I care a lot about climate change. Does that mean I can never ever fly?
Your Mileage May Vary is an advice column offering you a new framework for thinking through your ethical dilemmas and philosophical questions. This unconventional column is based on value pluralism — the idea that each of us has multiple values that are equally valid but that often conflict with each other. Here is a Vox reader’s question, condensed and edited for clarity.
I live in an isolated part of a developed country, relatively far from anything else, and am struggling with my relationship to flying in the face of climate change. Most advice on minimizing flying seems tailored to more connected areas in the US or Europe — we have no trains or buses, and it’s a 12+ hour drive to the nearest city. I’ve considered moving to a more connected area where these would be options, but then I’d experience the same angst any time I wanted to visit my family where I currently live.
I’ve tried to take the approach of flying less frequently and staying for longer periods of time, but I feel resentful toward the carefree way I see friends around me approaching this issue, like flying out every month to watch a game. I feel like I’m torturing myself with guilt over something that no one cares about, and that the good I do by avoiding the one roundtrip I would take on a vacation per year is erased by the behaviour of my peers.
On the other hand, the contribution my annual flight would make, in terms of global emissions and demand in the airline industry, is minuscule. I feel generally opposed to making climate change about individual actions, but flying is also something that is such a privileged action that it feels like a special case. I also feel conflicted because I don’t think I deserve to travel if I can’t do it ethically, but the strategies often proposed as alternatives are not available to me.
Dear Resentfully Landbound,
Your question has me thinking about Greta Thunberg. In 2019, the Swedish activist wanted to attend a climate conference in the US, but she refused to fly because of the high carbon emissions associated with air travel. So instead, she traveled across the Atlantic by boat. On rough seas. For two weeks.
Should we all be doing what Thunberg did?
I think Thunberg is a heroic young activist, and there’s value in activists who take a purist approach, like refusing to ever fly. But the value lies less in their individual action and more in their ability to serve as a powerful jolt to our collective moral imagination — to shift the Overton window, the range of behaviors that seem possible. Thunberg’s well-publicized sailing voyage, for example, helped convince others to fly less. But to say her approach has been a potent rhetorical tool is different from saying it’s a model that every individual should follow to a tee.
For one thing, not everyone can sail the seas for two weeks — whether because of the time required, a physical health condition, or some other factor. And it’s not clear that all people should forgo all flying.
That’s because we each have multiple values. Yes, protecting our planet is a crucial value. So is, say, nurturing relationships with beloved family members and friends who live abroad. Or developing a career. Or learning about other cultures. Or making art. So, even though minimizing how much we fly is a virtuous thing to do, some thinkers would caution you against treating that as the only relevant value.
Take contemporary philosopher Susan Wolf, who wrote an influential essay called “Moral Saints.” She argues that you shouldn’t actually strive to be “a person whose every action is as morally good as possible … who is as morally worthy as can be.” If you try to optimize your morality through extreme altruistic self-sacrifice, she says, you end up living a life bereft of the personal projects, relationships, and experiences that make up a life well lived. You can also end up being a crappy friend or family member.
We often think of “virtues” as being connected to morality, but Wolf’s point is that there are non-moral virtues, too — like artistic, musical, or athletic talent — and we want to cultivate those, too.
“If the moral saint is devoting all his time to feeding the hungry or healing the sick or raising money for Oxfam, then necessarily he is not reading Victorian novels, playing the oboe, or improving his backhand,” she writes. “A life in which none of these possible aspects of character are developed may seem to be a life strangely barren.”
In other words, it’s okay — even desirable — to devote yourself to a variety of personal priorities, rather than sacrificing everything in pursuit of moral perfection. The tricky bit is figuring out how to balance between all the priorities, which sometimes conflict with each other.
In fact, I think part of the appeal of the purist approach is that it actually makes life easier on this score. Even though it demands extreme self-sacrifice, the extreme altruist never has to ask herself how much of the luxury (in this case, flying) to allow herself. The right answer is clear: none.
By contrast, if you’re trying to balance between different values, it’s nigh on impossible to arrive at an objectively “right” answer. That’s very uncomfortable — we like clear formulas! But I tend to agree with philosophers like Bernard Williams, who argue that it’s a fantasy to think we can import scientific objectivity into the realm of ethics. Our ethical life is just too messy and multifaceted to be captured by any single set of universally binding moral principles — any systematic moral theory.
And if that’s so, we have to look at how compelling we find the case for each competing value. It’s often obvious to us that we shouldn’t give equal weight to all of them. For example, I’m obsessed with snorkeling, and I’d love to be able to travel to all the top snorkeling destinations this year, from Hawaii to the Maldives to Indonesia. But I know I can’t justify taking infinite flights for infinite snorkeling trips during a climate emergency!
