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To do it right, you’re going to need a building science pro.
When Zara Bode, a musician from Brooklyn, New York, first walked into the old seven-bedroom Victorian in downtown Brattleboro, Vermont, it just felt right. Her husband, also a traveling musician, had grown up nearby. “You walk in this house and you’re like, oh, there’s a good vibe,” she told me. Since the 1890s, when it was built, it had been a community health center and a food co-op, before being lovingly restored by the older woman who sold it to Bode and her husband in January of 2020. Bode hoped to make it their forever home, a place for friends and family to gather.
Within a month of moving in, she and her husband both lost their incomes in the pandemic. Then they made a brutal discovery: the house was ruinously expensive to heat.
They spent all their time huddled in the kitchen with their two young children in front of the wood burning cookstove and kept the thermostat at 65. Even so, they were running through a full tank of oil every nine days. Each delivery cost more than $1,000, adding up to twice their mortgage every month. They had to ask for government emergency assistance.
Bode started asking around to other families, who told her about a state-funded program that gives out 0% weatherization loans with deferred repayment to low-income families. She got quotes from two different reputable companies, each of which proposed using polyurethane spray foam insulation in the large basement. The buzz in the community was that spray foam is a miracle product — so incredibly insulating that it would cut their heating oil needs down by two-thirds or or more. But Bode was protective of the old Victorian. “I knew it was lucky for us to get this house in the first place. We don’t have the money to make mistakes,” she says.
Without any outside expert to turn to, desperate for relief, and grateful for Vermont’s robust social safety net, she went for it.
She would come to regret it.
To hit its climate goals, the U.S. is going to have to upgrade its old housing stock. Residential energy use accounts for about 20% of U.S. carbon emissions, and the lion’s share of that energy is used to heat and cool homes. At the same time, low-income families are struggling more than ever to shoulder the financial burden of doing that. In 2023, the number of American families needing assistance jumped by 1.3 million to over 6 million.
The Inflation Reduction Act is aiming to tackle these twin crises, with a tax credit covering 30% of the cost of insulation and air-sealing materials, up to $1,200 annually per household. So far only New York has an active IRA-funded home rebate program, but more states have applied to start handing out funds to homeowners over the next year, which should also help shield Americans from the health effects of extreme temperatures.
The problem is, insulating an old home is a delicate and complex process. Improper installation can lead to mold, dry rot in your home’s framing and roof, and poor indoor air quality that can make you sick.
“It’s potentially a huge problem,” Francis Offerman, a.k.a. Bud, an industrial hygienist who does indoor air quality testing for homeowners (and lawyers) who suspect a house or apartment is making its inhabitants ill, told me. “Especially if your mindset is, we’re going to just spray foam the home, and that’s it.”
Bode reached out to me last year after she read my viral story for VT Digger, which raised the alarm about the risks of spray foam insulation in particular. (Though experts say any insulation done badly can cause problems.) She and her family had vacated their Victorian for a few days in early 2021 while the basement was spray foam insulated. When they moved back in, Bode was struck by the bad paint smell. That eventually went away, and oil deliveries dropped from every nine days to every three weeks.
But then she realized the basement, which used to be bone dry, was now damp all the time. She bought two industrial dehumidifiers that run constantly, and still the smell of mildew wafts up through the floorboards. Bode has allergies to mold and mildew and worries the bad air quality could affect her kids, who also have allergies and asthma. She’s had to move all her furniture and art out of the basement lest it get damaged.
When she saw my article, she felt a mix of emotions. On the one hand, after having her concerns dismissed by the insulation company, she finally felt validated. “That was the first time that I had heard about air exchangers and other things I can’t afford,” Bode told me about reading my article. But she wondered, “Did I ruin a house that’s been standing strong for 140 years?”
The kind of person that could have advised Bode on how to safely insulate her historic home would be someone trained in building science — that is, someone educated in the physics of buildings, who can identify moisture issues and air leaks, recommend appropriate materials and HVAC solutions, and give you a step-by-step plan for implementing them so your home stays healthy and whole.
Unfortunately, many insulation companies, architects, and contractors have either never heard of or are actively hostile to these concepts, which they see as expensive, unnecessary, overly complicated, and (in the case of many spray foam contractors) an impediment to making the sale.
