A few years ago, my sister shared a map highlighting PFAS-contaminated sites, those affected by “forever chemicals,” near her home. Curious, I quickly looked for a similar map of my own area. At first glance, it seemed much less impacted, but maps don’t always reveal the full story. Many contamination sites remain unmapped, invisible. Forever chemicals, most commonly used in nonstick pans, firefighting foams, and industrial coatings, are designed to resist degradation. They accumulate in water, soil, and even human blood, earning their ominous name. 

Scarred ecosystems hold valuable lessons. Reminding us that ecosystem adaptation often begins at the microbial level, seeding the groundwork for broader recovery. Damage doesn’t have to be final; new ecosystems can emerge, shaped by the altered reality where ecological novelty is now the norm. Many contaminated sites are becoming novel ecosystems, unprecedented in nature but viable in their own right. In learning from these transformed landscapes, we might find not just ways to heal but also new models for living with our industrial legacy.

The process begins almost invisibly, with tiny spores, seeds, and bacteria finding footholds in cracks and crevices. What follows is ecological succession, the natural, gradual process by which ecosystems develop over time in disturbed or abandoned areas. Scientist Ingo Kowarik observes that nature’s return isn’t random; spontaneous vegetation follows identifiable patterns based on substrate, exposure and local climate.

In places emptied by catastrophe, flora and fauna quietly reclaim ground. Far from lifeless wastelands, these post-apocalyptic zones have become unexpected laboratories of life. Despite radioactive contamination wolves, boars, elk, lynx, and even bears have returned in the absence of human interference, turning the Chernobyl exclusion zone into an accidental refuge for wildlife. Elsewhere seabirds nest in hollow buildings of abandoned coal mines, trees grow through the factory floors in abandoned lots, forming unintended urban forests, and boars and foxes live amongst abandoned towns in exclusion zones. While not all returns are without risk, ecological succession doesn’t wait for policy or permission; life just starts to return.

The abandoned lot at the corner of my street, untouched by the current wave of construction, appears like a wild meadow. Waist-high grasses ripple with clusters of malva, poppies, and daisies, thriving in the moisture of spring rains. In the summertime, the heat will scorch the land, reducing it once more to a sun-bleached patch of dry grass and scattered concrete rubble.

Urban decay often becomes a canvas for spontaneous life, where vegetation and animals create unsanctioned ecosystems where humans once held control. Green ruins reveal how the wild adapts to modernity. Unlike planned rewilding or conservation efforts, these are accidental ecosystems that emerge where control has slipped and destruction was not final. Spontaneous vegetation suggests that these species are often highly resilient and tolerant of poor soils, pollution, and disturbed microclimates. Like dandelions in asphalt cracks, ferns in concrete stairwells, and lichens on metal signs. Far from being ecological dead zones, green ruins become corridors of life, bridging wild and urban, past and present.

A sense of  Alan Weisman’s observation was evoked upon my return to the community garden after four months in lockdown during the pandemic. “Without us, Earth will abide and endure; without her, however, we could not even be.” The plants that had been carefully selected and planted were overtaken by wild grasses and flowers. A new level of life and vibrancy was brought forth, one that had not been achieved by our organised rows.

The aesthetic appeal of abandoned places reflects a fascination with the tension between nature and decay, time and resilience. In a world of increasing urbanisation, these accidental wildernesses show what happens when we step away, what flourishes in our absence.

What comes next is transformation. Banyan and kapok roots split stone while holding temple ruins intact. Jaguars, toucans, and ceiba trees flourish among ancient architecture. Monkeys and goats dart between carved sacred pillars. These biocultural landscapes are hybrid spaces where human histories and ecological futures intertwine. Sites that challenge us to see potential in the broken, resilience in the overlooked, and hope in what appears abandoned. Seeking not merely how to undo the damage, but how to inhabit the world more wisely by listening to the subtle rhythms of renewal, embracing the vitality that emerges from neglected spaces, and learning from ecosystems whose endurance surpasses our own.

Words by Anna Borrie