Somewhere in the semi-frozen tundra of Canada’s North lies Churchill, Manitoba. This sub-Arctic town is not your typical tourist destination. The small community is only accessible by air or train, resources are often limited, groceries are expensive, and lodging can be a challenge. However, that doesn’t stop the droves of excited tourists who flock there every fall in hopes of seeing the annual migration of one of Canada’s most epic mammals.

Knowing the mouth of the Churchill River freezes fastest, offering them the earliest access to their sea ice hunting habitat after months of warm, unfrozen weather, polar bears congregate in the area. As the weather starts to cool, this normally quiet town begins to buzz with anticipation.

Locals prepare their restaurants and gift shops for the influx of consumers. In travels hundreds of seasonal workers who plan to capitalize on the tourism, while hoping for a moment with the bears themselves. Also to arrive are the scientists and science communicators ready to use the opportunity to teach a story that is becoming increasingly heavy to bear.

Driving from the airport into town, you can hardly miss my destination, the unique blue building that is home to Polar Bears International. It houses both a public space – an interpretive centre aimed at teaching tourists about polar bears and climate change – and accommodation for Field Ambassadors – visiting scientists, like myself, and zoo keepers eager to spread their knowledge with anyone who will listen.

My work in Churchill comprises of two tasks. I am either in the interpretive centre or I am out on a Tundra Buggy – a giant polar bear viewing vehicle – with Frontiers North Adventure, our local partner. Equipped with a replica skull, pamphlets, and my own knowledge, I spend eight hours with a driver, guide, and the many guests we are there for. In both roles, my task is the same – I am there to provide context to what the visitors see, to unveil the truth behind these seemingly content bears.

A changing landscape and species

“Oh my god, you guys, there’s two… I’ve never seen this before, there’s TWO CUBS!” yelled the guide I was working with one day during my last trip to Churchill. Her excitement was palpable and I quickly interjected it with my own: “no… not two. There’s three… SHE’S GOT THREE!”

The Western Hudson Bay subpopulation of polar bears has decreased by about fifty per cent in the last four decades (1-2). This shocking decline is partly caused by fewer cubs being born, as females can only have as many cubs as her body can sustain, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to support more than one cub at a time.

It never used to be a cause for celebration to see a mother with three cubs, but it is becoming more and more rare. Armed with this knowledge, and after the clicking of cameras died down, I gathered the guests’ attention and shared everything about this subject that I knew.

I have read dozens of articles about these bears and their declining well-being. I am trained to know the stats of the subpopulations I work within and to understand detailed information about others. These numbers and facts float around in my mind on any given day but are at the forefront when I am around these animals in person.

Our knowledge and education as academics is a privilege, but sometimes, it is also a burden. I can no longer look at polar bears the way a tourist does.

In the interpretive centre, my talks work more like well-oiled scripts. The content rolls off my tongue effortlessly rehearsed. But out on the tundra, when I’m face-to-face with these animals, I find my emotions begin to creep in.

On that day, I was all too aware that we were seeing something truly incredible. At the back of my mind, I heard the scientists before me say to leave my emotions out, to speak the facts alone, as unbiased as I possibly can. And I always try to do so. But that day it was impossible. I began to calmly articulate this subpopulation’s numbers. I gently explained how rare this sight is, and that it never used to be so.

I tip-toed around the fact that the smallest and visibly weakest of the cubs had a high unlikeliness of survival. And then I choked up. I paused to gather my thoughts and reel in my emotion before continuing to explain that these trends will continue unless we all do something about it. My words shifted to action and hope – that we still have time to save this species, that they can take this information home and share it with their networks, that each of us has the agency to vote for parties that will help us move the needle forward towards drastic emissions reductions.

I had tears in my eyes and urgency in my voice and I was standing in front of about thirty people who I did not know, hoping that my words would somehow implore them to care. Because they have to care.

How can we communicate most effectively?

On another day, I was working with a driver who I had never heard speak about climate change before. He always seemed to avert my gaze when I would say my spiel to his guests. Or so I thought.

So, I was utterly surprised to hear him say, “Twenty years ago I’d stop and count over ten bears from this one point. Today it’s peak season and we’ve searched just to find four. I’m not a scientist, so I don’t trust numbers or stats, but I know there is something happening here.”

Here was a man who had no obligation to teach the science, yet he stated something so succinct, so refreshingly truthful, that it punched me right in my emotional gut. It seemingly did so for the guests as well.

Scientists have warned of this problem for decades, but our numbers and graphs could never translate. We’ve learned science communication as a last-ditch effort – armed with our knowledge and driven by fear, we’ve had to learn the language of the public. But sometimes the people on the ground can say it better than we can; they often have a way of expressing the truth in a way that resonates better somehow.

I wonder if it’s because they are not beholden to what we researchers are often taught – that science and emotion do not mix well. These lessons go as far as to say that if you are emotional, your science lacks credibility.

Climate science communication, however, is a fairly new ball game and we are still learning the most effective methods.

Perhaps this is exactly the space for emotion.

Climate science communication requires the courage to say the truth when so many people would rather tune it out. It makes sense, then, that we struggle with being emotionless, especially when we know that we alone cannot solve this global problem. We do this work because we care enough to do it. Our emotions drive our passion and allow us to pursue this work in the first place. Our emotional vulnerability does not take away our credibility – it enhances it.

So, as long as our words portray the truth and our message includes action and hope, I say, let our voices waver. Let our chins tremble. Let our eyes become glassy, reflecting our abundance of love for this planet and our determination to say what needs to be said, regardless of how difficult it is to say.

This isn’t to say I cry every time I speak in front of people about climate change. If I did, my career would be much too draining – and likely unsuccessful. What I mean is that there is space between the hardened, unbiased scientist and the emotional wreck – and in that space is the opportunity to find connection in our humanness.

Perhaps if you knew that my mind is not all numbers and graphs, you would relate. Perhaps if you knew that I cry about this animal’s possible fate at times, you would cry with me. Perhaps if you knew I fear for our planet, you would too. Perhaps when you see that in spite of this emotion, I am still trying to make a difference, you will believe that your efforts matter as much as mine. Because regardless of who conducts the science, we each have an obligation to do something about climate change.

Literature cited

1. Lunn, N.J., Servanty, S., Regehr, E.V., Converse, S.J., Richardson, E., & Stirling, I. (2016). Demography of an apex predator at the edge of its range: impacts of changing sea ice on polar bears inHudson Bay. Ecological Applications, 26(5): 1302-1320.
2. Atkinson, et al. (2022). 2021 Aerial survey of the Western Hudson Bay polar bear subpopulation: Final report. Nunavut Department of Environment, Wildlife Research Section. Igloolik, NU.