Lucia Ortiz, a 50-year-old farmer, stands ankle-deep in a sea of cempasuchil flowers, their brilliant orange petals glowing beneath an overcast sky. For generations, these Mexican marigolds have been the heart and soul of Dia de los Muertos, Mexico’s beloved Day of the Dead celebrations held each November 1 and 2. Yet as Ortiz and her family gather armfuls of blooms to sell in bustling markets across Mexico City, their hearts are heavy with worry. The unpredictable blows of climate change—torrential rains, relentless droughts, and sudden floods—have battered their fields, leaving the future of their livelihood and a cherished tradition hanging by a thread.
According to The Weather Channel, the cempasuchil, also known as the “flower of the dead,” is more than just a decorative staple. Its luminous petals are believed to guide the souls of the departed back to the world of the living, illuminating the altars families prepare in their honor. The flower’s cultural importance is matched by its economic weight: commerce groups project that cempasuchil sales will generate nearly $2.7 million for Mexican farmers in 2025 alone.
But this year, the numbers tell a sobering story. Heavy rains and flooding—direct consequences of a changing climate driven by the burning of fossil fuels—have devastated up to half the cempasuchil crop in some regions. Government figures cited by The Weather Channel reveal that over 37,000 acres of crops across Mexico were wiped out in 2025 due to extreme weather. In Xochimilco, a rural borough on Mexico City’s southern edge famed for its ancient canals and traditional farming, the losses have been especially acute.
“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 Weather Channel. “With the cempasuchil plants, we’ve sometimes been left with nothing.”
Despite the setbacks, there have been glimmers of resilience. Mexico City Mayor Clara Brugada visited the cempasuchil fields in Xochimilco earlier this November, noting that as many as 2 million marigold plants were at risk. Yet, against the odds, producers managed to break a record, cultivating 6 million plants to satisfy surging demand for the Day of the Dead. Still, the achievement came at a price. Farmers like Ortiz were forced to spend more on insecticides and fertilizers to combat pests and diseases brought by excess moisture, squeezing already razor-thin profit margins. Some, like Ortiz’s family, have had to cut back on everyday essentials just to keep their farms afloat. “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,” she admitted. “We’re just trying to push forward and make sure this keeps going on.”
The struggle is not just economic. For many in Xochimilco, the tradition of growing cempasuchil is a living link to their ancestors. The flower’s cultivation is woven into the fabric of local identity, practiced with ancient techniques that rely on the region’s unique system of canals. Every July, seeds are sown as the rainy season wanes, and families nurture the plants through the summer and fall. But as climate patterns grow more erratic, the old rhythms are harder to maintain. Torrential rains have not only drowned fields but also triggered outbreaks of pests and diseases, rotting roots and leaving swathes of flowers unsellable.
“The plants get sick, they rot, and our business is snuffed out,” said Carlos Jiménez, a 61-year-old farmer who, like many others, has experimented with shorter, hybrid marigold varieties in recent years. “And with it goes our tradition because it’s our economy.”
Hybrid seeds, mainly imported from the United States, have become popular for their uniform appearance and suitability for mass markets and supermarkets. These hybrids produce shorter, more consistent plants—easier to bundle and sell, but less equipped to withstand the extremes of Mexico’s shifting climate. As biologist Clara Soto Cortés, head of the Toxinachcal seed bank, explained to The Weather Channel, “The (hybrid) seeds have been bred for another purpose. It doesn’t have the genetic diversity needed to take on climate change.”
The Toxinachcal seed bank, nestled just down the road from Ortiz’s farm, has become a beacon of hope. For the past year and a half, scientists there have been meticulously preserving thousands of seed variants of native Mexican plants, including 20 distinct types of cempasuchil. Their goal is to safeguard genetic diversity, which is crucial for resilience in the face of environmental upheaval. “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 Cortés said. If disaster strikes again, the bank stands ready to supply farmers with hardier, native seeds—plants that have weathered centuries of change and may be better suited to survive the storms of the future.
Yet, adapting is easier said than done. Farmers like Ortiz and Jiménez have considered building greenhouses or switching to more resilient crops, but with mounting losses, there’s little money left for new infrastructure or experimentation. Local authorities have provided some support, but as Ortiz put it, the aid amounts to “just pennies on the dollar” compared to what’s needed. As a result, some families are reluctantly eyeing alternatives, pondering whether to abandon the marigold for hardier crops. But letting go isn’t easy. “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.”
Meanwhile, the Day of the Dead celebrations continue to evolve. On November 1, 2025, Mexicans also honored Santa Muerte, the folk saint of death, as part of the festivities, according to France 24. The marigold’s vibrant presence—whether in city streets, family altars, or sprawling cemeteries—remains a powerful symbol of remembrance and resilience. For many, it’s a reminder that even in the face of adversity, the connection between the living and the dead endures.
As the sun sets over the cempasuchil fields of Xochimilco, the orange blooms seem to glow even brighter—defiant, hopeful, and fiercely alive. For farmers like Ortiz and Jiménez, the struggle to keep this tradition alive is about more than just economics. It’s about honoring their ancestors, supporting their families, and ensuring that, come next Dia de los Muertos, the paths of the departed will once again be lined with petals of gold.