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They’re often people of color, young, and from the Northeast.

We are living in the Age of the Big Yikes.
Climate change is widely accepted as both real and happening now. Many Americans hear news about global warming at least once a week and though projections aren’t as dire as they once were, they’re still extremely not great. Half of Americans have been “personally affected” by climate change, and of those, 54% say they have experienced a “reduced quality of life due to weather extremes,” a recent survey of 1,000 U.S. adults by Heatmap and Benenson Strategy Group found. Overall, two-thirds of Americans (65%) worry about what climate change will mean for them personally — a common anxiety that the Los Angeles Times has deemed “a normal response to an abnormal situation.”
A smaller but still substantial subset of Americans — around 15% — further self-identifies as having mental health problems stemming from the effects of climate change, including “anxiety and stress” about current and future events, PTSD, depression, substance abuse, and loneliness and isolation, the Heatmap Climate Poll shows. The distress, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, isn’t strongly determined by education level, income, or even ideology: A full quarter of those who say they have mental health problems due to climate change are Republicans (25%, compared to 31% of Democrats and 34% of independents).
The effects of climate change on mental health have historically been studied with a focus on young people, and it’s true that younger adults in Heatmap’s survey were also the ones more likely to describe mental health problems from climate effects. But what else can we learn about those who suffer mental and emotional ramifications from our changing world?
Unsurprisingly, and consistent with prior research, young adults are overwhelmingly the ones most anxious about climate change. Nearly half of 18-to-34-year-olds who’ve experienced climate change firsthand described having mental health problems as a result — a response that was much smaller in the 65+ population (10%). However, of that small number of people in the 65+ population who have reported suffering mental health problems due to climate change, there was a universal (100%) experience of having “anxiety and stress over future effects of climate change,” Heatmap found. Ninety percent also had anxiety and stress over the current effects.
Among young people who self-reported having mental health issues around climate change, “stress and anxiety” about current (69%) and future (66%) climate events was the most often cited mental health impact. Over half also cited depression (53%) and loneliness and isolation (46%).
Despite the “unbearable whiteness” of the conversation around climate anxiety, Heatmap’s polling was consistent with earlier surveys that found people of color are more likely to be alarmed about global warming than white people. White Americans were actually the least likely to report having experienced climate change-related mental health problems, at 28%, compared to African-Americans and Hispanics (36% each) and Asian American and Pacific Islanders (33%). Though white Americans reported the highest instances of depression (60% compared to 36% among all people of color), minority groups lead self-reports of anxiety and stress over the present (71% to white Americans’ 64%); anxiety and stress over the future (65% to white Americans’ 61%); and loneliness and isolation (45% to white Americans’ 35%).
That result isn’t as surprising when you look at who has been personally affected by climate change: just 44% of white people say they have been, compared to more than half of African-Americans (55%), one in six Hispanics (60%), and three-quarters of Asian American and Pacific Islanders (75%). Of the people who said climate change caused them mental health problems, the lowest rate (28%) was among white Americans.
Heatmap also asked all the respondents if climate change makes them worried about their children’s future. Though this question included answers from non-parents and people planning never to have children (and thus could be skewed by the fact that white respondents were also the least likely to have children under 18 living at home), 78% of people of color voiced general concerns about the future of their children due to climate change compared to 64% of white Americans.
Particularly of note was that nearly all (94%) of Asian American and Pacific Islanders described themselves as worrying about their children’s future due to climate change, despite having roughly the same number of children living at home as white Americans (34% to white American's 31%). There were also high levels of concern among Hispanics, at 81%, and African-Americans, at 70%, though those respondents were somewhat more likely to be parents or guardians than white Americans.
Mothers were significantly more likely to suffer from the mental health effects of climate change (49%) compared to dads (33%).
Fathers, on the other hand — and hilariously — were likely to say they've experienced climate-related property damage (51% to moms’ 39%).
