Natural resources that could run out—and what that means for our lives

It’s easy to assume the world will keep giving.

Air to breathe. Water to drink. Food that appears, reliably, on the shelf. Electricity that powers our lights and laptops. We’ve come to expect these things—default parts of daily life. But many of them rely on natural resources that are finite, fragile, and already under stress.

This isn’t an apocalypse story. It’s a story about systems—about what sustains life, what happens when those systems begin to break down, and how we might live differently if we actually noticed them.

Let’s start with something we take in 22,000 times a day: oxygen.

Oxygen makes up about 21% of the Earth’s atmosphere, and while it’s the third most abundant element in the universe, its availability in usable form is far from guaranteed. The Earth’s oxygen balance is maintained by plant life—trees on land, phytoplankton in the oceans. These living organisms photosynthesize, pulling in carbon dioxide and releasing oxygen. But this quiet process has been under strain for decades. Rising carbon emissions, ocean acidification, and deforestation have disrupted the balance. Earth’s oxygen levels have been declining slowly over the past million years, and human activity has accelerated that trend. We’re not on the brink of an oxygen shortage—but the idea that we could be is no longer unthinkable. And when the system becomes unthinkable, we stop designing around it.

Water tells a similar story. It covers over 70% of our planet, but only 2.5% of it is fresh—and the majority of that is locked in glaciers or underground aquifers. The water we can easily access for drinking, agriculture, and sanitation? Less than 1% of all water on Earth. And even that small portion is growing scarcer. Over-extraction, industrial pollution, and shifting weather patterns are all reducing the reliability of freshwater supplies. Cape Town’s 2018 “Day Zero” crisis, when the city came within weeks of running out of water, was an alarm bell. So was the shrinking of Lake Mead and Lake Chad. In some regions, water scarcity is triggering migration and conflict. In others, it shows up as higher utility bills, stricter rationing, or dry taps during heatwaves.

Meanwhile, trees—those majestic anchors of the biosphere—are disappearing faster than we can replace them. The Earth has lost nearly half of its forests since human civilization began. Some were cleared to feed growing cities. Others were sacrificed for agriculture, especially industrial meat and soy production. In just the past few decades, the Amazon rainforest has lost over 20% of its cover. Without trees, we lose much more than greenery. We lose cooling, rain cycles, oxygen production, soil stability, and spiritual grounding. A forest is not just wood. It’s a living infrastructure.

Soil, often overlooked, is quietly eroding beneath our feet. Good topsoil takes hundreds of years to form—and only a few seasons of bad farming to destroy. Today, thanks to industrial tilling, pesticide use, and monoculture crops, we’re degrading soil faster than nature can repair it. A 2014 UN report warned that we could lose all farmable topsoil in about 60 years if current practices continue. No topsoil means no crops. No crops means no food. The idea of a future where soil must be engineered in labs or trucked in from elsewhere sounds dystopian. But we’re closer to that future than most realize.

What grows from soil—plants—is also at risk. Plants are the base of every food chain. They convert sunlight into energy, release oxygen, feed animals, and nourish humans. But their survival depends on the health of soil, water, and climate. As these supports fray, so does the reliability of our food system. Climate shocks like prolonged droughts and freak frosts are already destabilizing crop yields in parts of the world. The future of food may not be one of famine—but it could be one of volatility. Price spikes. Scarcity. Staple foods becoming unaffordable or unavailable in some regions. The safety net we once assumed to be endless is looking increasingly patchy.

Fossil fuels are perhaps the best-known finite resource. Coal, oil, and natural gas were formed over millions of years from ancient biomass. We use them to power everything from homes to airplanes to fertilizer factories. But they’re running out—not just geologically, but economically and politically. Some experts estimate we could hit peak oil production in the next few decades. Even if reserves remain, the cost of extraction may become too high, both financially and ecologically. The push toward renewable energy is not just about climate—it’s about avoiding an energy cliff.

But even renewables aren’t immune to material limits. Solar panels and wind turbines require rare earth metals—many of which are mined under exploitative conditions in a handful of countries. Gallium, indium, neodymium: names most of us don’t know, yet they form the backbone of our digital world. These metals are difficult to recycle, easy to waste, and often discarded with consumer electronics. When they’re gone, we lose more than phones and laptops. We lose the infrastructure of our clean energy future.

The same goes for helium. It’s a non-renewable gas formed by the radioactive decay of underground rock. Once extracted and released, it floats out of the atmosphere and into space—gone forever. Helium isn’t just for balloons. It’s used in medical imaging, scientific research, and aerospace. Running out would disrupt key technologies we now consider basic to modern life.

Fish may seem endlessly renewable—but ocean systems are under deep stress. Overfishing, habitat destruction, warming seas, and acidification have pushed many fish populations to collapse. Coral reefs—nurseries for countless marine species—are dying off in mass bleaching events. If current trends continue, some scientists warn that global fisheries could be functionally dead by mid-century. That would be catastrophic for the billions who rely on seafood for protein and livelihood.

Salt feels abundant, but like helium, it’s surprisingly irreplaceable in certain forms. Industrial salt is used to create chemicals like chlorine and sodium hydroxide—foundational to everything from plastic to pharmaceuticals. While we’re not about to run out, high-demand industrial mining could strain specific reserves or introduce geopolitical tension over sourcing. When we talk about salt, we’re really talking about modern manufacturing.

Phosphorus is one of the most critical elements in agriculture. It’s a key ingredient in fertilizer—and without it, crop yields would drop sharply. Yet phosphorus is only mined in a few places, and much of what’s applied to fields ends up washing into waterways, causing algae blooms and dead zones. If supplies dwindle or become geopolitically restricted, food prices could surge. We haven’t built a global backup plan.

And what about wind and solar? They are renewable in theory—but building and maintaining those systems requires materials that are not. Panels degrade. Turbines break. Batteries need cobalt and lithium. If we fail to create closed-loop systems for recycling and maintenance, our green future could end up as resource-dependent as the fossil past.

The question isn’t: “What if we run out of everything?”

The better question is: “What happens if we keep pretending we won’t?”

At the level of daily life, it’s easy to feel removed from these crises. But everything in your home—your shower pressure, your phone charger, your breakfast—is connected to systems that depend on these resources. When those systems strain, the effects trickle down. Less reliable water supply. Higher grocery prices. More volatile energy bills. Fewer choices, shorter warranties, thinner margins of comfort.

And yet this isn’t a call for panic. It’s a call for design. For noticing. For shifting the way we build, consume, and replenish.

Can we design homes that use less water without sacrificing comfort? Can we make reuse easier than disposal? Can we let go of the “buy new” reflex and return to longer ownership, better repairability, and slower consumption?

In the kitchen, that might mean choosing foods with lower fertilizer intensity. At home, it might mean restoring shade with native trees, composting for soil health, or reducing phantom energy loads. In community, it might mean advocating for public infrastructure that aligns with ecological rhythms—not extractive timelines.

The point isn’t perfection. It’s re-alignment. Nature is not our warehouse. It’s our co-tenant. And when we design our days around respect—for the cycles that support us—we don’t just preserve resources. We preserve possibility. We create a future that breathes, one thoughtful choice at a time.