Drowning in It

There’s a moment every four to five weeks that snaps me back to reality. I load up the car, drive to our local transfer station, hand Dan a coupon, and drop off a single 44-gallon bag of trash. One bag. And I think — okay, we’re doing our part. We compost, we recycle obsessively, we reuse packaging like it owes us money.

Then I drive away and start doing math I probably shouldn’t do.

Globally, we are generating about 2.1 billion tonnes of municipal solid waste every single year. Not a typo. And that number is projected to nearly double — to 3.8 billion tonnes — by 2050. Which is a number so large it stops meaning anything, like when astronomers tell you the nearest star is 4.2 light-years away and you’re just supposed to nod and act like you processed that.

I grew up in the Hudson Valley. Every little township had its own dump — often parked right next to a river, which even as a kid seemed like a spectacularly bad idea. You’d see vent pipes sticking out of closed landfills, little methane smokestacks poking up through grass that now had a hiking trail running around it. “Look kids, don’t touch the pipe, that’s the toxic fume exhaust — but isn’t this a lovely walk?” Progress, I guess.

Those dumps closed. Got capped. Turned into “parks.” And then quietly everybody forgot about them, because the garbage trucks just kept coming and the bag kept going to the curb and you didn’t have to think about it anymore.

That’s the whole racket. Out of sight, out of mind. Except I can’t stop thinking about it.

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The scale

Start with New York City, since it’s the easiest to wrap your head around — or at least try to. NYC generates roughly 13,000 tons of residential waste every single day. Just the city. The five boroughs. Every day. 81% of it goes to landfills or incinerators, mostly outside the state. Every year, the diesel trucks haul that garbage a combined distance equivalent to driving around the Earth over 300 times.

Zoom out to the whole country. The US generates about 951 kilograms of municipal solid waste per person per year — top three worst in the developed world, per the 2025 Global Waste Index. That works out to roughly 870,000 metric tonnes per day, nationally.

While you’ve been reading, roughly another 10,000 tons have been generated nationally. It doesn’t stop. There’s no weekend off.

What it actually looks like

Numbers in the hundreds of thousands are hard to picture. Use a landmark everybody knows: the National Mall in Washington DC — that 309-acre strip from the Lincoln Memorial on the west end to the Capitol on the east, with the Washington Monument rising from the center. Monuments, museums, America’s symbolic front yard.

Spread one day of US trash — 870,000 metric tonnes — evenly across those 309 acres, and the pile sits 13 feet deep. Taller than a basketball hoop. The Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Capitol dome — all standing there completely clear, towering above it. Which honestly might be the most unsettling version of this image: a 13-foot wall of garbage blanketing the entire Mall, and the monuments don’t even notice.

Now let a month go by. Thirty days of American trash on that same footprint stacks to 381 feet. The Lincoln Memorial — 99 feet tall — has been swallowed since about day eight. The Capitol dome, 289 feet tall, is buried under 92 feet of garbage. The Washington Monument at 555 feet is the last thing standing, just the top third of the obelisk poking above the trash line.

A full year? 4,641 feet. No monument left. No reference point. The number disappears off the top of any chart you try to draw it on.

What makes NYC almost look quaint: the city’s entire 13,000-ton daily output, spread across that same 309-acre Mall, would only be about 2 inches deep. One of the largest cities on the planet barely registers against the national number. NYC is the opening act. The rest of the country is the show.

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Most people have a vague mental model: truck comes, takes it away, done. The logistics behind that are genuinely staggering, and getting more expensive and absurd by the year.

NYC’s non-recyclable waste gets trucked to Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Virginia — most of which are at or near capacity. The recycling gets sorted (by hand, at facilities with one of the highest injury rates of any job in the country), with a decent chunk of it ending up in landfills anyway because the market for recycled materials collapsed when China stopped taking our plastic in 2018.

Globally, less than 20% of waste is actually recycled. Only 9% of plastic specifically. The rest gets landfilled, incinerated, or dumped openly — the last option being tragically common in lower-income countries that generate far less waste than we do but are getting buried in ours.

Those old township landfills I grew up near? They didn’t disappear. They just got capped and greenwashed with a hiking trail. The methane vents are still venting. Landfills are the third-largest source of methane emissions in the US, and methane is 25 times more potent a greenhouse gas than CO2. So while everybody is (rightfully) talking about tailpipe emissions and coal plants, we’ve also got essentially thousands of slow-motion underground fart machines spread across the landscape.

