Let’s begin with the obvious: the world is on fire. Literally and metaphorically. We are living in what some now call the polycrisis—a tangled web of climate collapse, inequality, ecological breakdown, war, political dysfunction, and economic fragility. It’s a multi-headed beast, and no sword of data or silver bullet of technology has slain it. We have climate reports stacked higher than glaciers used to be. We’ve published roadmaps, built dashboards, held summits. Still, emissions rise. Inequality deepens. Trust fractures. We’re not short on facts. We’re starving for meaning.

And this is the core problem: the polycrisis movement doesn’t lack knowledge—it lacks a story.

Humans are storytelling creatures. We don’t navigate the world through spreadsheets. We navigate through narrative. The stories we tell shape our sense of what’s possible, desirable, and just. They tell us who we are and what we owe each other. And right now, the story we’re telling about the polycrisis is either too grim to mobilize or too vague to matter.

In response, a new wave of thinkers and campaigners has proposed a shift: away from doom, and toward wellbeing and abundance. It sounds uplifting. Who wouldn’t want a world of wellbeing and abundance? It promises hope, dignity, and care. And yet—beneath its optimistic sheen—it may be setting us up for failure.

Let’s start with wellbeing. A beautiful word. But what does it actually mean? Whose wellbeing? Measured by what? For some, wellbeing means universal healthcare, access to nature, clean air. For others, it means a bigger house, a second SUV, and avocado toast on demand. The ambiguity makes it a dangerous placeholder—especially in politics. When we promise “wellbeing for all” without clarifying that it might require less material consumption for some, we risk triggering backlash when reality fails to meet expectations.

Imagine this: a public health campaign promises a “better life for everyone.” But behind the scenes, that better life means fewer flights, less red meat, smaller homes. Without explanation, this feels like bait and switch. And when people feel tricked—especially people already struggling or precarious—they revolt. Not against the system that caused the crisis, but against the people trying to solve it. That’s how you end up with populist uprisings fueled by nostalgia for a past that never existed.

Then there’s abundance. The more dangerous of the two.

At first glance, abundance seems like a narrative superpower. It flips the script. It rejects austerity. It replaces guilt with possibility. But scratch beneath the surface and you’ll find a contradiction so glaring, it’s almost poetic: abundance is the exact opposite of what the planet needs right now.

Abundance, even when redefined as emotional or social wealth, still carries the baggage of growth and excess. It whispers that we can have it all—green energy and growing consumption, universal luxury without planetary limits, regenerative systems without restraint. This is fantasy. A comforting delusion.

We don’t need to tell people they can have more. We need to show people why enough is already a gift.

Because the real path forward—the only viable one—is not paved with abundance. It is grounded in sufficiency and resilience.

Sufficiency is not austerity. It is not misery. It is the radical idea that a good life does not depend on having more, but on having enough—enough food, enough shelter, enough beauty, enough meaning. It’s the principle of not taking more than we need so that others can have enough, too. It’s about balance, reciprocity, fairness. In a world defined by scarcity for many and indulgence for a few, sufficiency is revolutionary.

Imagine a society where success isn’t measured by accumulation, but by contribution. Where prestige isn’t about how much we consume, but how much we regenerate. Where status comes not from having the biggest house, but the most vibrant neighborhood. This isn’t utopia. It’s simply a shift in values—from extraction to care.

And care is the heart of resilience.

Resilience is often misunderstood as bouncing back. But we don’t need to bounce back—we need to bounce forward. Real resilience isn’t just surviving shocks. It’s creating systems and relationships strong enough to prevent them in the first place. It’s not just building flood walls—it’s restoring wetlands. It’s not hoarding wealth in bunkers—it’s investing in community kitchens, shared transport, seed libraries, cooperative housing.

In a post-growth world—and yes, growth as we know it must end—resilience will be our lifeline. Because collapse won’t be evenly distributed. It already isn’t. The rich build fireproof mansions; the rest of us breathe the smoke. If we don’t build a culture of sufficiency and resilience, then when scarcity hits—whether of food, water, or peace—it will hit hardest those who are already most vulnerable.

Resilience also offers a tangible, political payoff. In a world becoming more volatile by the day—economically, ecologically, and socially—resilience is the best insurance policy we have. It creates green jobs in care, repair, and regeneration. It helps stabilize food and energy prices by making systems more local and less dependent on fragile global supply chains. And it boosts public health through clean air, active mobility, and stronger social ties. In short, resilience is not only a moral imperative—it is a pragmatic one.

That’s why the new narrative can’t be about abundance. It must be about care, limits, and collective strength. It must show people that living with less stuff can mean more connection, more health, more freedom. It must make the invisible visible—especially the systems we depend on, and the people who keep them running.

And geopolitically, the stakes couldn’t be higher. The scramble for resources—land, water, rare earth metals—is intensifying. Every promise of green growth is quietly backed by new extractive frontiers, new dependencies, new inequalities. A politics of abundance doesn’t challenge this dynamic—it accelerates it. Sufficiency, on the other hand, reduces pressure. It lowers demand. It cools conflict. It tells a different story of security: not through dominance, but through interdependence.

So, what does this new story look like?

It starts with care—for each other, for place, for the future. It centers on what we protect, not what we acquire. It finds joy not in endless novelty, but in familiarity, in rituals, in enoughness. It honors limits—not as barriers to break, but as boundaries to respect. It reclaims the commons. It uplifts the local. It slows down time.

It doesn’t promise abundance. It promises belonging.

Because in the end, that’s what we’re truly craving—not more, but meaning. Not infinite choice, but shared purpose. Not growth, but home.

And that’s the story we must tell now.

The Minority Report Publication

The Wrong Story