At the same time, that doesn’t mean I won’t ever go on any trip whatsoever. I do sometimes let myself travel by air, especially if it’s for a purpose that is not only pleasurable but also essential to a life well lived, like nurturing relationships with friends and family members who live far away. And when I fly, I try to make those miles really count by staying for a longer time.
This is basically what you’re already doing: “I’ve tried to take the approach of flying less frequently and staying for longer periods of time,” you write, describing “the one roundtrip I would take on a vacation per year.” I think that’s a reasonable approach, especially given the lack of trains and buses in your area.
So, even though you framed your dilemma as a question about whether or how much to fly, I don’t actually think the flying bit is your real problem. The real problem is this bit: “I feel resentful with the carefree way I see friends approaching this issue, like flying out every month to watch a game. I feel like I’m torturing myself with guilt over something that no one cares about.”
To be clear, it’s totally understandable to feel resentful; what your friends are doing does sound excessive. But the issue is that your resentment is making you miserable. And a virtuous but miserable life is not likely to be sustainable.
Some do-gooders can go to altruistic extremes without feeling resentful or judgmental. They may be able to forgo flying entirely and use that choice to create new forms of meaning and connection and to enrich other aspects of their lives, so that they don’t become joyless, judgy, or one-dimensional moral optimizers of the sort Wolf described. But most of us are not in that category. And unless you are, I wouldn’t counsel you to go down the purist path, because resentment and judgmentalness can cause their own harm. They harm you, they harm the relationship between you and the targets of your judgment, and they can ultimately harm the cause itself because they’re off-putting to others and they make being climate-friendly seem impossibly hard.
If you’re like most of us, a path of moderation will probably work better. You can decide on a balance that you think is reasonable — for example, one roundtrip flight per year — and stick with that. Once you’ve done that, ditch the guilt that’s torturing you. That’ll help diffuse the resentment, some of which I suspect is actually resentment toward yourself, because of how you’ve been torturing yourself.
But that on its own might not be enough to get rid of all the resentment, because flying once annually still might feel like a big sacrifice relative to what your peers are doing. So one key intervention here is to expand your aperture, to look at what a broader group of people are doing, so that you don’t feel you’re sacrificing for the sake of “something that no one cares about.” More people care than you might think!
A study published in Nature Communications found that 80 percent to 90 percent of Americans are living in a “false social reality”: They dramatically underestimate how much public support there is for climate policies. They think only 37 percent to 43 percent support these policies, when the real proportion of supporters is roughly double that. (And support is high across the world.) The study authors note that this misperception “poses a challenge to collective action on problems like climate change,” because it’s hard to stay motivated when you think you’re alone in caring.
Concretely connecting with others who are choosing to fly less will help bring this home for you, and make you feel that you’re part of a community that shares your values. Networks you can reach out to include Stay Grounded, We Stay on the Ground, and Flying Less. The sense of belonging and camaraderie you get from being part of such a group can help you form positive emotional associations with your reduced-flying lifestyle — you’ll feel like you’re gaining something, not just losing.
I think that’s especially important given that resentment can actually feel good in the short term (even if it damages our well-being in the long term). Righteous indignation is a rush; it gives us an energy boost. So we can’t expect the brain to give it up just like that — we need to replace it with something else that feels good. The best candidate may be the pleasant emotion that philosophers and psychologists have identified as resentment’s exact opposite: gratitude.
Next time you feel resentment bubbling up, go out in nature and do something you enjoy — birding, hiking, swimming — and really savor it. Pay close attention to each sound, each smell. Remind yourself that your reduced-flying lifestyle is helping to preserve this source of pleasure. In other words, it’s enabling you to get more of what you love. As you do that, I hope you’ll feel not only proud that you’re living in line with your values, but also very grateful to yourself.
Bonus: What I’m reading
- This dilemma reminded me not just of Greta Thunberg, but also of Simone Weil, a WWII-era philosopher who died early because she starved herself, refusing to eat more than people in occupied France. She was a “moral saint” if ever there was one. And as this excellent essay in the Point Magazine notes, “Weil is a saint, but many couldn’t stand her.” She’s admirable for how much she cared about others’ suffering, but is her extreme self-sacrifice actually exemplary, in the sense that we should all follow her example? I don’t think so.
- I also finally picked up a book that’s been on my to-read list for ages: Strangers Drowning by Larissa MacFarquhar. It does a beautiful job telling stories about extreme altruists and getting you thinking about the pros and cons of the purist path.
- I’m enjoying Isaiah Berlin’s essay “The Pursuit of the Ideal,” in which the moral pluralist philosopher argues that there’s no one right way to live, whether on the individual or state level. “Utopias have their value,” Berlin writes, since “nothing so wonderfully expands the imaginative horizons of human potentialities — but as guides to conduct they can prove literally fatal.”