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Pacifica, Calif., is a beautiful coastal town located 12 miles south of San Francisco. But the exquisite Pacific Ocean is now turning on it. As sea levels rise due to global warming, the falls into the water. In 2018, the town proposed a response: the relocation of houses, businesses, and public assets away from areas under threat. There was resistance. Naturally, people don’t want to leave their local communities and homes, which some residents originally paid a lot for. But the language may have made it worse. The used the term “managed retreat”—the most widely used name in English for this practice and one that brings to mind “defeat.” One local : “‘Managed retreat’ is a code word for give up—on our homes and the town itself.” Some community members demanded the removal of managed retreat from the wider , which occurred. Pacifica returned to extending sea walls. Four years later, people are still unsure what will happen in their town as climate change unfolds.

Citizens in many places may be more receptive to such programs under different names. Coasts will inevitably be battered, but why needlessly batter egos? Possibilities abound for an , such as “planned relocation” and “.” Some are more convincing than others and could genuinely help convince people to relocate when necessary. Yet policy makers and experts need to recognize the limits of prescribing specific language. Shifting the conversation about the policy involves more than just a rebrand. Clear and targeted communication about climate change can persuade and empower people in places in peril.

The phrase “managed retreat” was coined by coastal engineers in the . It initially referred to the removal of infrastructure, such as sea walls, so the rising ocean could encroach, particularly in . (One well-known example took place on the .) In the U.K., the name was gradually replaced throughout the 1990s with “,” which is less confronting, but more .

Nevertheless, by the mid-aughts, the name managed retreat remained in use and had broadened to include stipulating people live . Today, people interpret “retreat” to mean moving away from the coast or, also, more recently, other places under threat from climate disasters, such as heatwaves and . The “managed” part suggests that authorities will carefully to reduce climate risk and any potential inequities.

Policies of this kind have a in the United States, where they have gone under a number of names. The government has used “,” an older and narrower term from emergency management, which some say is a more . For example, in 2000, some floodplain residents in Austin, Minn., participated in a process similar to what goes by the name managed retreat. “Community relocation” essentially being picked up, then put down in a safer place. For instance, Newtok (Niugtaq), an Indigenous Yup’ik village, is one of a number of places in Alaska in danger from erosion via melting permafrost. Residents on a process by the name community relocation, although plan documents also utilize . In the past 10 years, governments have proposed managed retreat to communities including , Cali.; , Maine; and , Alaska. It’s been suggested for places in . Sometimes, “higher-up” documents use the name managed retreat, yet presented to communities don’t.

The resistance to and criticisms of managed retreat focus on the of leaving. Abandoning your home is difficult under any circumstances, but the language seems to rub salt in the wound. This could apply to residents in low-income areas of , New South Wales, Australia; First Nations communities in , Manitoba, Canada; or seaside mansion dwellers in . The word “retreat” emphasises that you’re moving away from your home and land rather than a new place or future that you’re moving to. “” can suggest too much “top-down” control and put off individuals or communities who distrust governments.

To my mind, the strongest are those using “resettlement,” which point to the possibilities of the new home. “” or “,” used in the context of towns of Indigenous groups or others who are marginalized, emphasize the direction of the people involved in achieving a just outcome. “Planned resettlement” suggests a more authority-led process, which, in some contexts, may be apt. Plain labels using “relocation,” either community or planned, have the advantage of being transparent about what is going to occur. “Corrective shoreline planning” and “hazard avoidance” point to the language of science and expertise, which could lessen their broad appeal. , like “aggressive resilience” and “strategic advance,” have been proposed to portray agency and strength. Though well-meaning, suggestions of this kind risk coming off as Orwellian.

One reason that changing the name is not a cure-all is that people in the places concerned managed retreat and formed an opinion. Some proposals using the term managed retreat have been embraced. They tend to be ones where the loss is not so great, such as , where there were limited amounts of private property.

Managed retreat and its alternatives point to a larger problem in climate change communication. They are all snappy two-word expressions—but people exactly what they actually mean. They’re jargon and thus less likely to sink in. One way to address this is to add simple explanations that sit closer to the heart. To illustrate, the town of , which is threatened by sea level rise and more frequent storms, is engaging in discussions with community members about three different kinds of climate adaptation: “keep the water out” (protections such as levees), “live with water” (accommodation such as building flood-resistant homes), and “get out of the water’s way” (managed retreat or relocation).

Public communication about these kinds of resettlement schemes can also be enhanced by using and avoiding contentious ones. For example, temperature increase in some parts of remote Australia will lead to more exits from communities. may prefer to talk about “the heat” as opposed to admitting to “climate change,” which they associate with affluent, left-leaning city dwellers. Some in the threatened town of in Northern California object to the expression “sea level rise,” even though they acknowledge that flooding has worsened over the years. Meeting people where they are at now would be a good starting point.

Effective messaging about how relocation will unfold and how lives can be rebuilt is also essential. After recent Australian floods in towns graced by eucalypt forests, : “You’ve got people who want to live among the gum trees—what do you think is going to happen? Their house falls in the river, and they say it’s the government’s fault.” Such insensitive words that criticize attachment to place can for climate-informed planning. Leveraging love of place, for example, talking about the possibilities for new, shared uses for land, such as , can provide hope for the future.

Moving away from places facing high climate risk can have . Ashley Tom, a new resident of Mertarvik, Alaska, the town built to replace the now perilous Newtok, told the that, despite the sadness of leaving home, “It’s just a blessing to be in a better environment … and I feel more safe over here since we’re on higher ground.” Faced by climate change, our survival depends on changing our ways of life, including where we live. Policy makers and experts should get rid of language barriers in the same way they propose to remove sea walls. The terrible term “managed retreat” must be abandoned and more resonant words used instead.