A Little Help From My Friends: Inner Worlds of Climate Chaos

This is a companion piece to a short online "book" I wrote called Oh, Pooh, It's Over: A Story of Our Gentle End, a sensitive exploration of our existential climate crisis through the eyes and hearts of our little friends in the Hundred Acre Wood.

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When I was very young, my stuffed animals were more than just toys. They were confidants, friends, philosophers—emotional cartographers mapping the complex terrain of my inner world. Of course the inner lives, voices, and personalities of my stuffed friends were all my own inventions. They were a part of me. They are a part of me.

And that is where this story begins.

Like for most children, my stuffed animal friends were my first exploration of a profound psychological truth: that we are not singular, fixed beings, but dynamic landscapes of emotion and perspective, each containing multitudes of experiences, fears, hopes, and responses. 

We, all of us, are actors. And the world is our stage. People in social interactions behave like actors in a theater, constantly managing their self-presentation to create a desired impression on their audience. Each playing our roles, being who we want to be or think we are. 

But we are also, individually, an ensemble of characters. A play within a play. This is the inner world I’d like to explore together.

Each of us is made up of a complex mix of emotions, traits, thoughts, and experiences–often seemingly contradictory–which make up the richness and complexity of our individual identities.

In my well-loved circle of stuffed friends, Pooh Bear, steady and gentle, followed me everywhere. He was there when I cried, when I was sick, when I was happy. Always there. Steady. Chippy the squirrel would twitch with anxiety and bristle at perceived danger. Zip, the funny monkey, was okay being goofy and okay not knowing things. Woodsy Owl, wise teacher, would speak up for others when I pulled his string: "Help save animals and birds… Plant a tree, trees give oxygen… Give a hoot! Don't pollute!" Among the others there were key players and our audience. Everyone had a place. But each was a fragment of myself, a character waiting to step forward when the moment demanded.

Most of us are not in touch with these old friends and characters. And we may not recognize the complexity of our inner relationships when one steps forward out of turn or just in time to save us, or to embarrass us, or to speak up for us and for others, or to simply witness. 

But, recognize them or not, each of us is a complex jumble of friends moving through the world with creatures just like us, just as complex and confused.

You're OK. I'm OK.

To be clear. I'm not talking about pathology. There's a popular show called "Mr. Robot" wherein the main character, Elliot, battles with dissociative identity disorder springing from his psychological need to escape his painful childhood. He splits his inner worlds so deeply and profoundly that he cannot, at times, recognize the other parts of himself. "Mr. Robot" was relatable to its audience because it explored often ignored issues like social anxiety (have it), and depression (got it). Viewers and fans who struggled with their own mental health finally felt seen and heard.

But while "Mr. Robot" is a helpful frame of reference, and is in fact where this idea sparked in myself, here I'm not talking about pathology. I'm talking about universality, something that is in all of us. Not brokenness, but a nonunique recognized mechanism of human consciousness attempting to metabolize an unprecedented global disaster. 

Drawing from psychological theories like Carl Jung's concept of the persona (the social face we present to the world) and Erving Goffman's dramaturgy (the metaphor of theater to explain human interactions as performances), I'm exploring our inner landscapes—the dynamic, interconnected aspects of self that respond to complex experiences.

Seeing Characters in Others

What becomes truly transformative is recognizing that these characters are not confined within our individual psyches. I not only see common character traits emerge again and again in myself on my own journey and in my conversations, I see them emerge in others. They flow between us, arrive in conversations, shape our collective responses to existential challenges.

You may recognize the characters of ecological awareness in yourself. But you'll surely recognize them in and as others you know. For each person, one character usually stands in the spotlight, up front, center stage. But the show can change at any moment.

The Characters of Ecological Awareness

Inspired by the whimsy and wisdom of the Winnie the Pooh books, I wrote "Oh, Pooh, It's Over: A Story of our Gentle End" as a sensitive exploration of our existential climate crisis. Each character represents a distinct way of processing our planetary emergency—a psychological archetype that resonates deeply with our personal and collective emotional response.

