I’ve been working at my school newspaper for about two years now, and it’s totally made me forget that I'm technically allowed to have my own opinion. No sourcing required. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I love more than the integrity that comes with journalistic work and the challenge of providing accurate, reliable, sourceable information. I think that skill is needed now more than ever. But after two years of peer reviewing, researching, and fact-checking, I’ve decided it’s time to tell a story that’s completely my own. It doesn’t need to be true for you, because it feels true to me.

I think opinions are too frequent these days. But anyway, here’s one of mine. 

True Environmentalism 

I remember the first time I came across environmentalism as a topic. I was in sixth grade, and my cousin was dating someone who was vegan and, in my twelve-year-old eyes, the coolest person in the world. She played guitar and wore big chunky beads. From that point on, I decided exactly who I wanted to be. Their relationship ended shortly after my revelation, but we stayed in touch. After seeing her 700th “Go Vegan” post, I finally decided to look into this “vegan” thing.

Cowspiracy had just come out on Netflix, and the serendipitous timing of those two things changed my life. That one documentary led to an eight-year-long lifestyle change. 

I was horrified. Baby calves were taken from their mothers and forced to live the rest of their lives in holding tanks and cramped cells. It was the first time I heard the word "sentience." The emotional impact came first. Grief for cows. A strange recognition that their eyes didn’t look so different from mine. Then the film moved on to the environmental impact of animal agriculture. I felt like I had uncovered something. Did anyone else know about methane? About deforestation? Was I the only one who had been kept in the dark?

Growing up, I wouldn’t say my family was particularly eco-conscious. My mom stocked up on Tide detergent and my dad kept his sprinklers running even in the rain. They weren’t environmentalists, not by the textbook definition. But years later, I would come to understand how environmentally thoughtful they actually were.

That documentary, and my cousin’s ex-girlfriend, sparked a kind of personal crusade. It started as a blazing orange fire, burning hot with passion and urgency. I threw myself into learning about fossil fuel emissions, textile waste, animal agriculture, microplastics, food waste, plastic pollution, air pollution, light pollution... the list kept growing. I started watching zero-waste YouTubers and decided this was my journey. I wanted to sew my own clothes. I bought toothpaste tablets and bamboo toothbrushes, shampoo bars and face wash in glass containers. The half-used Colgate toothpaste and Garnier shampoo sat in my bottom drawer, forgotten.

I brought glass containers to restaurants for takeout and scolded my friends for using the plastic ones. I brought canvas bags to the grocery store and looked down on my mom whenever she forgot hers. I have a clear memory of arguing with my dad during a beach vacation because I was so upset by the amount of plastic our family brought home from a local bar. I told him, “Really? And we’re right by the ocean.” I can’t fault my younger self for trying. I was furious, and I was afraid. Truthfully, I still am. But six years later, I eat red meat. My shampoo comes in a plastic bottle. And I feel like I’m a better environmentalist now.

As I mentioned before, my parents weren’t obvious environmentalists. My dad loved his 24-pack of plastic water bottles, ate more red meat in a single night than the average American probably eats in a week, and was convinced that anywhere could be a smoker’s lounge if you tried hard enough. My mom wasn’t much different, but she tried her best to align with me in that era. She made tofu versions of my favorite Serbian meals. Even so, I felt so disconnected from them. How could they not care about something that meant so much to me? Why wouldn’t they change their ways?

Every time my dad grabbed another plastic water bottle or I caught the scent of my mom’s Tide boosters, I felt a visceral kind of rage. I was also a teenager, which definitely added fuel to the fire. I didn’t want to feel that way. I loved them more than anything. So I let go, little by little.

I stopped caring about recycling. I let my mom use her scent boosters and even encouraged her because I liked the way they smelled. I started eating cheeseburgers here and there, and then a little more often, and eventually I wasn’t vegetarian anymore. I bought clothes from Shein because they were just too cute. It was like I had gone back to my life before the veil had been lifted. And honestly, I missed it.

I hadn’t realized how terrifying and exhausting it is to feel like the future of the planet rests on every single one of your personal decisions. I felt so relieved. My relationships were restored. Hanging out with friends got easier. Life felt lighter. But something kept nudging at me. Quietly, persistently. And that something stayed with me all the way to Rollins College.

I chose to major in Environmental Studies, because if I was going to dedicate four years to something, it may as well be this. I began learning what environmentalism really looks like. I realized I had been seeing myself as separate from the environment, even though that was the exact mindset I was trying to challenge.

While I had been criticizing my dad’s obsession with plastic water bottles, I never stopped to notice that he knows the name of every client that walks into my parents’ small business. That is environmentalism too. I used to get mad at him for running the sprinklers during hurricane season, but I never saw how scrappy he is with food, refusing to waste a single bite (even when you begged him not to eat the part with visible mold). My mom doesn’t know which plastics are recyclable, but she was the first person to introduce me to the beauty of second hand treasures with our weekly trips to local garage sales. I think back to the times I would get sick, when my mom made teas, soups, and tonics, always reaching for natural remedies first. My parents were environmentalists long before I ever called myself one, even before I was an idea. During my teenage years, I was convinced that I was the only one with a real relationship to nature, but I see now how wrong I was.

I remember the way my dad would truly relax by the ocean, how sunburnt he would get after spending hours by the sea. I remember our summer trips to the mountains in Serbia, when my mom would tell me to breathe in the mountain air because it was good for me. These were quiet moments of connection, of care. These were acts of environmentalism too.

Now, almost ten years into this journey, I feel more grounded, more open-minded, and more hopeful about the future. I’ve started noticing these small, genuine acts of environmentalism in everyday life. They remind me that maybe things are not as bad as they seem, or maybe they have the capacity to get better. I am not exactly sure. But the environment, my love for it, and the love it returns to me, teaches me something new every day. I look forward to what the next ten years will bring.