“In the grand scheme of things, building science is a relatively new field,” Eric Werling, who recently retired after 30 years of directing the U.S. Department of Energy’s Building America program to run his own consulting business, told me. “People have studied structural engineering for thousands of years. But air-tightening buildings is a relatively new phenomenon.”
Up until the 1970s, people in the U.S. didn’t think much about insulation. Then the energy crisis struck, and oil shortages caused prices to skyrocket. President Jimmy Carter told Americans to put on a sweater and turn down the thermostat. Letting all that expensive energy flow outside suddenly seemed like a waste of money.
The Department of Energy launched its Weatherization Assistance Program in 1976 for low-income families and created efficiency standards for commercial buildings that relied on the new, synthetic materials that had emerged after WWII. The problem was, as homes and commercial buildings were sealed, a lot of people got sick. The most high profile cases were cancer from chronic radon exposure or quiet but shocking deaths from carbon monoxide poisoning. But there also emerged the autoimmune-adjacent condition called Sick Building Syndrome, a constellation of symptoms related to breathing in VOCs from furniture, carpeting, pesticides, and cleaning products circulating inside a tight building.
“The Department of Energy… screwed it up a lot at the very beginning,” Joe Lstiburek, a longtime building science consultant, told me. But the DOE started training its weatherization crews, establishing standards for proper insulation, and providing additional funding for safety measures, including mechanical ventilation. “America became a world leader at figuring out how not to rot houses and how not to kill people,” Lstiburek said.
Today, indoor air quality in the workplace has dramatically improved. Aspects of building science have been codified in residential homes as well, with some states requiring that new builds with a tight air seal include mechanical ventilation. But nobody I talked to could point to similar requirements for an existing home that has been retrofitted with insulation. And when I asked Lstiburek if low-income renters and homeowners have access to building science information and advice, he said, “No, they do not.”
According to Werling, there are still probably fewer than a thousand building science experts, and many are eyeing retirement. “Their teachings have impacted thousands –– probably hundreds of thousands –– of people in the construction industry.” He points to New York and Wisconsin as two states that have had robust contractor training programs for the longest. But he admits that’s still a small percentage of the millions of people involved in construction in the U.S.
“There are just too many companies with people who don’t know enough about the issues regarding moisture doing whatever they want and leaving the homeowner with the bill,” Chris West, a Vermont-based certified consultant and trainer for Passive House, a design standard for ultra-low-energy-consumption homes, told me. “Often these companies have some kind of caveat in their contract that makes the owner responsible for any future issues.”
To make things worse, our homes are more delicate today. New building construction has largely switched from rot- and mold-resistant materials such as hardwood and plaster to cheaper manufactured mold-prone materials like plywood and drywall.
“Green” or “eco” home programs that advise homeowners focus solely on energy efficiency, and tightened energy codes are requiring ever more robust insulation without taking into account existing moisture problems (such as a wet basement or unventilated bathroom), which are not rare. NIOSH estimates about half of all homes have some sort of moisture or mold issue. Residential contractors, architects, and developers, meanwhile, are largely free to ignore building science concepts and go about their business doing things the way they’ve always been done. And there doesn’t seem to be a good plan in place to upskill contractors for this next weatherization push or protect consumers from shoddy workmanship.
“There isn’t an educational track that’s indoor air quality in universities or colleges,” Offerman told me. “I’m 71 now. I’m gonna retire eventually, and where are the replacements?”
I’ve talked to several homeowners who have been burned by bad insulation jobs, and every one expressed dismay that contractors aren’t required to at least share the potential risks or downsides of getting your home weatherized. For example, homeowners may have to install mechanical ventilation at an extra cost of a few thousand dollars, and spray foam, as opposed to traditional batting insulation, is permanent and all but impossible to remediate or take out.
This information is largely hidden from consumers, even savvy ones like me. I was pitched spray foam by an energy auditor for my own old farmhouse, and I had to go out and interview a half dozen experts for an article and pay $1,000 to West to drive two hours down to audit our house (again) and come up with an alternative plan I was comfortable with.
Werling doesn’t want homeowners to be scared away from weatherizing their homes. “In the vast majority of cases, homeowners are better off when they insulate and air-seal their homes,” he said, “but it’s important to be aware that the house is a complicated system of parts. Hire the right contractor to help avoid potentially costly problems down the road.” He points to the Home Improvement Expert section of the Building America Solution Center from the U.S. Department of Energy, which has detailed checklists you can go over with your contractor to ensure the work is done properly. West suggests homeowners find a certified consultant at Passive House Institute US.
