WHAT SIX GIRAFFES TAUGHT ME ABOUT ENVIRONMENTAL WRITING

It all began with a haunting aerial-view photograph: (TW) six giraffes, collapsed in the parched dust of Sabuli Wildlife Conservancy, Kenya. Captured by photographer Ed Ram in December 2021, the image wasn’t just a snapshot of death—it was a mirror held up to humanity. These giraffes hadn’t been hunted. There were no poachers, no visible wounds. Only the invisible enemy remained: drought. Climate change.

Look closely at the image. Not with a casual scroll, but with the urgency of someone searching for a lost jewel in a sea of sand. At first glance, it feels brutal. Uncanny. Indigestible. But the longer you gaze, something else rises—a helpless grief. A quiet, creeping question: how did we let it come to this?

A WORLD SICK IN SILENCE

I’m not coughing, but I’m sick.

Not from illness, but from existing in a world where wellness has become a branding exercise and collapse is disguised as normal. We inhale poison, consume plastic, and normalize burnout. It doesn’t come as a surprise to me as I was and am minding my own business.

Backdrop: I used to be a business analyst in my previous life—measuring profits, managing growth. It was paying me good and I had everything that normally, a woman in her mid-20’s desire. Until two weeks ago. I walked away from my job in Glasgow. I left the high-rise office, the cat, the boyfriend, the routine, the illusion of stability. Now I’m an Eco-writer who freelances to pay the bills and mourns the world one stanza at a time. Eco-writing is still an alienated term for many. Let me get that sorted for you – In simple words, Environmental writing turns data into emotion, and emotion into action.

Today, I find myself scrolling through old photos from undergrad, 2014 as the date for my college reunion comes closer—searching for a time when the world felt less poisoned. I noticed a young lad at the center, tossing his graduation cap into the air—there he was, my first love, Samuel. It was the kind of love that grows deeper and fonder over time, much like a forest thriving in silence, serving its purpose without needing to be seen. This particular photo made me smile and sparked a quiet hope of seeing him at the college reunion. God knows what that moment would look like. Butterflies in my stomach.

Outside my window, a glowing billboard blinks in sterile confidence over the photograph of six-dead giraffes took by the renowned photographer Ed Ram.

It said:

"Save green, and you'll be saved."

The sign is printed on pollutant vinyl, bolted into steel bones—a beacon of sustainability that screams hypocrisy. How many trees were felled to build this illusion?

Streetlights flicker. A stray cat hisses at a passing dog. I crawl into bed. And no—I’m not thinking about saving the planet. After all, I am just an Eco-writer, a poet who works as a freelancer to pay her bills. I’m thinking about how it might already be too late.

A REUNION OF GRIEF: SUMMER 2025

Two weeks later, finally, we reunited—the class of 2014. Over a few drinks and awkward laughter, we tried to stitch nostalgia back together. But these weren’t just college stories anymore. These were confessions of survival.

It felt like a ravenous lion had crept into our lives, shredding the peace we worked so hard to build. And just when it was finally our turn to enjoy a well-settled life—the world began to end. In a world on fire, environmental writing is the water we still have. As this college reunion gave my profession a purpose to write this very article.

Alina, 31, Romania – Data Analyst

Alina—my best friend and secret-keeper of all my crushes. We once split bottles of wine and dreams about the future. Now she’s a new mother.

Her crimson lipstick smudged the rim of her Espresso Martini as she whispered, “The Danube swallowed my daughter’s first steps.”

Her voice chilled the air.

Her garden has turned into a swamp. Even the well water tastes like decay. “Being Romanian once meant being rooted,” she said. “Now, even the earth feels unstable.”

I watched her beautiful life unravel, thread by thread, into a tapestry of loss.

Mary, 30, Nigeria – Neonatal Nurse

Looking for someone familiar, I bumped into Mary in a grand club washroom—the old “women supporting women” moment. That meeting evolved into something more: from clubbing to coffee dates to babysitting her three adorable kids.

“Wahala dey o! Look who’s here—my ride-or-die, the original jollof queen!”

Classic Mary. First thing she did? Grabbed my hand and checked my ring finger. The chilly Glaswegian breeze wrapped around us like a nosy aunt.

Then her voice faltered.

“I left crying newborns for flooded streets where my car used to be.”

Her home in Manchester is now a flood zone.

Power cuts have replaced lullabies. She doesn’t read fairy tales to her kids anymore—she teaches them how to escape rising water.

I used to ignore the signs. I wasn’t good at thinking for myself. But now it’s not just about me. My friends—scattered across continents—are living proof that the consequences of our negligence are no longer looming. They’ve arrived.

Ryosuke, 27, Japan – Medical Trainee

“Konbanwa,” Ryosuke corrected me gently. Mary introduced me to Ryosuke near the bar not far from our university.

“Kyoto’s summers once sang in haikus,” he said, “Now they suffocate.”

