The Compassionate Case for Extinction: May We Rest in Peace

Everything is going to be okay. Just maybe not how you'd hoped.

Maybe I'm broken. I've seen enough things that none of us should have to see. I am certain this has shaped my perspective, just as not seeing or looking away may have shaped your own. Or maybe my heart has always been broken, allowing in the light, giving me the unenviable ability to feel the pain of every living being. Or maybe I just wasn't made for this world—an aberration in a shared human evolution that favored the conquerors, the violent, the uncaring.

I don't want you to hurt either...

So, how can I gently explain how I've come to believe that the end of life on Earth is not a bad thing. And not only is it not a bad thing, it is a good thing.

I know someone, almost everyone, will try to sell me on "Oh, but the beauty?" and "What about joy"" and "What about the happy times?" and "What about the children?" "What about, what about...?" And I see that. I really do. But the unimaginable amount of pain and suffering on our little planet is not overcome by our ability to point to or be distracted by things that make us happy.

Planetary Hospice

We have entered planetary hospice. We are dying. The framework is not unfamiliar to me, although the scale is mind boggling. I've watched beloved family members, friends, pets and other animals die slowly and painfully of cancer and other diseases. And I've worked with and around countless terminal patients. Through this lens of hospice, our collective situation becomes more clear, though no less heartbreaking.

Just as we consider it merciful not to extend the suffering of a terminal patient when all hope is lost, we might view the lack of or prevention of future generations, human and nonhuman, as sparing them from experiencing the inevitable pain of existence now inexorably amplified by the escalating horrors of collapse. And for those already here, hurtling along with us on our doomed little spaceship Earth, maybe my perspective can offer a way to embrace acceptance as part of a more gentle end.

Given the position we now find ourselves—in the throes of planetary collapse—proponents of "fighting against climate change" remind me of family members when hit with the devastating news that a loved one has terminal cancer. That there is no hope. They are defiant of the truth and vow to fight... and win! "We're gonna beat this thing!" Even if they have no say. Even when it won't work. Even though the fight will prolong and increase the agony. 

When a doctor delivers a terminal diagnosis, everything changes. If the cancer is stage 3, we usually fight because there's hope for remission, reasons to endure the suffering of treatment. But with stage 4 metastatic cancer, when the disease has spread throughout the body, the calculus shifts entirely. No second opinions will change the outcome. We may flatten the trajectory, but every intervention, every treatment, every desperate measure will only prolong and intensify the suffering without altering the final, nearing result.

We now stand not at a crossroads of prevention, not at the threshold of hope, but at the moment of terminal diagnosis for our planetary systems. The metastasis is complete—from melting permafrost releasing methane, to acidifying oceans, to collapsing ecosystems, all amplified by hyperconsumptive, unyielding human activity. Each feedback loop compounds the others. 

Like a terminal patient, we face not a question of if, but when we will meet our end. The more important question, for me, is how we choose to spend our remaining time.

The Weight of Consciousness

In the unfathomable expanse of cosmic time, consciousness emerged on our little blue planet as a remarkable yet double-edged "gift." Over billions of years, the capacity for awareness brought with it an inseparable companion: the capacity for suffering. Pain and fear became evolution's inescapable teachers, ensuring sentient survival through avoidance of harm.

Now, in what may be sentient life's final chapter on Earth, we find ourselves in a position both extraordinary and terrible: we are the witnesses to what could be the end of all conscious experience in the universe. This would mean the end of sentience. The end of all feeling. How unbelievably strange to be born just in time to watch everything start to die. How bizarre to be among the last generations of the one species who can understand this enormity, the ones who are culpable, the ones who could've turned the smoldering bus around, yet chose not to. It is a privilege, a burden and a terror to be in a front row seat at the end.

Islands of Happiness

Life is suffering. All sentient beings panic, struggle, and suffer. We either ignore it or divert our gaze, because if we actually looked at it, if we really paid attention, any caring person would be crushed under the weight of knowing.

