Climate Crisis Threatens Mexico's Traditional Day of the Dead Marigold Cultivation

Every year, farmers begin planting marigold seeds in July to prepare for Mexico's Day of the Dead celebrations.

Mexico City's outskirts are home to Lucia Ortiz, who at 50 years old walks through vast fields of cempasuchil, the vibrant orange Mexican marigold that soon will adorn streets and cemeteries throughout the country.

In the winding canals and farmlands on Mexico City's periphery, these flowers have been cultivated for generations, taking center stage during the annual Day of the Dead festivities.

As Ortiz and fellow farmers bundle these bright blooms for market sales across the capital, they harbor growing concerns about the sustainability of their traditional livelihood.

Cempasuchil growers report devastating impacts from climate change manifestations – torrential rains, prolonged droughts, and other weather extremes caused by fossil fuel consumption – which have become increasingly frequent and severe.

Farmers, whose livelihoods depend directly on weather patterns, find themselves on the front lines of the climate crisis. This year alone, marigold producers lost up to half their flower crops due to heavy rainfall and flooding.

"This year, we lost a lot. We struggled to even grow the cempasuchil. There were moments when we didn't have money for necessary fertilizer," Ortiz explains. "With the cempasuchil plants, we've sometimes been left with nothing."

The iconic orange flowers symbolize Mexico's November 1-2 celebrations. Known as the "flower of the dead," cempasuchil is believed to connect the worlds of the living and deceased, with its brilliant petals guiding departed souls to family altars.

These flowers also serve as a crucial economic driver across Mexico, with commerce groups projecting nearly $2.7 million in revenue for farmers in 2025.

Ortiz and her family began cultivating marigolds 30 years ago on their small plot in Xochimilco, a rural district in southern Mexico City where residents preserve ancient farming techniques using canal networks that weave through farmlands like mazes.

Traditionally, locals plant marigold seeds in July as the rainy season concludes. However, farmers report consecutive years of setbacks from heavy rains, drought, flooding, and other climate disruptions making crop cultivation increasingly challenging.

This year, months of torrential rainfall destroyed over 37,000 acres of crops nationwide, according to government data. During a recent visit to Xochimilco's marigold fields, Mexico City Mayor Clara Brugada noted that approximately 2 million marigold plants were at risk. Nevertheless, she reported that production simultaneously reached a record 6 million plants as farmers increase output to meet growing demand despite increasingly precarious growing conditions.

Ortiz explains that excessive rain has introduced pests, diseases, and root rot to her plants. She estimates losing at least 30% of her crop, while others report losses approaching 50%.

Her family has been forced to spend additional money on insecticides, fertilizers, and other treatments to salvage their crops. As a result, already thin profit margins have turned to losses, forcing them to reduce basic expenditures like meat and treats to make ends meet.

"If I were to take a hard look at all our losses, I'd be incredibly disillusioned and might not want to grow them anymore," she admits. "We're just trying to push forward and ensure this tradition continues."

Not far from Ortiz's farm, government scientists are pursuing long-term solutions beyond the temporary economic relief provided by local authorities. At a small seed bank called Toxinachcal, technicians in protective gear carefully examine seedlings in laboratory dishes.

For eighteen months, these scientists have preserved thousands of native plant seed variants, including 20 cempasuchil varieties, in jars stored within large freezers. They hope this facility will become a vital resource in combating climate change's worst effects.

Biologist Clara Soto Cortes, who heads the seed bank, explains that part of the crop devastation stems from farmers' recent preference for hybrid marigold seeds imported from the United States.

These hybrid seeds produce shorter, more uniform plants that are easier to sell in mass quantities and in venues like supermarkets.

However, this shift means farmers have abandoned hardier native varieties, which have longer stems and greater variation in color, size, and texture. The genetic diversity of these Mexican varieties makes them inherently more resilient to the dramatic climate shifts witnessed this year, according to Soto.

"These native seeds have adapted to different geographies, thriving at high and low altitudes, in areas with abundant or scarce rainfall, and developing resistance to insects," she explains. "The hybrid seeds were bred for different purposes and lack the genetic diversity needed to withstand climate change."

If future climate events devastate entire crops, Soto says the seed bank will provide local producers with seeds to restore their harvests – this time using more resilient varieties that their ancestors cultivated for centuries.

Meanwhile, growers are scrambling for short-term recovery, noting that these losses threaten a farming tradition their families have struggled to maintain at the edge of a dense metropolis of 23 million inhabitants.

Carlos Jimenez, 61, has long worked Xochimilco's fields but switched to shorter marigold varieties eight years ago after noticing their market appeal. As crop losses mount and plant prices drop due to root mildew, he's considering adaptive measures like greenhouse construction.

"The plants get sick, they rot, and our business is snuffed out," Jimenez laments. "And with it goes our tradition because it's our economy."

Producers like Ortiz have contemplated similar adaptations. However, their financial losses mean they lack funds for infrastructure improvements. Her family and other farmers have appealed to local authorities for assistance but report receiving minimal support relative to their needs, though local government officials maintain they continue working to offset farmers' losses.

Ortiz has begun exploring alternative, more climate-resilient crops to replace the delicate orange flowers.

Others like Jimenez remain determined despite challenges. "This plant has a deeper meaning connected to our lost loved ones," he affirms. "These are traditions passed down from our ancestors. They cannot simply disappear."