life SOCIETY
summer, the July heat was responsible
for more than 93 deaths in Quebec. On
Canada Day, Ottawa broke the record
for the highest humidity index ever
recorded in that city—it felt like 47C.
The Insurance Bureau of Canada esti-
mates “catastrophic losses due to natural
disasters have increased dramatically”
over the last 10 years, with $1.9 billion
of insured loss in 2018 alone. Extreme
weather-related losses reported during
the ’90s and 2000s averaged around half
a billion dollars per year. Even leaving out
damages from the record-breaking Fort
McMurray wildfires, losses in the 2010s
are still three times higher, averaging
almost $1.5 billion per year through 2018.
Along our coastlines, rising sea levels and
stronger storm surges threaten commu-
nities. The cost of updating and install-
ing new floodgates in Surrey, B.C., alone
is estimated at $1.5 billion. Across the
north, communities face a triple threat:
thawing permafrost that erodes as the
waves batter the shore, protective sea ice
that is developing later and leaving ear-
lier in the year, and rising seas.
My speciality is high-resolution climate
projections: translating big climate mod-
els into information that shows how an
individual place (such as a city, province
or broader region)—will be affected by a
changing climate. As a scientist, my job
has always involved a lot of late nights cod-
ing on a computer and writing detailed
descriptions of my research for scientific
publications. But as interest in climate
change grows, more of my time is being
spent answering people’s questions: When
will my family’s farm run out of water?
What risks does climate change pose to
our city? How can we transition our energy
systems off fossil fuels without harming
the economy here or development abroad?
I’ve come to realize that responding to
these questions is just as important as
the science side of my job. Scientists can’texpect to change the world from behind
a computer screen, no matter how many
reports we publish each year or how long
they are. (The most recent U.S. National
Climate Assessment, which I helped write,
clocked in at more than 2,000 pages.) It’s
increasingly urgent that we find ways to
show the tangible impacts climate change
is having on our lives today and how it
affects the things that matter to us.
This past fall, for instance, I was invited
to speak at the Successful Canadian
Women’s Dinner. It’s a fundraising bene-
fit for Adsum, a non-profit that supports
women and families experiencing home-
lessness in Halifa x. When we picture who
will be most affected by climate change, it
usually isn’t people living on the streets.
So as I was introduced before my talk,
I could see dubious looks and a few raised
eyebrows among the corporate sponsors.
I’d spent that day, though, travelling
around the city with Sheri Lecker, exec-
utive director of Adsum. She shared how
last summer’s record-breaking heat had
driven more people to seek shelter. Severe
rainfall also made it harder to arrange
transportation to appointments and
jobs when bus routes were shut down or
delayed, and they also had to deal with
what happened when people missed
medical appointments and counselling
programs. The implications a changing
climate has on Adsum’s work is clear, as
is their dedication to women and kids,
the very people who are disproportion-
ately affected by climate change and the
increasing risk of weather-related disas-
ters around the world.
I put all this into my talk that night and,
when I finished, one of the sponsors was
the first to grab my hand. “I have to admit
I wondered what they were thinking when
they invited you,” he said. “But that was the
best talk we’ve ever had!” Why? Because
it helped him connect the dots between
climate change and what mattered tohim—and to everyone in that room. And
through doing so, he’d recognized the most
important truth of all: Who we already are
is exactly who we need to be to care about
a changing climate.Why we need to find common ground
I learned that important truth from the
very first conversation I had with some-
one who disagreed with me on climate
change. That person was my husband.
I was vaguely aware, during my first few
years of studying climate change in the
States, that there were people who didn’t
think climate change was real. But I never
imagined they’d be fellow graduate stu-
dents—or the man I married. I thought
opinions on climate change were based
on knowledge, not politics. My husband,
who grew up on a horse farm in conser-
vative Virginia, had never met anyone
who shared his values who thought cli-
mate change was real.
It sounds daunting, but we had two big
advantages: a lot of shared interests and
a lot of motivation to work this out. Over
the next year, we had dozens of conversa-
tions, some sitting side by side at the com-
puter and looking at global temperature
data from NASA, others talking about
what happens to people’s jobs when we
stop using coal. We’re now on the same
page when it comes to this issue. And I now
understand how critical it is that we start
these discussions with mutual respect and
a focus on what genuinely connects us.
So today, when I encounter someone
who’s doubtful about the reality or the rel-
evance of climate change, I don’t start out
by talking science. Instead, I get to know
them to see if I can identify something we
share. If they’re a skier, it’s important to
know that the snowpack is shrinking as
our winters warm; maybe they’d like to
hear more about the work of an organiza-
tion like Protect Our Winters that advo-
cates for climate action. If they ’re a birder,