There is a phrase that quietly governs much of our modern economy:
First make money.
Then — if there is enough left over — think of Nature.
It is rarely stated so bluntly.
Fact is, structurally, that is how the system works.
Businesses are created to generate profit.
Individuals work to secure income.
Governments measure success through growth.
Only once those objectives are secured — or appear stable — do we ask:
Nature enters the conversation as a cost centre.
A constraint.
An afterthought.
And that is not because people do not care.
It is because the system makes it risky to care first.
Imagine a business owner.
Margins are tight.
Competition is global.
Investors expect returns.
Now add a moral expectation:
“Please internalise the cost of environmental impact.”
In theory, that sounds reasonable.
In practice, it means:
If competitors do not internalise those same costs, the responsible actor is structurally penalised.
So we introduce voluntary labels.
CSR reports.
Offset schemes.
ESG ratings.
All well-intentioned.
But notice what they share:
They sit on top of the economic engine — not inside it.
Nature remains external.
The same logic applies at the household level.
An individual might want to:
But income constraints are real.
Rent is real.
Energy bills are real.
When budgets are tight, sustainability becomes conditional:
“I’ll make the sustainable choice — if I can afford it.”
And once again, Nature becomes something we consider after financial security.
The system quietly teaches us that caring for Nature is a luxury good.
Yet the consequences of environmental degradation are not luxuries.
They affect food systems, health, water, and long-term stability.
The contradiction is obvious.
The incentives are not.
Much of the environmental debate focuses on behaviour:
Why don’t consumers change faster?
Why don’t corporations act more boldly?
Why don’t governments regulate more aggressively?
But beneath these questions lies a deeper design issue.
Our economy rewards financial extraction first.
It asks ecological responsibility second.
Profit is measured quarterly.
Nature regenerates over decades.
Financial returns are mandatory.
Environmental stewardship is optional.
Under such design conditions, even well-meaning actors are constrained.
We are asking businesses and individuals to price Nature into a system that was never built to recognise its value in the first place.
That is not just difficult.
It is structurally incoherent.
If a company voluntarily increases costs to protect ecosystems, it risks losing market share.
If a country raises standards unilaterally, it risks capital flight.
If an individual pays more for sustainable goods, they personally absorb the premium.
Responsibility becomes asymmetric.
And asymmetric responsibility does not scale.
This helps explain why awareness does not automatically translate into systemic change.
The issue is not that people fail to understand the crisis.
It is that responsibility is misaligned with reward.
We have created an economy where protecting Nature often carries financial friction —
rather than financial reinforcement.
There is an uncomfortable truth at the centre of this conversation:
Nature is still being subsidised by invisibility.
We do not pay the full cost of soil degradation.
We do not pay the full cost of biodiversity collapse.
We do not pay the full cost of carbon accumulation.
Those costs are deferred.
To future generations.
To vulnerable communities.
To ecosystems that do not have balance sheets.
In accounting terms, they remain off-balance-sheet.
In ecological terms, they accumulate.
As long as these costs remain external, the instruction remains the same:
Make money first.
Think of Nature later.
What if we reversed the order?
What if ecological value were embedded directly into financial flows —
rather than treated as an afterthought?
This is where the idea of a Citizen’s Dividend for Nature becomes relevant.
Instead of placing the burden of pricing Nature solely on businesses or individual consumers, the value generated by preserving and regenerating natural capital could be redistributed as tangible economic benefit.
In such a framework:
Rather than asking:
“Can we afford to protect Nature?”
We would begin asking:
“How do we structure the economy so that protecting Nature generates value for everyone?”
The shift is subtle but profound.
From sacrifice to alignment.
From voluntary virtue to systemic design.
From afterthought to foundation.
We often ask:
Why don’t people care enough?
But perhaps the more important question is:
Why does the system make caring economically risky?
If protecting Nature remains structurally secondary to profit,
we will continue oscillating between growth and guilt.
But if we embed natural capital into the logic of economic reward — if we recognise that ecosystems are foundational assets rather than external inputs — then protecting Nature becomes rational, not exceptional.
The challenge is not persuading people that Nature matters.
Most already know that.
The challenge is redesigning the sequence.
So that the instruction is no longer:
Make money first.
Then (maybe) think of Nature.
But rather:
Value and protect Nature —
and let the economy reflect that reality.
That is not a moral appeal.
It is a structural proposition.
And structure is where lasting change begins.
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