Confronted by the overwhelming reality of climate collapse, universal characters have returned as survival mechanisms of sorts—emotional guides navigating an unprecedented existential challenge. Now we can revisit our childhood companions as more than mere inventions unique to ourselves. We can see them in the world within us and the people around us. 

When we interact around climate collapse, we're not just

encountering a single person, but an entire ecosystem of characters.

Maybe in yourself, but especially in those with whom you interact, you'll recognize the acceptance of Pooh, the panic of Piglet, the gloom of Eeyore, Rabbit's activist drive, Kanga's perspective as a parent–a nurturer, Roo's innocence and vulnerability, Owl's data points, and Christopher Robin who holds the family of friends together.

Our internal characters don't remain static either. They dance, they interrupt each other, they surge forward and retreat. Some days, for me, Pooh's acceptance dominates. Other days, Piglet's anxiety takes center stage. On any given day, Owl reads a scientific study until Eeyore enters mumbling, "What's the point?" Then back to Pooh Bear. The climate crisis doesn't allow for a linear emotional journey—it is an exploration.

On With the Show!

Let's get to know the players:

Pooh (Acceptance): The zen master of our internal landscape. Calm, present, understanding that change is the only constant. When news of environmental breakdown arrives, Pooh breathes deeply, recognizes the larger cycles of existence, and maintains an almost transcendent peace.

Piglet (Anxiety): The part of us that trembles, that sees the immensity of the challenge and feels overwhelmed. Piglet whispers (sometimes shouts) about potential catastrophes, the fear of loss, the uncertain future. His panic is valid, his fear a form of profound caring.

Eeyore (Pessimistic Despair): The voice of mourning, carrying the weight of anticipated loss. Pessimism justified by reality. He understands the depth of ecological destruction and feels the grief before the event. His melancholy isn't weakness or uncaring, but a deep ecological empathy.

Tigger (Blissful Unawareness and Denial): Always happy, always jumping from one thing to another. Tigger likes to stay distracted. Always seeking fun. He likes to draw attention to himself and considers himself bravest of the brave. But everyone knows, he too has a vulnerable side.

Rabbit (Activist Urgency): Always planning, always doing. Rabbit cannot sit still in the face of crisis. He organizes, strategizes, calls others to immediate action. His energy is both a gift and a potential source of burnout. We might see him as a busy body, but it comes from love.

Kanga (Parental Concern): Representing intergenerational responsibility. She looks at the world not just through her own eyes, but through the eyes of future generations. Knowing what she knows, she holds her regret quietly to herself. Her love is protective, forward-looking, simultaneously tender and fierce.

Roo (Vulnerability and Hope): Kanga's little one is the child within us who still believes, who hasn't yet been fully hardened by systemic challenges. Roo represents our capacity for wonder, for believing anything is possible, even when the odds seem insurmountable, even when he’s unsure what the answers might be. He’s still looking for answers from “the adults in the room” even as they struggle themselves.

Owl (Scientific “Rationality”): Collecting data, analyzing trends, understanding the mathematical and scientific dimensions of our crisis. Owl knows the statistics, sees the models, and wrestles with the tension between scientific understanding and emotional response. "Rationality” is in quotes because, while Owl knows what's coming, he presents data as if it might still make a difference.

Christopher Robin (Compassionate Connection): The overarching consciousness that makes room for all these perspectives. Not choosing sides, but understanding that each character, each emotional response, is a valid part of our collective processing. Christopher Robin is and, at the same time, is a part of the Hundred Acre Wood. His is the struggle of lifelong friends working toward an understanding, just like the rest of us.

Listening Beyond the Main Character

In any conversation, one character might dominate—more loudly, more insistently. But the thoughtful listener learns to hear the whispers of other characters behind the noise waiting quietly with their own perspective, their own story.

The art lies not in changing these characters, but in creating a space where they can be understood, and where the others can speak and be heard.

The panicked Piglet might be speaking, but somewhere in the background, a quieter Pooh bears witness. The angry Rabbit might be shouting about immediate action, while a contemplative Owl holds complex data. Kanga's protective instinct might overshadow little Roo's vulnerable hope. But they are all there, together. Just as we are all here, together.