He had hand-pumped oxygen into a newborn while a typhoon screamed outside. “Nature was once our temple,” he added, “now it’s our executioner.”

I listened, helpless, as friend after friend described lives ravaged by a force we once romanticized. Environmental writing gives nature a voice when it’s too quiet to scream. Dear readers, do you now see the significance of eco-writers? We don’t write merely for pleasure—we write to expose the raw, aching truths buried beneath silence, truths often suppressed by the very authorities holding power over our lives.

Mehmet Akif, 32, Istanbul – PhD in Neurology

Mehmet Akif—my philosophical pen pal, Rumi-quoting and Freud-debating across flaky WhatsApp texts. We met again at the open bar. He looked unchanged—but his soul had aged.

“How’s the thesis coming?” I asked playfully.

“Gone,” he replied.

A heatwave crashed the lab servers. His research vanished. Lab rats died. Olive trees on his ancestral land bore nothing this year—only scorched silence.

“I study the brain,” he said, “but it’s the climate that’s dissecting us now.”

He wasn’t just mourning data. He was mourning hope.

Sally, 34, Syria – PhD in Management

Sally—the rebel, the policy queen. Her hug felt like Damascus dust pressed into cloth.

“War taught us how to dodge bombs,” she said, adjusting her worn linen sleeves, “but climate… it taught us how to survive silence.”

Water is scarce. Dignity, even more so.

“I still lecture on crisis strategy,” she smiled dryly, “just with sweat rolling down my spine and students fanning themselves with broken dreams.”

The music roared as the reunion wound down, but my heart was a hollow drum echoing with grief.

Before leaving, I asked a classmate about Samuel—the one I silently adored behind glowing screens. Her eyes welled.

“You didn’t know?” she whispered.

“He moved to Phoenix, Arizona… died of heat exhaustion. The funeral was just weeks ago.”

The floor beneath me vanished. I finally found the photo hung on the reunion dashboard—just one. Samuel and I in a photo booth, discreetly taken on our undergrad excursion. I unpinned it and left the party.

Without environmental writing, the silence of extinction becomes permanent.

I returned to my apartment and stood for atleast an hour staring at the six-dead giraffes on the billboard. I was in the loop of denial and been reading that termination letter over and over again until I write this blog post. Why grief had rooted itself in my lungs? Are those pollutants or human negligence towards mother nature.

I taped the photo of me and Samuel into my journal. Below it, I wrote my goodbye:

“We’re not victims of change—we’re casualties of denial.

This is no longer a matter of ‘if’ or ‘when.’

This is now.

Let the billboard blink all it wants.

Let it shout about salvation in toxic ink.

But those of us still breathing fine?

We know better.

Because we’re breathing in grief.”

5 WAYS ENVIRONMENTAL WRITINGS CAN HELP SAVE THE PLANET

Anyone can become an eco-writer and one should. I’ve jotted down some useful tips to be a prominent eco-writer whose environmental writing just not help the people who are being affected by the natural calamities but also, impact to those who are living a carefree life in their high-rise.

1. Write With Witness

Use your craft to document the climate crisis in real time. Make your words a record for future generations—a testimony of what was seen and felt. Whenever you’re writing to incorporate all the small or big names to factualise your write-up. So, that readers won’t take your work and emotions on the environment lightly.

2. Turn Poetry Into Protest

Organize or contribute to eco-themed anthologies, zines, or spoken-word events. Art is activism when it stirs emotion into action. The higher you sit, the harder truth must shout to be heard. Never be afraid to vocalise your emotions.

3. Use Platforms Mindfully

Share verified climate news, eco-conscious tips, and sustainable brands across your social media. Let your digital footprint reflect your values. Do take your time to research which all online and offline platforms are suitable to publish your work.

4. Build Empathy Through Stories

Write fiction or essays that humanize climate statistics. Show how floods affect families. How droughts change childhoods. It’s always about cupid’s arrow hitting the target. Use plethora of metaphors and other poetic devices to emote your words loudly and distinctively.

5. Support & Collaborate

Partner with climate organizations, donate a portion of book proceeds, or simply amplify voices from the most affected communities. Basically, pick up that god damn poly bag and throw it into the dustbin. Making the right lifestyle choices can drastically lead your confidence to the next level not only as an Eco-writer but as a human who is setting a best example for the upcoming generation. Stay true to yourself.

Because now is no longer a warning.

Now is the story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruchi Acharya, Founder of Wingless Dreamer Publisher

Ruchi Acharya—poet, dreamer, and literary firecracker from Mumbai—is here to remind the world that human emotions aren’t for sale. As the founder of Wingless Dreamer, a global hub for writers and artists, Ruchi’s mission is to ensure every creative soul gets the spotlight they deserve.

On her path to becoming a world-class writer, she’s wielding her words like magic wands, advocating for love, feelings, and all the messy beauty of being human in this overly commercialized world.

Her mantra?

“All worries are less with wine.”

Cheers to that!

Website: ruchiacharya.com