From Climate Grief to Off-Grid Peace: How to Prepare for Climate Change
- Rachel Bailleau
- May 2
- 6 min read
Updated: May 27
It started with fear, and a question that knocked the breath out of me. But over the years, that fear became a catalyst for healing and hope. Here's the story of how I went from eco-anxious and uncertain to rooted, resilient, and raising my daughter in the wild beauty of the French Pyrenees.
Climate Grief Was Always There (But Easy to Ignore)
I studied change and biodiversity at university, and I’d been concerned about the climate crisis for some time. But I distracted myself pretty well with a crammed agenda, falling in (and out) of love, and partying with my friends. The usual early-twenties chaos.
After graduation, I set off hitchhiking and wild camping around Europe with a French guy I barely knew. (Spoiler alert, he is now my husband and father of our beautiful baby).
One evening, we found ourselves on the tiny Scottish island of Lismore, staying on a croft with a couple of greying eco warriors who had spent their lives in environmental activism.
We were weeding the vegetable garden when Claire asked me:
"Hey Rachel, how would you feed yourself if the supermarkets were empty?"
To my surprise, I hated that she asked that question. It felt like a knife in my gut. Because I didn’t have an answer. The question tapped on the bedroom door where my climate fears had been hibernating all winter. And I couldn’t get back to sleep.
The Supermarket Question I Couldn't Shake
That night, I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, thinking about how vulnerable I was. I knew full well that climate change was already impacting global food security. I'd spent four years studying it and taken on £60,000 of student debt in the process. But if the supermarket shelves were bare tomorrow, I had half a pack of biscuits in my backpack. Brilliant.
It would be years before I did anything tangible about that anxiety, but I can clearly split my life into before and after the supermarket question.
How to prepare for climate change? But still live a happy and meaningful life today? It seemed impossible.
From Distant Concern to Personal Reckoning
I’d always seen climate change and biodiversity loss as tragedies that happened to people in faraway places. Suddenly, I realised there was no escaping it. I was born in 1994 and got to enjoy the tail end of this incredible bubble of peace and prosperity in Europe. Most of my ancestors couldn’t even dream of the life I took for granted. Hot water in the taps? Of course. Healthcare? Available. Food? Plentiful. Safety? Normal.
That night, I woke my boyfriend in the tent beside me. “What would we do if there was no food in the supermarkets?” I whispered. He pulled me close. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m a farmer’s son, remember?”
But the next morning, as we sipped coffee from a tin mug overlooking the stormy North Sea, he said: “Let’s keep travelling. But let’s keep our eyes open for land where we could raise a family.”
Learning to Live with the Land
We packed up our bags and got back on the road, hitchhiking along the Northern coast of Scotland. We camped on rocky beaches, watched dolphins play in the surf, and curious seals swim up to our tent. We talked endlessly about land, food, resilience, and the kind of life we wanted to create.
That conversation on Lismore had cracked something open in me. I didn’t want to stay frozen in fear anymore. I wanted to learn how to live differently.
So I did. We started volunteering on farms as we travelled. We planted seeds and dug compost. We studied soil, fungi, and biodiversity. And we began to understand that healing the land and healing ourselves weren’t separate tasks.
How to Prepare for Climate Change : Finding Our Off-Grid Home
A couple of years later, married now, we found ourselves in the French Pyrenees. We stood together on a mountainside and just knew that this was the place. It had everything: fresh water, wild landscapes, biodiversity, and a strong local food culture. It was a place where people were still connected to the land.
We bought a ruined farmhouse and 11 hectares of forest. This might seem crazy, but we managed to do so with two minimum wage jobs and some savings from seasonal work over the years. (It's a different world to the UK!) And though we came there from a place of fear, the process of building our off-grid home filled us with hope.
Building Resilience, Finding Joy
We planted an orchard and watched deer come to eat the fallen apples. We rescued chickens, dogs, and donkeys and watched them transform from skinny and scared to happy and full of life. We drank coffee on our doorstep while kingfishers flitted by and wild boar trotted down our drive.
Our 11 hectares of woodland had been farmland in living memory. But once the last farmer left the land, the forest had swallowed it whole. No one had planted a single tree, and here we were watching red squirrels and pine martens jumping from oak to silver birch. Earth is amazing.
We live 3km down a farm track, only accessible with a 4x4. At night, we’re woken by screeching owls. The stars are so bright you don’t need a head torch to walk outside.
We feel more confident about the future now. My husband learned to hunt and butcher wild animals. I learned to forage all year round. We drink water from a spring and burn fallen branches to keep warm. I'm not going to say it has been easy. Half the house is still a building site and sometimes I wish we lived in an apartment in town that was easy to clean and didn't take so much time and energy. But when I see bats drop out of the rafters of our house and flying over the pond, I feel connected to the natural world in a way I couldn't have dreamt of in the past.
A Life Rooted in Hope, Not Fear
For over 10 years, we were vegetarians. But living in the forest has changed our relationship with the ecosystem. It feels right for us to eat some meat my husband hunts for now. We eat buttery wild mushrooms and venison with friends around the fire. Our dogs splash in the stream. And recently, we welcomed our baby girl, who is blanketed in birdsong every day.
This life isn’t a retreat or an escape. It’s a response. A way of saying yes to life, even in the face of uncertainty. It's a way we can prepare for the future while also experiencing a beautiful and fulfilling life today. It's hard work. We collapse into bed as a pile of aching muscles after cutting wood and fixing fences.
For us, reducing eco-anxiety wasn’t about pushing our fears aside. We listened to them. We let them guide us. And we took proactive steps to create a safer future for our family.
And somewhere along the way, something beautiful happened: the process itself became magical.
From Healing to Helping
This healing has also given us the energy and clarity to contribute beyond ourselves. I bring foraged foods to our lonely elderly neighbours. We help neighbours walk their cows into the mountain pastures in spring. Even small things like living near a stream means using only the gentlest, most natural detergents. It’s made us realise that every choice we make, no matter how small, impacts the ecosystems around us.
We know this lifestyle isn’t possible or accessible for everyone. So for six months of the year, we open our doors to people from the cities, people experiencing burnout or struggling with eco-anxiety. We host them, teach them about foraging and growing food, and help them reconnect with nature and their sense of resilience. They leave not only rested, but empowered to make changes in their own lives, however small. And we always learn from visitors, too.
Thank you so much for reading my story. Of course, you don’t have to pack your bags and move to the forest. But I hope you can take your feelings seriously while still finding a way to be happy. Eco anxiety isn’t something to repress or ignore; it’s a signal worth listening to. I want you to feel empowered, whether that means becoming an activist, making more earth-conscious choices in daily life, or simply starting conversations that matter. You deserve joy and purpose, and the planet needs your care. The best bit? One doesn't exclude the other.
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