In early November 2024, I sat with some friends on the steps of Columbia University’s Low Library, feeling the sun beat down on us in our t-shirts and summer dresses. It was a whopping 70 degrees Fahrenheit outside. 

“It’s not supposed to be this warm,” we all agreed.  

My little sister called from the U.K. to commiserate about a recent conversation with our parents. “They just said climate change isn’t real. Well, not isn’t real, but that it’s natural and it’s not as serious as people say it is,” she complained. 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I am in New York studying at the Climate School, devoting my life to understanding and combating the crisis, yet my own parents don’t think it’s a big deal. 

I bet most people have someone like this in their lives. The conspiracy-theorist uncle, the skeptical cousin, the grandmother who shares YouTube videos claiming global warming is fake news. A 2020 survey found that roughly 25% of the U.S. population expressed some agreement with the sentiment that climate change is a hoax. 

Lately, I’ve become a little obsessed with climate conspiracies. Douglas and Sutton define conspiracy theories as “a belief that two or more actors have coordinated in secret to achieve an outcome, and that their conspiracy is of public interest, but not public knowledge.” Climate change is fertile ground for these theories because the science is so complex. It’s full of intricate models, probability ranges and uncertainties that require us to grasp long-term trends rather than just immediate cause and effect. The public is expected to trust scientists as they warn about shifting jet streams, ocean currents and radiative forcing, while fossil fuel lobbyists, podcast hosts and social media sometimes push a simpler, more enticing narrative: it’s all a hoax. 

Hence, conspiracy theories offer an easy, emotionally satisfying answer to a complicated problem. Instead of facing the reality of climate change, or reckoning with their own complicity, people can choose a different story: that climate disasters are manipulated, that scientists are corrupt, and that the crisis is exaggerated for political gain. 

After Hurricane Helene made landfall in the U.S. in autumn 2024, killing over 100 people in North Carolina alone, I scrolled through Twitter and was shocked to see thread after thread accusing Democrats of manipulating the storm. According to these posts, it was a manufactured catastrophe designed to access critical minerals, punish red states ahead of the election, or even claimed as God’s punishment for Democratic policies such as abortion. It would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

As climate change intensifies, so do the disasters that come with it. Conspiracies thrive in disaster zones. When something big happens, people search for answers, and more importantly, for someone to blame. They are drawn to to the idea that powerful groups are secretly manipulating the world around us. Research has shown that conspiracy theories actively undermine environmental policies by steering people away from climate-friendly actions. In the wake of major hurricanes, misinformation can weaken public trust in disaster response agencies, leading people to reject evacuation orders or refuse government aid. Online conspiracies have even inspired real-world threats, with FEMA officials receiving death threats for their supposed role in “weaponizing” natural disasters. Meanwhile, meteorologists have been harassed and even doxxed for supposedly “pushing the climate agenda.”  

Indeed, conspiracy theories are intensifying as quickly as the storms themselves — and spreading even faster. Conspiracy theories are most powerful when they exploit deep-seated fears and insecurities. A fundamental human motivation is self-enhancement — the need to feel good about oneself and maintain self-esteem. People also want to believe they are heading toward a good future and that their prospects are secure. Climate change presents an existential threat to these beliefs, not just about individual morality, but about the legitimacy of entire societies. Admitting the scale of the crisis means reckoning with uncomfortable truths: that our way of life is unsustainable, that the systems we rely on are deeply flawed, that those in power are failing us, and that the future will be radically different. For many, it’s easier to deny reality than to face it. 

So, what do we do? 

When my sister called me in November, she asked what to say to Mum and Dad. She’s just 16 and doesn’t know all the science behind climate change yet. I wanted to start telling her about carbon cycles and feedback loops, about ocean currents and tipping points, and all the catastrophes that will come. But instead, I told her to take a deep breath, go back downstairs, and enjoy dinner with our parents. Because here’s the truth: Arguing with a diehard conspiracy theorist will not change their mind. 

Instead of wasting energy debating those who refuse to listen, we need to focus on the much bigger middle ground: people who are skeptical, uncertain or disengaged. Many feel psychologically distant from climate change, seeing it as someone else’s problem or as an abstract issue that doesn’t affect their daily lives. Others, particularly in wealthy countries, experience solution aversion— fearing that climate solutions will be worse than climate change itself, and that they will cost them their lifestyle and freedoms. And then there are those who feel powerless. The crises pile up, the disasters get worse, and it starts to feel like nothing we do will ever be enough. This doomism is just as paralyzing as outright denial. 

However, there is hope here, too. This middle ground can be nudged toward action. This is where we, as climate communicators, should focus our attention. 

If we want to shift the middle ground, we have to be persistent. Be kind. Be patient. And most importantly, be willing to work with people we don’t fully agree with. Some of the most powerful climate action will come not from perfect ideological alignment, but from productive tension, from unlikely partnerships that find common ground despite their differences. We don’t have to agree on everything to make progress. 

Climate scientist Katharine Hayhoe argues that we should begin these conversations with our shared values. Instead of hammering people with facts, we should start with what we agree on. Energy, for example, is common ground;  we all want reliable, affordable power. And transforming our energy systems is the fastest way to cut emissions. The same goes for water;  everyone wants safe, clean, unpolluted water. These are entry points, openings for discussion, not just about climate change itself, but about the future we want to build. 

So no, I won’t be spending my time arguing with people who think hurricanes are government-controlled weapons, even my own family. Instead, I’ll continue talking about climate with everyone else who will listen, finding common ground and shifting perspectives. I suggest you do the same. Because we need as many people as possible, in every country and every industry, to join this fight.

Rosie Semlyen is a graduate student at the Columbia Climate School and a research assistant at the National Center for Disaster Preparedness, specializing in disaster risk management and climate policy.

Views and opinions expressed here are those of the authors, and do not necessarily reflect the official position of the Columbia Climate School, Earth Institute or Columbia University.