It might seem intuitive that people living under the wildfire-orange skies of California or on the eroding coastlines of Florida would be the most concerned about climate change, but that certainly isn’t the rule. The Northeastern United States is technically among the “safest” places in the country with regards to meteorological upheavals — just 11% of respondents in the region described themselves as having been “very affected” by climate change. Nevertheless, of the people self-reporting mental health problems related to climate, 40% were in the Northeast compared to 22% in the West.
This is especially notable because while people in the Northeast might have a reputation for being more high strung than other parts of the U.S., the region actually features the lowest levels of general anxiety, behind the Midwest, South, and West, according to
a pre-pandemic U.S. Census Bureau study. (The Northeast surpassed the Midwest by fall 2020, though that could potentially be attributed to the region being hard-hit by COVID-19).
The higher rate of self-reported mental health problems could be political: the Northeast is the most liberal region in the U.S., and residents are perhaps more inclined to trust scientific warnings about climate change and/or read news about the severity of the crisis, resulting in higher levels of concern.
It’s revealing to look at specifically what kinds of mental health problems Northeasterners describe, too. Most (82%) who were experiencing mental health problems specified having anxiety and stress from current climate change effects — a rate almost 10 points higher than the next-most-anxious region, the South.
“Depression” was the most commonly cited mental health impact in the West (66%) and Midwest (69%), the
Heatmap poll found. Suburbanites also specifically experienced “anxiety and stress” from current climate change in high numbers, at 74% compared to rural Americans’ 66% and urbanites’ 58%.
Climate-linked mental health problems more broadly occur at the highest rates in rural communities, which are also uniquely vulnerable to weather-related impacts. Among those who said they have mental health problems stemming from climate change, 36% lived in rural locations, compared to 29% in the suburbs and 27% in urban environments.
Anxiety only scratches the surface of the mental health issues that result from climate change, Heatmap also found.
Nearly a third of Americans (30%) who reported experiencing climate change said it resulted in mental health problems. While 63% of that group further specified that meant suffering from anxiety and stress, 49% also reported depression, 22% reported post-traumatic stress disorder, and 18% reported taking to coping mechanisms like substance abuse.
The fourth National Climate Assessment, a congressionally mandated report by the U.S. Global Change Research Program published in 2018,
warns that these responses are normal and will continue to result from climate disasters going forward. People who experience a flood or the risk of flood, for example, “report higher levels of depression and anxiety, and these impacts can persist several years after the event.” Droughts commonly result in “increased use of alcohol and tobacco.” High temperatures can “lead to an increase in aggressive behaviors, including homicide.” Children displaced by climate-related disasters experience a “heavy burden” on their mental health. Separately, a 2018 study published in Nature predicted up to 40,000 additional suicides in the United States and Mexico by 2050 due to higher temperatures.
“Climate anxiety” (sometimes interchangeably called “eco-anxiety”) is not technically classified as a medical condition by the all-powerful DSM-5, the diagnostic manual used by mental health professionals in the United States — which makes sense, because “the last thing we want is to pathologize this moral emotion, which stems from an accurate understanding of the severity of our planetary health crisis,” Britt Wray writes in her 2022 book Generation Dread: Finding Purpose in an Age of Climate Crisis. Many in the medical community agree; as one psychotherapist and researcher told the BBC on the subject in 2019, “I’d kind of wonder why somebody wasn’t feeling anxious.”
Within reason, a certain amount of climate anxiety can be a good thing. (It will perhaps be productive to track climate “worry” in the coming years to see if, or as, it changes as guarded climate optimism grows in popularity). But experiencing climate change can also produce mental health problems that, like physical health problems, need to be anticipated and treated as weather-related crises increase, intensify, and expand. That is particularly true as it pertains to underserved communities, whose mental health struggles already frequently go unrecognized or untreated.
The overriding takeaway, though, is that it is wrong to look at climate change as only a danger to property and physical safety, the two human impacts that dominate headlines. Even if just 15% of Americans who experience climate change personally end up with self-described mental health problems as a result, that would potentially mean almost 18 million Americans will be suffering from the mental effects of climate change by 2050.