The building science experts I spoke to suggested things like an educational program for consumers so they know to ask about ventilation, third party inspections before and after weatherization projects with the results entered into the public record, pre-sale energy audits, and mandatory building science training for contractors and their crews. Offerman said weatherization programs should hold installers accountable for insulating and ventilating according to the latest building science standards as a condition of receiving funds.
The question is how many homeowners like Zara will have their homes and health damaged before the situation is addressed. “It’s not that we don’t know that this is happening,” Listiburek says. “It’s that it’s not painful enough yet.”
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Why killing a government climate database could essentially gut a tax credit
The Trump administration’s bid to end an Environmental Protection Agency program may essentially block any company — even an oil firm — from accessing federal subsidies for capturing carbon or producing hydrogen fuel.
On Friday, the Environmental Protection Agency proposed that it would stop collecting and publishing greenhouse gas emissions data from thousands of refineries, power plants, and factories across the country.
The Trump administration argues that the scheme, known as the Greenhouse Gas Reporting Program, costs more than $2 billion and isn’t legally required under the Clean Air Act. Lee Zeldin, the EPA administrator, described the program as “nothing more than bureaucratic red tape that does nothing to improve air quality.”
But the program is more important than the Trump administration lets on. It’s true that the policy, which required more than 8,000 different facilities around the country to report their emissions, helped the EPA and outside analysts estimate the country’s annual greenhouse gas emissions.
But it did more than that. Over the past decade, the program had essentially become the master database of carbon pollution and emissions policy across the American economy. “Essentially everything the federal government does related to emissions reductions is dependent on the [Greenhouse Gas Reporting Program],” Jack Andreasen Cavanaugh, a fellow at the Center on Global Energy Policy at Columbia University, told me.
That means other federal programs — including those that Republicans in Congress have championed — have come to rely on the EPA database.
Among those programs: the federal tax credit for capturing and using carbon dioxide. Republicans recently increased the size of that subsidy, nicknamed 45Q after a section of the tax code, for companies that turn captured carbon into another product or use it to make oil wells more productive. Those changes were passed in President Trump’s big tax and spending law over the summer.
But Zeldin’s scheme to end the Greenhouse Gas Reporting Program would place that subsidy off limits for the foreseeable future. Under federal law, companies can only claim the 45Q tax credit if they file technical details to the EPA’s emissions reporting program.
Another federal tax credit, for companies that use carbon capture to produce hydrogen fuel, also depends on the Greenhouse Gas Reporting Program. That subsidy hasn’t received the same friendly treatment from Republicans, and it will now phase out in 2028.
The EPA program is “the primary mechanism by which companies investing in and deploying carbon capture and hydrogen projects quantify the CO2 that they’re sequestering, such that they qualify for tax incentives,” Jane Flegal, a former Biden administration appointee who worked on industrial emissions policy, told me. She is now the executive director of the Blue Horizons Foundation.
“The only way for private capital to be put to work to deploy American carbon capture and hydrogen projects is to quantify the carbon dioxide that they’re sequestering, in some way,” she added. That’s what the EPA program does: It confirms that companies are storing or using as much carbon as they claim they are to the IRS.
The Greenhouse Gas Reporting Program is “how the IRS communicates with the EPA” when companies claim the 45Q credit, Cavanaugh said. “The IRS obviously has taxpayer-sensitive information, so they’re not able to give information to the EPA about who or what is claiming the credit.” The existence of the database lets the EPA then automatically provide information to the IRS, so that no confidential tax information is disclosed.
Zeldin’s announcement that the EPA would phase out the program has alarmed companies planning on using the tax credit. In a statement, the Carbon Capture Coalition — an alliance of oil companies, manufacturers, startups, and NGOs — called the reporting program the “regulatory backbone” of the carbon capture tax credit.
“It is not an understatement that the long-term success of the carbon management industry rests on the robust reporting mechanisms” in the EPA’s program, the group said.
Killing the EPA program could hurt American companies in other ways. Right now, companies that trade with European firms depend on the EPA data to pass muster with the EU’s carbon border adjustment tax. It’s unclear how they would fare in a world with no EPA data.
