so much time on "We're gonna beat this!" No one just came out and said, "You're dying."

I wish someone had been brave enough to say it. I wish I had been brave enough. I wish I had taken more time to just be with my mom. I wish I'd relaxed into fixing less, and loving more. So here it is:

We're dying. 

Don't forget to live.

We are in planetary hospice. And while things are gonna get worse before they get... much, much worse, I've accepted the honest truth. But I'm doing things differently this time.

Doomer, Meet Doomee.

Being a Doomee is different from being a Doomer. The key distinction lies not in our understanding of reality (both know WASF), but in our internal response to that understanding.

A Doomer mourns, maybe complains; a Doomee witnesses. A Doomer is crushed by potential loss; a Doomee accepts change and finds meaning in the journey, in present moment, even at the end.

Doomer: Recognizes the impending ecological and societal collapse, but remains trapped in anticipatory grief, emotional overwhelm, and justifiable pessimism. Doomer sees the reality of destruction but is immobilized by the weight of potential loss. Their melancholy isn't weakness or uncaring, but a deep ecological empathy.

Doomee: Accepts the inevitability of ecological and societal collapse, maintains inner peace, and transcends emotional reactivity. Doomee understand the profound transformation without being consumed by it, choosing presence, compassion, and connection in the face of radical change.

For us Doomees, "radical acceptance" is our fundamental stance. We recognize that our current planetary system is terminal. Like a loved one in the final stages of an irreversible illness, we are no longer seeking a cure. We are seeking presence.

F*ck You, Hope!

I feel ya. We've had ours crushed. We're weary of both prognosticators and the naively optimistic. I get it. Hope is a four letter word. But so is f-u-c-k, which is such a useful word. It could mean good, bad, funny or explanatory. So, so helpful.

For a Doomee, hope is recalibrated. We don't hope to save. We don't hope to stop. We don't even hope to slow it down. While we may hope for a speedy, painless end, there is more to it. We don't just hope; we try.

We try to:

• Minimize collective suffering

• Maintain capacity for compassion

• Create moments of connection

• Find joy in the midst of it all 

• Find beauty where we can, while we can 

• Support each other

• Listen attentively to what is coming rather than listening worriedly for what is coming 

Our connection extends beyond human boundaries. We expand our moral circle of consideration to include everyone travelling on this weary planet with us. We recognize the innocence of nonhuman animals, the interconnection of ecosystems, and our relationship with the intricate web of life that continues to pulse and transform around us.

A Doomee understands that our most profound act of resistance is not fighting, but loving. Not preventing, but being present. Not mourning, but connecting.

Our previous strategies—the frantic treatments, the desperate interventions, the endless vitamins of technological salvation—these are behind us. We understand now that some endings cannot be prevented. They can only be accompanied.

This is planetary hospice. Like any hospice, it's not a place for panic. It is a place for calm.

We're not passive. We're not resigned. We are actively choosing how we move into this nightmare. Our power lies not in fighting the inevitable, but in how we bear witness. How we love, how we help. How we minimize suffering. 

We are not victims. We are not saviors. We are companions. We are Doomees.