As Gary Belkin, the former deputy health commissioner for New York City and founder of the Billion Minds Institute, wrote for Psychiatric News in 2021, “We are all psychologically unprepared to face the accelerating existential crisis of climate and ecological change that will further deepen other destructive fault lines in our society ... We must sound that alarm and put our own house in order.”
The Heatmap Climate Poll of 1,000 American adults was conducted via online panels by Benenson Strategy Group from Feb. 15 to 20, 2023. The survey included interviews with Americans in all 50 states and Washington, D.C. The margin of sampling error is plus or minus 3.02 percentage points. You can read more about the topline results here.
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The losers are myriad and most definitely include Gulf oil producers.
Exactly what is going on between the United States, the Gulf States, Israel, and Iran is legitimately unclear. While the U.S. and Iran have said they agreed to a Pakistan-broked ceasefire and want to reach a permanent agreement to end the war, there have been reported strikes in Lebanon, Iran, and several Gulf States. The Speaker of the Iranian parliament, Mohammad-Bagher Ghalibaf, has accused the United States of violating “three key clauses” of the “framework” the country says the U.S. has agreed to, while Iranian media said earlier today that tankers were halted from passing through the Strait of Hormuz — which has, in theory, reopened — due to Israeli strikes on Lebanon.
While the outcome of planned negotiations between the United States and Iran over the two-week ceasefire announced Tuesday evening remains anybody’s guess, we can start to evaluate which industries, countries, and regions stand to benefit from the new era inaugurated the war, and which stand to suffer.
China’s neighbors got a crash course in the dangers of fossil fuel dependence for their essential energy needs. The vast majority of oil and gas that generally flows out of the strait is bound for Asia, leaving countries to embrace some mix of rationing, higher costs, and finding new supplies.
Going forward, these Asian countries may want to reduce their fossil fuel import bill, either by developing solar power and storage to replace gas-fired electricity generation or by expanding electrification to reduce reliance on gasoline (or both!). No matter what path they pick, it will likely be Chinese companies selling the solar panels, batteries, and electric vehicles necessary to traverse it.
China itself, despite its heavy use of Persian Gulf petroleum, was able to weather the crisis far better than its neighbors. While the country is the world’s largest consumer of fossil fuels, it has spent decades preparing for this type of crisis, building up the world’s largest oil stockpiles and an electric grid that largely relies on its own coal, as well as nuclear, renewables, and hydropower.
The nuclear industry has often flourished in response to crises in the oil markets. Much of the Japanese, French, and American nuclear buildouts occurred in the wake of the 1970s oil shocks. Already, the Hormuz shock has revived Asian nuclear power. Taiwan shut down its last operating nuclear reactor last year, but already the utility Taipower has applied to restart a nuclear plant. Vietnam and Russia signed a deal to develop Southeast Asia’s first operational nuclear power plant, while the South Korean government announced plans to accelerate the restart of several reactors.
While in the long run the Hormuz crisis could spur Asian economies to embrace nuclear, storage, renewables, and electrification, in the short run they need to keep the lights on. Capacity limits on coal-fired power plants have been lifted across Asia, and prices for coal have risen accordingly. And while Taiwan for example, is reembracing nuclear power, it’s also looking to boost its coal output.
When the consulting firm Wood Mackenzie modeled the effects through 2050 of a “a major geopolitical escalation beginning in early 2026 [Editor’s note: wink wink], disrupting 15–20% of global oil and LNG supply,” the analysts found that “coal plays a larger role in the near term as countries respond to supply shocks by maximising domestic energy sources and delaying plant retirements.”
(“Over the longer term,” the report continued, “nuclear expands significantly, providing stable, fuel-secure baseload power as new capacity comes online from the 2030s.”)
As national governments get more concerned about energy security and reliance on fuels that come through geopolitically sensitive chokepoints, major coal exporters like Australia, Indonesia, and South Africa stand to benefit. And even if countries pursue electrification in order to get off of oil, this can still benefit coal exporters, at least in the short to medium term.