It could also sideline GOP proposals. Senator Bill Cassidy, a Republican from Louisiana, has suggested that imports to the United States should pay a foreign pollution fee — essentially, a way of accounting for the implicit subsidy of China’s dirty energy system. But the data to comply with that law would likely come from the EPA’s greenhouse gas database, too.
Ending the EPA database wouldn’t necessarily spell permanent doom for the carbon capture tax credit, but it would make it much harder to use in the years to come. In order to re-open the tax credit for applications, the Treasury Department, the Energy Department, the Interior Department, and the EPA would have to write new rules for companies that claim the 45Q credit. These rules would go to the end of the long list of regulations that the Treasury Department must write after Trump’s spending law transformed the tax code.
That could take years — and it could sideline projects now under construction. “There are now billions of dollars being invested by the private sector and the government in these technologies, where the U.S. is positioned to lead globally,” Flegal said. Changing the rules would “undermine any way for the companies to succeed.”
Ditching the EPA database, however, very well could doom carbon capture-based hydrogen projects. Under the terms of Trump’s tax law, companies that want to claim the hydrogen credit must begin construction on their projects by 2028.
The Trump administration seems to believe, too, that gutting the EPA database may require new rules for the carbon capture tax credit. When asked for comment, an EPA spokesperson pointed me to a line in the agency’s proposal: “We anticipate that the Treasury Department and the IRS may need to revise the regulation,” the legal proposal says. “The EPA expects that such amendments could allow for different options for stakeholders to potentially qualify for tax credits.”
The EPA spokesperson then encouraged me to ask the Treasury Department for anything more about “specific implications.”
Paradise, California, is snatching up high-risk properties to create a defensive perimeter and prevent the town from burning again.
The 2018 Camp Fire was the deadliest wildfire in California’s history, wiping out 90% of the structures in the mountain town of Paradise and killing at least 85 people in a matter of hours. Investigations afterward found that Paradise’s town planners had ignored warnings of the fire risk to its residents and forgone common-sense preparations that would have saved lives. In the years since, the Camp Fire has consequently become a cautionary tale for similar communities in high-risk wildfire areas — places like Chinese Camp, a small historic landmark in the Sierra Nevada foothills that dramatically burned to the ground last week as part of the nearly 14,000-acre TCU September Lightning Complex.
More recently, Paradise has also become a model for how a town can rebuild wisely after a wildfire. At least some of that is due to the work of Dan Efseaff, the director of the Paradise Recreation and Park District, who has launched a program to identify and acquire some of the highest-risk, hardest-to-access properties in the Camp Fire burn scar. Though he has a limited total operating budget of around $5.5 million and relies heavily on the charity of local property owners (he’s currently in the process of applying for a $15 million grant with a $5 million match for the program) Efseaff has nevertheless managed to build the beginning of a defensible buffer of managed parkland around Paradise that could potentially buy the town time in the case of a future wildfire.
In order to better understand how communities can build back smarter after — or, ideally, before — a catastrophic fire, I spoke with Efseaff about his work in Paradise and how other communities might be able to replicate it. Our conversation has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Do you live in Paradise? Were you there during the Camp Fire?
I actually live in Chico. We’ve lived here since the mid-‘90s, but I have a long connection to Paradise; I’ve worked for the district since 2017. I’m also a sea kayak instructor and during the Camp Fire, I was in South Carolina for a training. I was away from the phone until I got back at the end of the day and saw it blowing up with everything.
I have triplet daughters who were attending Butte College at the time, and they needed to be evacuated. There was a lot of uncertainty that day. But it gave me some perspective, because I couldn’t get back for two days. It gave me a chance to think, “Okay, what’s our response going to be?” Looking two days out, it was like: That would have been payroll, let’s get people together, and then let’s figure out what we’re going to do two weeks and two months from now.
It also got my mind thinking about what we would have done going backwards. If you’d had two weeks to prepare, you would have gotten your go-bag together, you’d have come up with your evacuation route — that type of thing. But when you run the movie backwards on what you would have done differently if you had two years or two decades, it would include prepping the landscape, making some safer community defensible space. That’s what got me started.
Was it your idea to buy up the high-risk properties in the burn scar?
