Who Gets to Be an Activist? (Hint: You Do)

Why we struggle to claim the "labels" of activism

A little while ago, I was hosting a climate circle. I asked the room: “Who here considers themselves an environmentalist?”

Every single person — every one of them who had taken time out of their busy lives to work on climate — shook their head.

Not me.

I’m not really an environmentalist.

It struck me how deeply we hesitate to claim the words that align with our values. We act, we care, we grieve — and still, somehow, we don’t feel like we belong to the movements that matter most to us.

I see it in other spaces too:

A friend once told me, “I believe in gender equality, but I’m not a feminist.”

To him, “feminist” meant something aggressive, angry, alienating— something he didn’t see in himself.

But believing in gender equality is feminism.

Caring for the Earth is environmentalism.

Acting for change is activism.

So where does this gap come from? And what would it mean if we closed it?

the old archetype

For most of my life, I thought I knew what an activist was.

An activist was someone who carried a sign, who shouted at protests, who was fueled by a white-hot anger that never cooled.

An activist had to be loud. Angry. Tireless.

I admired them, but I knew I could never be one of them.

I was not built for battle.

Later, I encountered another version: “joy is resistance.”

Activism, I was told, could be joyful, playful, full of light.

But even that felt impossible to me. It seemed to demand a kind of relentless, sparkling positivity— a refusal to doubt, to despair, or to acknowledge how heavy this work can be.

I am not endlessly joyful. So once again, I felt stuck outside the gate.

If activism meant being either angry enough or happy enough to earn your place, where did that leave the rest of us?

This space is better when more people speak up. You’re welcome to join the conversation, however big or small your thoughts feel.

one patch of coastline

Generative AI-assisted vision of a restored coastline 💖

A friend once told me about their project: restoring a small patch of coastline, piece by piece. Clearing invasive species. Restoring and re-planting native kelp.

And slowly, the sea otters returned.

It wasn’t massive or headline-grabbing. Or designed to shame politicians into action.

It was slow, careful, loving work. Designed to leave the world better than we found it.

It changed something in me.

For the first time, I saw activism not as a battlefield to charge onto, but as a garden to tend.

Some days it’s planting seeds.

Some days it’s pulling weeds.

Some days it’s simply sitting beside the soil, hands dirty, refusing to abandon it.

Activism can be as small and ordinary as pulling a weed.

redefining activism

You don’t have to be angry to be an activist.

You don’t have to be relentlessly joyful, either.

You don’t even have to believe your actions will make a difference.

You just have to want a brighter future. And be willing to move toward it, imperfectly.

If “activist” feels too heavy to claim, you can start smaller:

Try on the “environmentalist” label. A “justice-seeker.” A “builder.”

Let the words grow in your mouth until they stretch to fit you.

You are deepening activism by bringing your truer self into it.

…

Every time someone claims their care, they expand what activism can look like.

If only the loudest, angriest voices are allowed in, the movement shrinks. If we have to be perfect to be allowed in, the movement shrinks.

But if we open the garden gate, if we let every slow seed and stubborn root belong — the movement becomes stronger.

More beautiful.

More alive.

The Earth doesn’t just need warriors. Or zero-waste YouTubers.

It needs gardeners. It needs people who still (secretly?) prefer plastic straws over paper ones. It needs people who forget their reusable grocery bags or can’t be bothered with the dirty dishes from a party.

It needs artists, healers, storytellers. Steady hands that will keep sowing even when the harvest feels far away.

uncertain, imperfect hands

Activism isn't about being loud enough or angry enough or hopeful enough or perfect enough.

It's about caring enough to keep tending the future, even with your bare, uncertain hands.

You don't need to wait for permission to belong here.

Your hands in the dirt.
Your creative work.
Your doubt. Your grief. Your imperfection.
Your stubborn desire for a brighter future.

These are seeds.
They are enough.

The garden is vast.
You are already a part of it.

I write for free, once or twice a week, but the real joy is hearing from readers. You’re always welcome to respond. Hit 'reply' or send me a message below.

Further reading -

Lessons in Practical Resilience

How to Save the World

Erosion, not Explosion