The disturbing truth about science communication is that we have

Host: The lab hallway was bathed in cold fluorescent light, that particular shade of sterile white that flattens all emotion into logic. Somewhere down the corridor, a vending machine hummed, its reflection trembling faintly in the polished tile.

Through a half-open door, the soft blue glow of monitors spilled out into the dark — a fragile island of illumination in the quiet sea of the building. Inside sat Jack, his face half-lit by the screen’s ghostly hue, surrounded by stacks of notes, a microphone, and an untouched mug of coffee.

Across from him, Jeeny adjusted a camera on its tripod, her movements careful, deliberate, as if performing a ritual instead of just a setup. The faint hum of machines mingled with the faraway whine of wind outside — science and nature breathing together in uneasy harmony.

Host: The room smelled faintly of dust, burnt circuits, and ambition.

Jack: “Kyle Hill said, ‘The disturbing truth about science communication is that we have theories and ways of delivering messages that really are like putting a candle to the dark, as Carl Sagan would say. We aren't sure what will work, when, or how much. But for all that uncertainty, that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.’”

He looked up from his notes, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his tired grey eyes. “You ever think about that, Jeeny? That maybe we’re just talking into the void — hoping someone out there’s listening?”

Jeeny: “Every time I hit ‘upload,’” she said, half-smiling. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Candles don’t chase away all the dark — they just make it bearable.”

Host: Her voice was low, steady — a mix of optimism and realism sharpened by years of seeing how easily facts drowned beneath feeling.

Jack: “Still, it’s unsettling. You spend hours breaking down an experiment, crafting explanations, checking sources — and then a conspiracy video gets ten million views before you finish editing.”

Jeeny: “Because fear spreads faster than facts. Emotion is the original algorithm.”

Host: The monitors flickered, their light catching on the edge of her cheekbone, painting her in soft blue.

Jeeny: “But that’s what Hill means. Science communication isn’t certainty — it’s courage. You don’t light a candle because you expect to conquer the dark. You light it because someone might see it and find their way.”

Jack: “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you didn’t add to the darkness.”

Host: Silence filled the space — not heavy, but reflective. The hum of the computers felt louder now, like an ambient pulse of persistence.

Jack: “You know, I used to think communicating science was about making people smarter. Now I think it’s about making them care.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Facts alone are sterile. But empathy — that’s the spark. You have to meet people where they are, not where you wish they’d be.”

Host: She sat down across from him, folding her hands. “Science communication is really just storytelling with equations. You can’t demand belief — you have to invite it.”

Jack: “But it’s frustrating. You tell people about climate models, and they say, ‘But last winter was cold.’ You show data, and they say, ‘That’s just your opinion.’”

Jeeny: “Because data is abstract. People live in feelings. You can’t beat emotion with numbers; you have to translate them.”

Jack: “Translate?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not simplify — translate. Turn graphs into human stakes. Instead of ‘sea levels rising,’ say, ‘The ocean your child swims in will swallow their playground.’ Make it real.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, leaving the candle on the desk — unlit until now — standing like a metaphor waiting for its cue.

Jack: “You ever think science lost its poetry?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “It just forgot its audience. Every great scientist — Sagan, Feynman, Curie — they weren’t just explaining the universe; they were inviting wonder.”

Host: Her eyes softened, remembering. “When Sagan talked about the cosmos, he didn’t lecture. He whispered awe. That’s how you reach people — not by preaching, but by reminding them that they belong to something vast and miraculous.”

Jack: “And Hill’s right. We don’t know what works. We’re all guessing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what science is — iteration. We test. We fail. We refine.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping the window like static — random yet rhythmic.

Jack: “You think that’s enough, though? Candles against a hurricane?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because giving up isn’t neutrality — it’s surrender.”

Host: She reached for the lighter, flicking it once, twice, until a small, trembling flame bloomed atop the candle. Its light danced, soft and uncertain, but alive.

Jeeny: “Look at that,” she said. “One spark. Doesn’t destroy the dark — but it makes it visible.”

Jack: “So that’s our job.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To make the dark visible. To show people that ignorance isn’t infinite — it’s just unchallenged.”

Host: The flame reflected in both their eyes — one burning with quiet faith, the other with cautious defiance.

Jack: “Sometimes I think about what Sagan said — that we’re made of star stuff. Maybe that’s why we keep lighting candles. It’s in our nature to shine, even when we don’t understand.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the beauty of it. We’re uncertain creatures daring to share certainty.”

Host: She smiled faintly. “Hill’s quote isn’t about failure. It’s about persistence — the scientific version of faith.”

Jack: “Faith in progress?”

Jeeny: “Faith in curiosity. In the idea that truth deserves effort.”

Host: The rain slowed, and for a moment, the whole room seemed suspended between illumination and shadow — two people, one candle, and the infinite patience of trying.

Jeeny: “The darkness is big, Jack,” she said softly. “But so are we.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the flicker of the candle against the vast dark of the lab — a single point of light in the machinery of night.

And through that soft, trembling glow, Kyle Hill’s words returned like a quiet anthem of purpose:

“The disturbing truth about science communication is that we have theories and ways of delivering messages that really are like putting a candle to the dark, as Carl Sagan would say. We aren't sure what will work, when, or how much. But for all that uncertainty, that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.”

Because truth is not loud —
it is persistent.

We stumble through misinformation,
through noise and pride and disbelief,
carrying only what little light we’ve built —

our curiosity,
our hope,
our fragile insistence that facts matter.

And though every explanation feels like
a flicker in the void,
it is still light.

And light —
even uncertain, even small —
is the one language
the dark cannot understand,
but always obeys.