I would say I adapted it. Everyone wants to say it was their idea, but I’ll tell you where it came from: Pre-fire, the thinking was that it would make sense for the town to have a perimeter trail from a recreation standpoint. But I was also trying to pitch it as a good idea from a fuel standpoint, so that if there was a wildfire, you could respond to it. Certainly, the idea took on a whole other dimension after the Camp Fire.
I’m a restoration ecologist, so I’ve done a lot of river floodplain work. There are a lot of analogies there. The trend has been to give nature a little bit more room: You’re not going to stop a flood, but you can minimize damage to human infrastructure. Putting levees too close to the river makes them more prone to failing and puts people at risk — but if you can set the levee back a little bit, it gives the flood waters room to go through. That’s why I thought we need a little bit of a buffer in Paradise and some protection around the community. We need a transition between an area that is going to burn, and that we can let burn, but not in a way that is catastrophic.
How hard has it been to find willing sellers? Do most people in the area want to rebuild — or need to because of their mortgages?
Ironically, the biggest challenge for us is finding adequate funding. A lot of the property we have so far has been donated to us. It’s probably upwards of — oh, let’s see, at least half a dozen properties have been donated, probably close to 200 acres at this point.
We are applying for some federal grants right now, and we’ll see how that goes. What’s evolved quite a bit on this in recent years, though, is that — because we’ve done some modeling — instead of thinking of the buffer as areas that are managed uniformly around the community, we’re much more strategic. These fire events are wind-driven, and there are only a couple of directions where the wind blows sufficiently long enough and powerful enough for the other conditions to fall into play. That’s not to say other events couldn’t happen, but we’re going after the most likely events that would cause catastrophic fires, and that would be from the Diablo winds, or north winds, that come through our area. That was what happened in the Camp Fire scenario, and another one our models caught what sure looked a lot like the [2024] Park Fire.
One thing that I want to make clear is that some people think, “Oh, this is a fire break. It’s devoid of vegetation.” No, what we’re talking about is a well-managed habitat. These are shaded fuel breaks. You maintain the big trees, you get rid of the ladder fuels, and you get rid of the dead wood that’s on the ground. We have good examples with our partners, like the Butte Fire Safe Council, on how this works, and it looks like it helped protect the community of Cohasset during the Park Fire. They did some work on some strips there, and the fire essentially dropped to the ground before it came to Paradise Lake. You didn’t have an aerial tanker dropping retardant, you didn’t have a $2-million-per-day fire crew out there doing work. It was modest work done early and in the right place that actually changed the behavior of the fire.
Tell me a little more about the modeling you’ve been doing.
We looked at fire pathways with a group called XyloPlan out of the Bay Area. The concept is that you simulate a series of ignitions with certain wind conditions, terrain, and vegetation. The model looked very much like a Camp Fire scenario; it followed the same pathway, going towards the community in a little gulch that channeled high winds. You need to interrupt that pathway — and that doesn’t necessarily mean creating an area devoid of vegetation, but if you have these areas where the fire behavior changes and drops down to the ground, then it slows the travel. I found this hard to believe, but in the modeling results, in a scenario like the Camp Fire, it could buy you up to eight hours. With modern California firefighting, you could empty out the community in a systematic way in that time. You could have a vigorous fire response. You could have aircraft potentially ready. It’s a game-changing situation, rather than the 30 minutes Paradise had when the Camp Fire started.
How does this work when you’re dealing with private property owners, though? How do you convince them to move or donate their land?
We’re a Park and Recreation District so we don’t have regulatory authority. We are just trying to run with a good idea with the properties that we have so far — those from willing donors mostly, but there have been a couple of sales. If we’re unable to get federal funding or state support, though, I ultimately think this idea will still have to be here — whether it’s five, 10, 15, or 50 years from now. We have to manage this area in a comprehensive way.
Private property rights are very important, and we don’t want to impinge on that. And yet, what a person does on their property has a huge impact on the 30,000 people who may be downwind of them. It’s an unusual situation: In a hurricane, if you have a hurricane-rated roof and your neighbor doesn’t, and theirs blows off, you feel sorry for your neighbor but it’s probably not going to harm your property much. In a wildfire, what your neighbor has done with the wood, or how they treat vegetation, has a significant impact on your home and whether your family is going to survive. It’s a fundamentally different kind of event than some of the other disasters we look at.