When I say life is suffering, I'm not being poetic or pessimistic. I'm describing the fundamental nature of consciousness itself. Those who point to moments of joy aren't wrong about those moments existing—they're wrong about the significance of those moments in the much larger picture. It’s like someone pointing to a single star while standing in an endless void, insisting that the light outweighs the darkness. It doesn't. It can't. The darkness is the fundamental nature of space itself; the star is the aberration, the temporary exception, the light we cling to wishing it would pull us from the darkness.

Pain and fear are woven into the very fabric of existence—not as an unfortunate bug in the system, but as its essential feature. Pain and fear are the architects of consciousness itself, the fundamental, stick-wielding teachers that shaped all nervous systems, all awareness, all ability to feel. To be conscious is to suffer.

Again, this isn't philosophy—it's biology, it's evolution, it's the bedrock of sentient existence. It was an effective evolutionary strategy. Even now you may feel the inherited pang of panic each of us feels when we want to avoid thinking about our own death.

We comfort ourselves by looking away from this truth, distracting ourselves. I do this, you do this, we all do this. We focus on the rare moments of joy, of connection, of peace. But these are just brief welcomed islands in an ocean of suffering, offering us a moment to rest and a chance to breathe before we are again washed out to sea. The fleeting moments of respite are the exceptions that prove the rule. 

The Privilege of Imagination

Every conscious being, every conscious being, experiences fear and pain. Not every conscious being experiences the joy or happiness that anyone shaking their head at my suggestion may feel. You, lucky human, are in a position of highest privilege.

Think about your own existence—how much of it is spent in various states of discomfort, anxiety, fear, or pain? How much energy do you spend trying to avoid these states? How many medications and preventatives fill your medicine cabinet? How many of us are living for the weekend, suffering through the drudgery of work? How many of you carry your phone with you, even to the bathroom or to bed or while eating, just so you don't have to be alone with your thoughts? Even in our most privileged human lives in the most relaxed of times, suffering is the baseline from which we occasionally escape, not the other way around.

And we are the lucky ones. Most conscious beings live lives of near-constant struggle, terror and pain. This is the fundamental nature of consciousness itself. Evolution shaped sentience through suffering. As I’ve pointed out, fear and pain are not unfortunate side effects—they are the primary architects of awareness. Every nervous system, every conscious mind, was built by and for suffering. Joy is the rare exception, the brief respite that keeps the system running, but suffering is the foundation, the baseline, the norm.

To distract ourselves, we focus on the rare moments of joy, of connection, of peace. These moments are real—of course they are—evolution ensures just enough pleasure to keep the system running, brief rewards that compel conscious beings to continue eating, mating, surviving. Much like the intermittent dose of dopamine will keep you endlessly scrolling online through heart-punching news and mind-numbing garbage for hours on end. Wasting time is just that—we may pretend we're in no hurry to get through life, but, in many ways, each of us races toward our own end.

Even in times of our deepest suffering, we humans possess a unique privilege—the understanding that the pain will end, one way or another. At worst, we know that death provides an eventual escape. Most of us can conceptualize our own mortality, or the death of a suffering loved one, as sweet relief. 

But for every nonhuman conscious being, pain exists without context, without the comfort of knowing it will end. A wounded animal who can't reach food or water, a caged farmed animal, an ill or starving child or any being lacking our gift of imagination—they experience their suffering as an eternal present, an inescapable, heart-wrenching reality. Their consciousness provides no framework for 'this too shall pass.' They simply suffer, moment by moment, with no concept of relief or escape. Ever. It's an unimaginable horror you have the privilege to ignore. Even in this moment, your heart and mind will likely turn away from that reality. But this is the baseline experience of consciousness on Earth.

Shrinking Circles

Our species' remarkable ability to draw circles of moral consideration—to decide whose pain and what pain matters—has become our undoing. We've created artificial boundaries around our hearts, treating moral exclusion as our default and inclusion as an extraordinary achievement. We've built entire civilizations on the premise that we humans are in the center, while most of the living world exists outside our circle of moral consideration, suffering in a plume of our exhaust, suffocating in our indifference.

