A love letter to my friends in the climate movement

“[After] endless days in hospitals due to my severe health issues, I decided to become an organizer. I thought, “Why not fight for a better world if I have to stick around? Why not use the privilege I have to create change?” (Photo courtesy of Alexia Leclercq)

23-year-old climate activist Alexia Leclercq reflects on finding community and purpose within the youth climate movement through a love letter.

It was a Thursday night, but at this point, I had already lost track of time and days. I finally finished my assignments, attended what felt like 50 graduation ceremonies while sick, said goodbye to Harvard, and flew to Germany for a UN climate conference. 

UN conferences are always chaotic. After the stress of attending COP27, I had promised myself I wouldn’t attend another one. But here I am, running around negotiations, meeting with country delegates, trying to strategize and organize action. We were all losing brain cells and very sleep-deprived. Being a so-called “youth climate activist” feels weird sometimes. Protecting our sacred environment  — which is an extension of ourselves — feels like something everyone should do, without the label of “activism”.  I never imagined myself traveling the world to attend UN conferences with young people from across the globe. But here we are. 

Some time between listening to my mother's stories on tree spirits, dragons, traditional medicine, and 因果 (karma) and the swoosh of typhoon winds, the smell of pollution, and endless days in hospitals due to my severe health issues, I decided to become an organizer. I thought, “Why not fight for a better world if I have to stick around? Why not use the privilege I have to create change?” 

“Despite everything we have been through, we dream beyond what’s possible.  All the trauma we’ve accumulated in movement spaces that intentionally exclude our voices have been converted into a choice, to still, change the world.” (Photo courtesy of Alexia Leclercq)

It all started in Texas where I  went door to door, led local campaigns with PODER Austin, learned from environmental justice elders who have taken on the petrochemical industry, and won. That was six years ago. I’m building on that legacy this year, at COP28, I’m pushing for a more equitable fossil fuel phase-out. 

That Thursday, I sat in a hotel room with 15 friends, who are climate justice, women's rights, and Indigenous rights advocates from across the world. As we pass a bottle of wine and pizzas around the laughter doesn’t stop. One of my friends is re-creating a Shawn Mendez speech (long story, it’s an inside joke), there’s a massage train going on and another friend is doing some form of a handstand. We are all beyond exhausted and have commitments at 8 a.m. the next day. But why not spend another minute or hour laughing with each other?

That night was one of those moments when you’d look around and everything felt perfect. I remember thinking, “Wow, there’s nowhere and nobody else I’d rather be with.” How rare is it to feel so present, safe, and loved? I didn’t think I was ever lovable. How lucky am I to have friends who have taught me to love, laugh, and fight in a world on fire? 

“How lucky am I to have friends who have taught me to love, laugh, and fight in a world on fire?” (Photo courtesy of Alexia Leclercq)

Despite everything we have been through, we dream beyond what’s possible.  All the trauma we’ve accumulated in movement spaces that intentionally exclude our voices have been converted into a choice, to still, change the world.

Our futures have been sold for profits but we are here to get her back. Our ancestors survived the unsurvivable and our souls still remember the wisdom of Mother Earth — and we let her whispers guide us in activism and in life.

Someday this will go down in history.

But tonight, in the company of my friends, we talk the night away.