How Applying Behavioral Economics Can Build a Movement

By Aaron White

Remember Michael Scott grilling his foot on a George Foreman grill and declaring a "serious disability"? That's us in 2025—masters of the overblown personal crisis while scrolling past climate headlines to look for a heartwarming story about a 7-year old who turns leftover peanut butter jars into homeless shelters for gay mockingbirds.

We've become experts at compartmentalizing catastrophes. A shrug, a quick eye roll to the camera as another temperature record breaks. The notification disappears; our attention shifts.

But what if we could apply some behavioral economics to this problem and start with something deceptively simple?

One. Single. Dollar.

Not the dramatic lifestyle overhaul we've convinced ourselves is the only solution. Just a laughably inadequate offering that might be the lukewarm savior our dumb species deserves.

Why Your Sad Little Dollar Actually Matters

We humans are walking contradictions—brilliantly intelligent yet predictably irrational. Our financial choices would make a calculator weep, but there's method to our madness. Enter behavioral economics: the field that doesn't judge our economic blunders but maps them instead. These Noble prize winners have discovered that our irrationality isn't random—it's a choreographed dance of psychological quirks that repeat with precision. Turns out our financial "mistakes" are less bug and more feature of the human operating system.

Take the act of paying for something. Even an amount so trivial you'd ignore it on a sidewalk—fundamentally alters human psychology. Scientists call this "having skin in the game," which is a fancy way of saying you suddenly care about something once you've spent money on it.

Consider the gym membership gathering dust on your credit card statement. That monthly withdrawal triggers just enough guilt to make you occasionally drape yourself over a treadmill while scrolling through TikTok. Studies show that people who paid full price for theater tickets attended significantly more shows than those who received discounts—not because they suddenly developed a passion for interpretive dance, but because humans are pathologically averse to wasting their own money.

This psychological quirk applies remarkably well to environmental action. When people voluntarily pay for carbon removal, they become emotionally invested in climate outcomes. It's not just charity; it's buying a microscopic stake in a habitable future. Behavioral economists Dan Ariely and Richard Thaler have documented this phenomenon extensively, finding that people are dramatically more likely to stick to goals when money is involved. Ariely discovered that subjects were more successful at quitting smoking when they put cash deposits on the line, while Thaler's "mental accounting" theory explains how we irrationally value identical amounts of money differently depending on their context.

There's a delicious irony here, though. If implemented poorly, paying for environmental absolution can actually increase harmful behavior. The classic example comes from an Israeli daycare that imposed a small fine on late-picking-up parents, only to see tardiness skyrocket because parents now viewed being late as a purchasable service rather than a social transgression. The lesson? Money can either activate our moral compass or let us buy indulgences for our sins—the difference lies entirely in the framing.

Your Dollar: Less Pathetic Than It Sounds

Here's where your embarrassingly small contribution becomes surprisingly consequential. By contributing just one dollar toward carbon removal, you're not merely funding technologies that extract carbon from the atmosphere; you're reprogramming your own brain. This isn't hippie philosophy—it's cold, calculating behavioral science.

Imagine thousands of people each contributing their sad little dollar every month. Collectively, these meager amounts fund direct air-capture projects, reforestation initiatives, and technologies that actually reduce atmospheric carbon. Meanwhile, brands obsessively tracking consumer behavior notice this shift and scramble to align themselves with your newfound values. Suddenly, your dollar isn't just a dollar—it's a microphone broadcasting that you care just enough to be mildly inconvenienced.

This isn't theoretical. Consider Fairtrade products, where consumers willingly pay up to 35% more just to avoid the cognitive dissonance of enjoying chocolate harvested by exploited farmers. Over time, this willingness to pay a premium reshaped entire markets, forcing corporations like Starbucks and Unilever to adopt more ethical practices not out of moral enlightenment but naked self-interest. Your collective dollars didn't just buy better coffee; they rewrote corporate behavior.

Similarly, when Washington D.C. introduced an almost insultingly small five-cent charge on plastic bags, usage plummeted by 60%. This fee wasn't punitive—it was less than the cost of a gum ball—but it was just irritating enough to change behavior. Subscription models across industries demonstrate how small, recurring payments cement long-term habits. Your monthly dollar for carbon removal operates on the same principle, subtly reinforcing environmental consciousness through the mild sting of regular payment.

The Tiny Shit Tipping Point

Now, picture your single dollar multiplied across millions of people that equally give a tiny shit. Tiny shits stacked together can actually be a big shit, trust me. Together, this sends a message to companies: reduce emissions or risk losing the loyalty of consumers who care just enough to be dangerous. As more people pay to remove carbon, behaviors begin to shift—not dramatically, but incrementally. That monthly dollar creates just enough cognitive dissonance to make you consider biking instead of driving, or at least feel briefly guilty while starting your SUV.

Companies like Climeworks already offer direct air capture subscriptions, and despite economic uncertainty, their customer base grows. Why? Because people who pay to remove carbon aren't just purchasing environmental indulgences—they're buying membership in a community that signals their values. This transforms passive worriers into annoying advocates who pressure politicians and businesses to scale real solutions.

Nobel laureate George Akerlof's concept of "identity economics" explains why this works. People make choices that affirm their identities and align with social norms. When paying for carbon removal becomes recognized as a signal of basic decency (a low bar, admittedly), more people do it simply to maintain their self-image as functioning members of society. This identity reinforcement creates further behavior changes, prompting them to seek sustainable alternatives in other areas of life—not because they're environmental saints, but because humans are desperate for consistency in their self-narratives.

Imagine a world where paying to remove carbon becomes as unremarkable as buying coffee or subscribing to yet another streaming service you don't have time to watch. Picture corporations scrambling to prove their sustainability credentials because consumers demand it with the mild enthusiasm they typically reserve for seasonal menu items. Visualize politicians emboldened by the tepid signal that citizens might be willing to invest the bare minimum in a habitable planet. That's the surprisingly substantial power of your pathetically small contribution.

Be a Mediocre Hero

Here's the point: paying one dollar to remove carbon isn't an absolution of guilt—it's the bare minimum entry fee to the "slightly better than completely apathetic" club. Far from granting permission to pollute more, it becomes a gateway drug to environmental responsibility. When you commit even this embarrassingly small amount, it subtly alters your self-perception, nudging you toward marginally better choices about transportation, consumption, and voting.

This isn't charity—it's calculated manipulation of your own psychology. By investing in carbon removal, you tell your brain you're somewhat serious about climate change. You create just enough internal pressure to occasionally make more sustainable choices. You signal to brands that your barely-engaged demographic might occasionally reward environmental responsibility. You provide politicians with the thinnest possible evidence that climate action won't end their careers.

The first step is laughably easy: commit your dollar today. Tomorrow, guilt-trip a friend into matching it. Soon, your single dollar joins millions of others, creating momentum that's less "unstoppable force" and more "gradually accelerating shopping cart," but surprisingly effective nonetheless.

One measly buck. Disproportionate impact. The most underwhelming heroism imaginable—but in a crisis this large, even half-hearted action counts.

Chip In a Buck