Is the World Really Changing Faster Than Ever? A Closer Look at Language and Perception

As an editor for over 25 years, I’ve seen a great deal of change – not only in how editing and publishing are done, but in the language we use.

Throughout this aspect of my career, I’ve worked with words across many sectors: from education and finance to health, food, natural sciences, travel, outdoor pursuits (those were good days!), and thought-leadership publications.

Now, as I bring this work into alignment with my values as an ecological coach and ecotherapist, I find myself paying even closer attention to the patterns and assumptions woven into our everyday language – especially when it comes to how we speak and write about the times we are living in.

A recent article that crossed my desk offered a familiar refrain (paraphrased here):

“As the world changes, we need to be on the cutting edge of new developments. The faster the change, the greater that imperative – and today, the world is changing faster than ever before.”

Narrow, at best, this sort of language is prevalent and deeply embedded in our collective psyche.

But what is its impact? And what assumptions does it carry?

Let’s break it down.

“The world”, or at least the part of it we inhabit, is a vast, diverse biosphere in which humans make up just 0.01% of all life. If we lift our gaze for a moment – perhaps to a tree, a rock, a fungus unfurling, or the vast expanse of sky above – do we see rapid change? Or might we catch a glimpse of what is referred to as “deep time” – the slow, layered rhythm of planetary life that exists far beyond our human sense of urgency?

We might focus instead on the pace at which a tree extends a new branch. My guess is we’d run out of daylight or patience – or perhaps even breath – before noticing any change at all.

Likewise, if we look at the beloved children in our collective care: are they growing faster than ever before? Or are they growing at the same pace our ancestors once witnessed?

With just this brief shift in perspective, we might begin to question: is “the world” really “changing faster than ever before”, or is our increasingly narrow focus, through the human-centered lens of technological “advancement”, leading us to a language of fear and lack? Language that keeps us tethered to a sense of urgency, scarcity, and the fear of being left behind. Language that burdens our minds, our bodies, and our nervous systems. Language that risks pulling us ever further from the natural rhythms that sustain life.

This is not to diminish the real crises of our time: the climate emergency, biodiversity loss, the fact that some natural systems are accelerating in response to human impact, and the urgent need for social and ecological regeneration.

But I believe we can respond to these with greater care and clarity – and perhaps greater resilience – if we are conscious of the words we use to describe them, and the times in which we are living.

Language is powerful. More powerful than we often realise. It can either deepen our connection or reinforce our disconnection. It can either overwhelm us or ground us in our agency. It can support life or work against it.

Let us remain curious about the subtle, often unseen ways in which language shapes our worldview – and how we might use it to re-root ourselves in connection, care, and coherence.