There are over 1,000 documented large methane leaks from landfills worldwide since 2019. Not small leaks. Large ones. “Huge” is the word the researchers used.

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Recycling, as practiced in the United States, is largely a story we tell ourselves to feel better about consuming things. The bins exist. The trucks come. And then… a lot of it goes to a transfer station and eventually a landfill anyway, because the materials aren’t clean enough, the market for them doesn’t exist, or the economics just don’t pencil out. Contamination rates in residential recycling bins are brutal. That pizza box with cheese on it? Ruins an entire truckload of paper.

I’m not saying don’t recycle — you absolutely should. But it’s not the answer. It’s a partial answer to a problem that’s about volumes and systems and producer incentives, not just consumer behavior.

The US recycles about 30% of its waste. Japan recycles about 19%, but incineration handles most of the rest — only 1% goes to landfill. South Korea has a 54% recycling rate. Germany processes 90% of its bottom ash from incineration to recover metals for reuse.

And then there’s us: 30% recycled, nearly half landfilled, and a per-capita trash output that went up — from 811 kg to 951 kg per person — between the last two major global waste indexes. We are generating more trash per person than we were three years ago.

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Sweden sends less than 1% of its trash to landfills. They burn roughly 54% of their household waste in waste-to-energy facilities, with enough recovered heat to warm nearly half of all Swedish homes. Their incineration plants run at 85% efficiency. They actually import waste from Norway and the UK because they don’t generate enough domestic trash to keep their plants running.

Copenhagen has an incinerator with a ski slope on the roof. It’s an attraction. The plant handles waste from 600,000 residents and 68,000 businesses, generates electricity for 60,000 homes, and heats 100,000 households. It’s genuinely impressive.

Is incineration perfect? No. There are real debates about carbon emissions, dioxin output, and whether it undercuts recycling incentives. Denmark is actually closing seven incinerators because they’ve become so reliant on burning that it’s killed their recycling momentum. The EU is pulling funding for new ones. Nothing about this problem is clean.

What I keep getting stuck on is that we’ve got thousands of landfills venting methane, leaching chemicals into groundwater, and eating up land — and there’s no serious national conversation about alternatives. Not burning for energy, not expanded composting infrastructure, not mandatory producer responsibility laws that put the cost of packaging disposal back on the people who made the packaging.

Some people hear “incineration” and the conversation ends. I get it — every incinerator ever proposed has been planned for a lower-income neighborhood, because that’s how industrial siting works in this country, and that’s a real and legitimate concern. But the alternative isn’t “we just keep trucking it to Ohio.” The alternative has to be something.

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You know what Florida is doing with wastewater now? They’re cleaning sewage water and routing it back into the drinking supply. Not because they want to. Because they’ve run out of options. The aquifers are depleted, the population keeps growing, and the water has to come from somewhere.

A reporter drank it live on NPR. Said it was fine. I believe them. And I still would hesitate.

That’s where you end up when you kick problems down the road long enough. You run out of road. And then you’re drinking treated sewage and trying to convince people it’s normal, because it is normal at that point — because there’s no other choice.

Trash is going to get there too. The landfills in Pennsylvania and Ohio aren’t going to absorb New York’s garbage forever. The fresh kills of the next generation are going to require real solutions, and those solutions will be easier and cheaper to deploy before the crisis point than after it.

Forever chemicals. Microplastics. Pharmaceutical residue in groundwater. These aren’t hypothetical. They’re in the water table right now and nobody really knows at what scale, because we’ve been capping landfills with liner systems and hoping they hold for decades, and the long-term data is thin.

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We love to talk about climate change. It’s on the news. It’s in political platforms. It has a vocabulary and a whole apparatus of public discourse around it — good and bad — which at least means it’s being discussed.

Trash doesn’t have that. Trash is unglamorous. It smells. Nobody wants to be the politician who runs on a waste management platform. Nobody goes to the March for Garbage. And so the problem compounds, quietly, while we put our bags at the curb and forget about it.

Meanwhile: 2.1 billion tonnes this year. 3.8 billion by 2050. A mountain of garbage 13 feet deep across the National Mall, every single day, just from us.

I drop off my one 44-gallon bag every four to five weeks and I feel like I’m doing something. And I am — every bit matters at the margins. But I’ve also done the math now, and I can’t unknow it. My one bag is a rounding error in an accounting problem that has no current solution.

I don’t think that’s defeatism. Naming the size of the problem is usually the first step toward doing anything about it.