The shale revolution has birthed a diverse, sprawling ecosystem of independent exploration and production companies that can cover their operating expenses when oil prices are below $50 and profitably drill new wells at $70. If global oil prices are permanently higher due to tolling in the Strait of Hormuz, as well as due to hundreds of millions of barrels of shut-in production never reaching the market, then these companies are likely to see permanently higher profits.
Even if oil prices fall substantially as the crisis subsides, these producers have likely experienced the past six or so weeks as a pure profit-taking opportunity, with anxious investors keeping the leash on new exploration. And if the crisis continues and the strait continues to be closed, they can either profit from their existing operations or choose to profitably drill new wells.
As long as the Strait of Hormuz remained closed, about a fifth of the world’s LNG supply wasn’t reaching its largely Asian customers. Even if the strait fully reopens, Qatar’s Ras Laffan LNG facility has sustained damage that will take years to fix. While this supply shock will mean higher spot prices for other LNG exporters — most notably the United States — future LNG investment will likely be chilled by this reminder of the fuel’s essential geopolitical instability.
Even if LNG flows resume for the duration of the shaky planned ceasefire, analysts at BloombergNEF estimate that “the combined loss of supply could remove roughly 16 million tons” of LNG from the market this summer. (Qatar’s total LNG capacity is 77 million tons per year.) “Hormuz crossings remain the critical variable driving prices in the coming days. If vessel transits accelerate, the market will price in improving availability. If crossings stall, risk premiums will rebuild quickly, reinforcing the view that even a ceasefire is insufficient to restore reliable Hormuz transit,” BNEF analysts wrote in a note Wednesday.
Already, the Vietnamese conglomerate Vingroup has proposed scrapping a planned LNG import project and replacing it with renewables and batteries. Chinese LNG imports already dropped in 2025, indicating that the Asian growth the LNG industry was counting on may not end up redounding to its benefit.
The Gulf states are supposed to be the central players in the world oil market. They can produce oil cheaply at scale, and Saudi Arabia especially is considered the world’s “swing” producer, able to ramp up and ramp down oil production to respond to market conditions
Now, no matter what happens in the Strait of Hormuz, hundreds of millions of barrels of oil have been shut-in and won’t reach global markets. Gulf states will likely have to embark on expensive pipeline projects to lessen their dependence on the strait, and their ability to diversify their economies by attracting tourism or high-end service industries may be permanently imperiled by six weeks of drone and missile assaults from Iran.
The necessary reconstruction may also pull capital away from their Gulf producers’ high-profile overseas investment projects, whether in movie studios or green energy, forcing these states to be more insular and less ambitious in forging overseas economic and political links that were supposed to keep them safe.
And while a higher floor on oil prices may help refill these states’ coffers, to the extent that Asian economies electrify in response to the Hormuz shock, it could mean that oil demand begins falling faster than expected.
While the United States has not been wholly insulated from the war’s economic effects — gas prices have risen dramatically — it has managed to benefit from oil exports and its electricity sector has been largely unaffected thanks to natural gas prices staying basically unchanged since the war began.
The story is different on the West Coast and in Hawaii. California is essentially the furthest east section of the Asian energy complex, meaning that its refineries and gas stations have had to compete for scarce supplies of oil and gasoline thanks to the closure of the Strait of Hormuz. Meanwhile Hawaii, which depends on oil for the bulk of its electricity generation, will soon see price hikes.
Even if traffic is restored through the strait, the shockwaves from its closure will still hit the United States’s westernmost points.
A toll on oil passing through the Strait of Hormuz isn’t technically a carbon tax ... but it also isn’t not.
The United States and Iran have agreed to a 10-day ceasefire, and thank goodness. Israel, the third combatant in the conflict, was reportedly informed late about the ceasefire and isn’t happy about it.
The tentative agreement brings to end, at least for now, a destructive and strategically inept war that has weakened Trump’s political position and strengthened China’s solar, battery, and electric vehicle industries. The conflict paused soon after Trump fantasized about committing genocide against Iran.
