In the weeks leading up to Mexico’s vibrant Day of the Dead festivities, an unmistakable orange glow spreads across city streets, markets, and cemeteries. The source? Cempasuchil, or the Mexican marigold, whose luminescent petals have for generations symbolized the bridge between the living and the dead. But this year, as families prepare their altars and traditions, the very flower at the heart of these celebrations faces an uncertain future—one threatened by the increasingly erratic hand of climate change.
Lucia Ortiz, a 50-year-old farmer from Xochimilco, Mexico City, has spent decades nurturing cempasuchil on her family’s small plot of land. The flower is more than just a crop to Ortiz; it’s a connection to her ancestors, a source of income, and a central part of her identity. Yet, as she and other farmers bundle up their harvest for the bustling markets, a quiet anxiety hangs in the air. “This year, we lost a lot. We struggled to even grow the cempasuchil. There were moments in which we didn’t have the money to buy fertilizer we needed,” Ortiz told The Associated Press. “With the cempasuchil plants, we’ve sometimes been left with nothing.”
Ortiz’s experience is far from unique. Across Mexico, farmers are reeling from the impacts of climate change. Torrential rains, prolonged droughts, and sudden flooding—phenomena linked to the burning of fossil fuels—have become the new norm. According to government figures, more than 37,000 acres of crops were wiped out by heavy rains this year alone. The cempasuchil, which farmers typically plant in July as the rainy season wanes, has been especially hard hit. In Xochimilco, a rural borough known for its ancient canal-based farming methods, as many as 2 million marigold plants were put at risk, Mexico City Mayor Clara Brugada noted during an October visit to the fields.
Despite these challenges, demand for the flower remains high. In fact, 2025 saw a record-breaking production of 6 million plants, as farmers scrambled to meet the needs of the holiday. Commerce groups predict the cempasuchil industry will generate nearly $2.7 million for Mexican farmers this year. But these figures mask the razor-thin margins and mounting losses faced by growers like Ortiz. The excess rain has not only drowned crops but also brought pests and diseases, rotting plant roots and forcing farmers to spend more on insecticides and fertilizers. “If I were to take a hard look at all our losses, I’d be incredibly disillusioned and even not want to grow them anymore,” Ortiz admitted. “We’re just trying to push forward and make sure this keeps going on.”
The marigold’s importance extends beyond economics. Known as the “flower of the dead,” cempasuchil is believed to guide departed souls back to the world of the living, its bright petals lighting the way to family altars. It is a symbol woven deeply into Mexico’s cultural and spiritual fabric. The threat to the flower, then, is not just a threat to livelihoods, but to tradition itself.
Farmers are searching for ways to adapt, but the solutions are neither simple nor cheap. Carlos Jiménez, a 61-year-old from Xochimilco, switched to growing shorter marigold plants eight years ago after noticing the hybrid variety from the United States was more marketable. These hybrids, with their uniform appearance, are easier to sell in supermarkets. However, as Jiménez and others have discovered, the convenience comes at a cost. The hybrids lack the genetic diversity of native Mexican breeds, making them more susceptible to disease and less resilient to the wild swings in weather that now define the growing season. “The plants get sick, they rot, and our business is snuffed out,” Jiménez said. “And with it goes our tradition because it’s our economy.”
Biologist Clara Soto Cortés, who heads the Toxinachcal seed bank, has been working alongside her team for a year and a half to combat these challenges. In a climate-controlled lab, scientists are preserving thousands of seed variants, including 20 types of cempasuchil, in hopes that this genetic reservoir will help farmers weather future storms. “These native seeds have adapted to different geographies, in high altitudes and low, in places where there’s a lot of rain or there’s none at all, or where they need to be resistant to insects,” Soto explained. “The (hybrid) seeds have been bred for another purpose. It doesn’t have the genetic diversity needed to take on climate change.” If another catastrophic event wipes out a harvest, the seed bank stands ready to provide more resilient native seeds to local producers.
Yet, for many growers, the immediate problem is financial. The losses from failed crops mean that investing in greenhouses or switching to more resilient seed varieties is often out of reach. Ortiz and her family have had to cut back on basic necessities, sometimes forgoing beef and sweets just to scrape by. Local authorities have offered some support, but, as Ortiz put it, “we’ve received just pennies on the dollar of what we need to bounce back.” The government has stated its commitment to helping farmers, but the scale of the challenge remains daunting.
Some, like Ortiz, are considering diversifying their crops, looking for alternatives that might better withstand the changing climate. But for others, the connection to cempasuchil is too strong to sever. “This plant has a deeper meaning to our lost loved ones,” Jiménez reflected. “These are traditions we carry down from our ancestors. They can’t just disappear.”
The struggle of Mexico’s cempasuchil farmers is emblematic of a larger battle playing out across the globe, where communities are forced to adapt centuries-old traditions to a rapidly changing environment. While scientists and policymakers search for long-term solutions, the resilience and determination of growers like Ortiz and Jiménez keep the Day of the Dead—and its sea of orange blooms—alive, if only just.
As the first days of November approach and marigold petals once again blanket Mexico, the hope is that the flower’s future can be secured—not just for this generation, but for all those yet to come.