You can, of course, stop any conversation whenever you like. You can tune out any character. But we humans (and nonhuman animals!) tend to feel better, less angry, less afraid when we feel understood. And when we understand.

Our intent shouldn't be to silence these voices, but to create gentle pathways between them. To recognize that each character represents a legitimate way of processing an unprecedented global transformation. 

Recognize that each character along the way is a friend, or at least another perspective, like those inside yourself. You might want them to speak up or you might want them to shut up, but really they just need help moving into and through this extraordinary time, just like you and yours.

Christopher Robin: The Bridge Between Worlds

If there's a crucial role in this landscape, it belongs to Christopher Robin - the compassionate connector who understands the value of each character, the one who can translate and mediate, who can create safety for multiple perspectives to emerge. Between each other and within ourselves.

This understanding and bridge building isn't about false equivalence, or even a balance of voices. Not every perspective deserves equal weight, but every perspective deserves recognition. The climate denier's Tigger, bouncing away from uncomfortable truth, does not carry the same moral or factual authority as the scientist's Owl. But both can be heard, understood, held with a fundamental human dignity. You may have been there yourself once. You may even visit those same feelings or responses frequently within yourself.

Give the same understanding to the process in others.

The Picnic of Mutual Understanding

Imagine our conversations about climate as a picnic in the Hundred Acre Wood. Each character brings their unique offering: Eeyore's grief, Rabbit's urgency, Pooh's acceptance, Piglet's fear. The magic happens not when we try to eliminate these perspectives, but when we create enough safety for them to coexist, to learn from each other, to live with and understand one another.

In the grand scheme of what we are facing, none of these characters are a threat to you. And when we are truly heard—when our internal characters feel seen and acknowledged—something remarkable occurs. Panic softens. Denial becomes curiosity. Anger quiets to listen. Grief transforms into connection.

Oh, Pooh, It Takes Practice

On my journey into the reality of collapse, I continue to encounter the voices of our friends from the Hundred Acre Wood—voices that play out not just within me, but in the world around us.

I still hear panicked Piglet in the anxious conversations of friends and strangers. I hear Eeyore's "What's the point?" My activist Rabbit is also in the hearts of community organizers desperately seeking solutions. Owl scientists meticulously tracking our trajectory. Kanga's regret and protectiveness. Roo's innocent curiosity is still alive in young people facing an uncertain future. And Tigger remains relentlessly distracted—our collective attempts to avoid hard truths.

And then there is Pooh Bear. The rarest of characters. A breath of fresh air in a world of heightened complexity. A calm in the storm.

Pooh's unattachment isn't indifference. It's a profound way of caring—deeply present, yet not consumed by the truths he encounters. He practices mindfulness that allows him to acknowledge suffering without being overwhelmed, finding genuine joy despite experiencing genuine pain.

While other characters represent different responses to crisis, Pooh offers a different path. Not escape, but presence. Not denial, but acceptance. Not looking to fix, but to see.

Pooh doesn't have complicated answers. His wisdom is elegant in its simplicity: "Everything's going to be okay." It's not a dismissal. It is a radical act of love.

In a world of constant rumblings and anxieties, Pooh is who I want in the spotlight—calm, caring, fundamentally present.

Embracing Our Collective Complexity

Containing multitudes doesn’t mean we are broken into pieces. We are human. A complex sum of our parts. Capable of holding seemingly contradictory, often complimentary, emotional landscapes simultaneously.

Our challenge (like we need another one) is not to resolve these internal and external tensions, but to develop the compassionate awareness that can hold them. To recognize that our internal Hundred Acre Wood is not a problem to be solved, but a living, breathing ecosystem to be understood. Maybe we can see that place less as a challenge and more as an adventure, like our little friends in the story.

In the face of ecological collapse, this might be our most profound act of resistance: to remain fully, vulnerably human at the same time. To listen. To witness. To hold space for the intricate emotional topography within ourselves and each other. To allow each part of you to be heard, respected and understood.

Recognize the complexities of those you encounter. And listen to the world inside you. It’s trying to make sense of this mess we're in. It's trying to take care of you.