The monthlong war has changed the global state of play for the oil industry. Until late February, the Strait of Hormuz was an open shipping lane through which 20% of the world’s crude oil — and even more of its liquified natural gas and jet fuel — passed. But Iran closed the strait during the war’s early phases, threatening to blow up ships with drones or missiles and commencing the worst global energy crisis since the 1970s.
Now, as part of its peace proposal, Iran has pledged to take joint control of the waterway with Oman. It wants to set a toll of roughly $1 per barrel of oil on every ship that passes through the strait, along with as-yet-unspecified fees on food, natural gas, and refined products. The toll will reportedly need to be paid in Chinese yuan or stablecoins so as to circumvent American sanctions.
One of the enjoyable ironies of this state of affairs is that the Iranian regime seems to appreciate a good tariff just as much as President Trump does. But another irony is that this fee — imposed, as it would be, on just under a quarter of the world’s fossil fuels — would amount to a de facto carbon tax.
Naturally, we had to know: How significant a carbon tax would it be?
The answer: Not very big. The Environmental Protection Agency estimates that every barrel of oil produces 0.43 metric tons of carbon dioxide emissions. Divide the new $1 per barrel fee by that figure, and it comes to a tax of roughly $2.33 for every ton of emissions. If you figure that some oil barrels coming out of the strait are more carbon-intensive than others — Basrah Heavy from Iraq is especially dirty, whereas Saudi Arab Light is much cleaner — then the effective carbon tax can flex up or down by about 20 cents. But for even the cleanest fuels, the mooted Iran fee would be about $2.50.
That isn’t very big, as these things go. Nearly a decade ago, a group of former Republican statesmen proposed a $40 per metric ton carbon tax. That was below the $50 per ton social cost of carbon preferred by the Obama administration. It’s closer to what Trump has floated — during his first term, officials suggested a much smaller $2 per ton fee. Of course, all those figures would be much larger today given robust post-pandemic inflation.
(Yes, we know that the “social cost of carbon” isn’t quite the same thing as a carbon tax, but in theory you would set a carbon tax at the social cost of carbon, so as to internalize the emissions’ environmental harms.)
Of course, any future HormE-ZPass system won’t really resemble a carbon tax at all. Because it will only be levied on some of the world’s oil supply, any Iranian tariff will predominantly be paid by Persian Gulf drillers, not by international energy consumers, according to the European think tank Breughel. (And to the degree that the rest of the world can switch to non-oil-burning alternatives, such as electric vehicles, Gulf producers will bear even more of the burden.) Most importantly, the revenue collected by the tariff will go to fund the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, not to decarbonizing the economy or paying down the federal deficit.
But it’s still going to increase the cost of shipping oil out of the Persian Gulf. The kind of tanker that predominates in the strait — aA Very Large Crude Carrier, or VLCC — holds roughly 2 million barrels of oil. That’s a roughly $2 million per ship fee.
A year ago, I joked that Trump seemed to be pursuing a crash decarbonization agenda — cutting off global trade, raising oil and gas drilling costs, and pursuing an energy policy that encouraged countries to switch to batteries, renewables, and electric vehicles. Call him “Degrowth Donald,” I said. Never in my wildest dreams did I envision that Donald would actively consider a carbon tax — and especially an Iranian one, paid in yuan. The president continues to astound.
New research about artificial light tells a nuanced story about our energy usage.
The last time NASA went to the moon, the Apollo 17 astronauts brought back the famous “Blue Marble” photograph of the Earth, as seen from 18,000 miles away. Fifty-three years later, it was time for an update. This week, the Artemis II crew beamed back its own version of the Blue Marble, titled “Hello World.” Though they used a Nikon D5 instead of a 70mm camera, the resulting picture was, in many ways, stunningly similar to the original. Each shows our garden planet, dizzyingly small and bright against the vast blackness of space, looking peaceful and untouched.