As systems break down with no hope of salvation, historical precedent suggests we will likely fragment further rather than unite, drawing our circles even tighter, excluding more animals, ignoring and battling nature, and fighting fellow humans while scrambling for survival ourselves. The naive hope that we might suddenly transform into a species capable of universal compassion and consideration ignores both our history and our nature. The future is bleak. And it it violent.

Hoping and working so that we can keep our doomed spaceship going, just for the sake of "not giving up" is hubris. Calls to save this species or that species, calls filled with feigned compassion—even as those same beings starve, catch fire and scream—I would argue, is not just ill-conceived, it is unbelievably cruel.

When we honestly assess the ratio of suffering to happiness in nature and in the world, even in the privileged human world, the calculus becomes strikingly clear. To help frame this perspective ethically, philosopher David Benatar offered a clarifying asymmetry argument: the absence of pain is good even if no one experiences this absence, while the absence of pleasure is not bad unless someone is deprived of it. When there is no one to experience deprivation, the absence of joy is neutral—but the absence of suffering remains an absolute good. In other words, more pain is bad, less pain is good. And no pain? Ideal.

A Different Kind of Hope

As we face our reality, we don't abandon hope—we transform it. Our hope becomes not for continuation at any cost despite the pain, but for a graceful transition and, ultimately, for the peace that comes when all suffering ceases.

Those who think I'm misanthropic do not understand what's coming nor how my heart aches for anyone born into this growing nightmare and the predetermined hell that's coming for them, for us. If I hated anyone, I would let them suffer, I would encourage the unyielding push for more. If I didn't care, I wouldn't care about their pain.

Accepting extinction isn't about giving up—it's about having the courage to face reality and choose the path of least suffering. Like a terminal patient who chooses to discontinue treatment, we can simultaneously hold deep appreciation for life while accepting our end. I don't see this as a contradiction; it's perhaps the most honest way to be present with reality.

Acceptance offers a different kind of hope: not the false hope of miraculous recovery, but the hope that all suffering might finally cease. A hope that, in the face of its inevitability, the end might somehow be swift. A hope that the cycle of pain and fear that has characterized conscious existence since its emergence billions of years ago might soon reach a compassionate conclusion.

Living with Knowing

I'm not suggesting that we hasten the end. It will come. I’m suggesting we face it with grace and wisdom. We can still appreciate the beauty of existence while accepting our conclusion. I am suggesting that we can end much of the pain right now through thoughtful actions and mindful consumption; we needn't wait. We can still act to minimize suffering while understanding that its complete cessation may only come through extinction. We can be sad and happy at the same time. We can decide to remain human until the end.

While I accept the inevitability of our collective end, this doesn't mean I abandon ethical obligations in the present. Instead, I focus on reducing suffering wherever possible during this final transition. Each of us can:

• Maintain and deepen our connections with loved ones, with animals, with nature and support each other through these painful times.

• Make daily choices that minimize harm to other beings.

• Find meaning in small acts of kindness and care.

• Share our resources and help those already suffering.

• Practice presence and gratitude for moments of beauty.

At the End

We are all the product of exploding stars, a cosmic accident, specks of dust able to recognize our place and our part. We are the universe looking back on itself, looking out of and into ourselves.

After billions of years of sentient beings experiencing pain, fear, and loss, we stand at the threshold of what could be their final liberation. As consciousness begins its death rattle, we are presented with a profound possibility—the complete cessation of all suffering. Everywhere. Forever.

As witnesses to what could be the final chapter of conscious experience in our corner, perhaps in any corner, of the cosmos, unwanted knowledge comes with an opportunity: Accepting extinction and comforting each other may be the most profound act of compassion possible. It represents not a surrender to despair, but a clear-eyed recognition that in the complete end of consciousness lies the complete end of suffering. 

Billions of years of evolution's experiment with consciousness and its inseparable companion, suffering, and we may be the ones to witness its conclusion.

Let's do so with the wisdom and compassion this moment deserves.

Let's live the way we could have all along—with love, with compassion, with honesty, with integrity, and with open hearts.

I love you all.

Everything is going to be okay.