Do you have any advice for community leaders who might want to consider creating buffer zones or something similar to what you’re doing in Paradise?
Start today. You have to think about these things with some urgency, but they’re not something people think about until it happens. Paradise, for many decades, did not have a single escaped wildfire make it into the community. Then, overnight, the community is essentially wiped out. But in so many places, these events are foreseeable; we’re just not wired to think about them or prepare for them.
Buffers around communities make a lot of sense, even from a road network standpoint. Even from a trash pickup standpoint. You don’t think about this, but if your community is really strung out, making it a little more thoughtfully laid out also makes it more economically viable to provide services to people. Some things we look for now are long roads that don’t have any connections — that were one-way in and no way out. I don’t think [the traffic jams and deaths in] Paradise would have happened with what we know now, but I kind of think [authorities] did know better beforehand. It just wasn’t economically viable at the time; they didn’t think it was a big deal, but they built the roads anyway. We can be doing a lot of things smarter.
A war of attrition is now turning in opponents’ favor.
A solar developer’s defeat in Massachusetts last week reveals just how much stronger project opponents are on the battlefield after the de facto repeal of the Inflation Reduction Act.
Last week, solar developer PureSky pulled five projects under development around the western Massachusetts town of Shutesbury. PureSky’s facilities had been in the works for years and would together represent what the developer has claimed would be one of the state’s largest solar projects thus far. In a statement, the company laid blame on “broader policy and regulatory headwinds,” including the state’s existing renewables incentives not keeping pace with rising costs and “federal policy updates,” which PureSky said were “making it harder to finance projects like those proposed near Shutesbury.”
But tucked in its press release was an admission from the company’s vice president of development Derek Moretz: this was also about the town, which had enacted a bylaw significantly restricting solar development that the company was until recently fighting vigorously in court.
“There are very few areas in the Commonwealth that are feasible to reach its clean energy goals,” Moretz stated. “We respect the Town’s conservation go als, but it is clear that systemic reforms are needed for Massachusetts to source its own energy.”
This stems from a story that probably sounds familiar: after proposing the projects, PureSky began reckoning with a burgeoning opposition campaign centered around nature conservation. Led by a fresh opposition group, Smart Solar Shutesbury, activists successfully pushed the town to drastically curtail development in 2023, pointing to the amount of forest acreage that would potentially be cleared in order to construct the projects. The town had previously not permitted facilities larger than 15 acres, but the fresh change went further, essentially banning battery storage and solar projects in most areas.
When this first happened, the state Attorney General’s office actually had PureSky’s back, challenging the legality of the bylaw that would block construction. And PureSky filed a lawsuit that was, until recently, ongoing with no signs of stopping. But last week, shortly after the Treasury Department unveiled its rules for implementing Trump’s new tax and spending law, which basically repealed the Inflation Reduction Act, PureSky settled with the town and dropped the lawsuit – and the projects went away along with the court fight.
What does this tell us? Well, things out in the country must be getting quite bleak for solar developers in areas with strident and locked-in opposition that could be costly to fight. Where before project developers might have been able to stomach the struggle, money talks – and the dollars are starting to tell executives to lay down their arms.
The picture gets worse on the macro level: On Monday, the Solar Energy Industries Association released a report declaring that federal policy changes brought about by phasing out federal tax incentives would put the U.S. at risk of losing upwards of 55 gigawatts of solar project development by 2030, representing a loss of more than 20 percent of the project pipeline.
But the trade group said most of that total – 44 gigawatts – was linked specifically to the Trump administration’s decision to halt federal permitting for renewable energy facilities, a decision that may impact generation out west but has little-to-know bearing on most large solar projects because those are almost always on private land.
Heatmap Pro can tell us how much is at stake here. To give you a sense of perspective, across the U.S., over 81 gigawatts worth of renewable energy projects are being contested right now, with non-Western states – the Northeast, South and Midwest – making up almost 60% of that potential capacity.
If historical trends hold, you’d expect a staggering 49% of those projects to be canceled. That would be on top of the totals SEIA suggests could be at risk from new Trump permitting policies.
I suspect the rate of cancellations in the face of project opposition will increase. And if this policy landscape is helping activists kill projects in blue states in desperate need of power, like Massachusetts, then the future may be more difficult to swallow than we can imagine at the moment.