Were “Blue Marble” and “Hello World” taken from the night side of the Earth instead, the pictures would differ dramatically. In the 25 years between 1992 and 2017 alone, detectable artificial light on the planet has grown by an estimated 50%. Many parts of the world are expected to lose more than half their visible stars within a generation due to light pollution. Night is “being lost in many countries” due to the onward and upward march of progress and development, the BBC warned in 2017. Researchers have even found that plants, animals, and microbes release more planet-warming carbon dioxide under artificial nighttime light than their counterparts in the natural dark.
But our assumption that the planet is brightening gradually and unidirectionally is flawed, according to a new study in Nature, published today. While prior research on artificial light tracked its changes across months or years, University of Connecticut Professor Zhe Zhu and his colleagues analyzed nearly 1.2 million daily images captured between 2014 and 2022 by NASA’s Black Marble Night Time Light satellites to deepen their understanding of the day-to-day dynamics. “It’s an entirely different perspective” on artificial light compared to what existed before, Zhu told me. “I’d say I’m quite shocked.”
Rather than illustrating the well-known story about the Earth getting brighter, Zhu’s research describes a dynamic, volatile, flickering planet. Though the researchers confirmed a 34% overall increase in brightness during the study’s nine-year scope, it was offset by an 18% dimness, meaning the net increase in brightness was only 16%. Further, nearly half of the portions of land area that experienced at least one change in artificial light also experienced some form of abrupt change — that is, a brightening or dimming event that unfolded over weeks or months rather than years, such as grid failures in Venezuela, load-shedding in South Africa, changes to fossil fuel operations in Texas, and armed conflicts such as the war in Gaza. “We see all the ups and downs of human civilization reflected on a daily basis” in the artificial light, Zhu said.
The data also illustrates the planet’s energy story. In Western Europe, for example, Zhu expected to see increased brightness due to the region’s high level of development. “But it’s entirely the opposite,” he said. “All of Europe is in a dimming area.” The researchers looked more closely and attributed the change largely to the switch to LED bulbs, which are better at directing light at the ground. (Some argue that LED lights have created a kind of Jevons paradox by making affordable lighting cheaper and more widespread; a 2017 study led by Christopher Kyba from the GFZ German Research Centre for Geoscience also argued that LEDs are making skyglow worse because they scatter blue light. Zhu acknowledged that the satellites used in their study do not pick up blue light, which is part of why the transition shows up as a dimming effect; Kyba is a coauthor on the study.)
Dimming in Europe is also attributable to regional energy conservation-related policies. The dimming patterns mapped neatly onto national borders, such as a 33% net drop in France and a 22% drop in the U.K.
Dimming and brightening aren’t necessarily negative or positive indications, though. The Midwest, for example, has dimmed due to economic contraction, including declining urban cores and manufacturing sectors. But like Europe, the region has also implemented energy-efficient lighting programs. In places like West Africa and parts of Asia, brightening indicates improvements in energy access and investment in new infrastructure; in other parts of the world, it might indicate increased fossil fuel extraction, as evidenced by abrupt changes in brightness caused by flaring. Overall, though, artificial light has outpaced population growth. “Each person is emitting more light, so efficiency is, at the global scale, mostly decreasing,” Zhu said.
Beyond the broadest conclusions, using averages in nighttime light as a proxy for economic growth and energy use, as researchers have for decades, is grossly inaccurate, Zhu’s paper shows. His research will likely have significant implications for those working in fields that touch on animal migration, insect behavior, and human health as they relate to light pollution — fields where the assumption had been a gradual increase in light, rather than the more complicated picture of abrupt shifts and changes.
Zhu and his team were working on a three-year grant that has since expired. But he said he hopes that one day there will be a near-real-time, publicly available version of the Dark Marble satellite images his team used for their research. Such a tool would have obvious applications in the climate, energy, and humanitarian sectors, from monitoring energy access, natural disasters, and emissions to tracking regional policies — especially since existing averages, which only relay long-term trends, miss the more dynamic ebbs and flows of our energy infrastructure at the global scale. “It’s not just people using more lights,” he said of the findings. “It’s a tug-o-war.” You just have to know how to look.