What do you grab when you don’t know if you’re ever coming back? The question hangs in the air during those final moments before evacuation, when normalcy collapses into emergency. Photographs? Important documents? That favorite book you’ve read a dozen times?
Twenty years later, I still find myself mentally revisiting that moment, retracing the choices made in the shadow of Hurricane Katrina. What we took, what we left behind, and how quickly everything that seemed permanent could disappear. The ordinary objects that suddenly became weighted with meaning, the practical considerations that gave way to emotional attachments.
We didn’t grab much when Katrina was barreling toward our New Orleans home. Just a weekend bag, a few photos, and the stubborn hope we’d be back in a couple of days. Like always. That’s how it had been with every other storm warning throughout my 22 years in the city—a temporary inconvenience, not a life-altering event.
Hurricane warnings had become part of our seasonal rhythm, as familiar as crawfish boils and Jazz Fest. We knew the drill: fill the bathtub with water, grab batteries, alcohol and canned food. As a kid, I’d actually looked forward to storms—they meant no school, an unexpected holiday. The worst I’d ever seen growing up was some minor flooding and maybe a few fallen trees. My block in Lakeview seemed blessed, protected by the new pumping system and surrounded by those huge levees that promised security.
But Katrina was different. I remember working the camera at the Superdome during another Saints loss when the chatter started on the headsets. ‘Have you all seen that storm in the Gulf?’ The question hung there, more urgent than usual. As the Saints walked off the field to yet another defeat—a preview of not only a typical losing season but the tough fall ahead for all of New Orleans—people began seriously talking about this storm named Katrina.
The satellite image showed a monster from a B-movie, tentacles stretching shore to shore across the entire Gulf of Mexico. It seemed like it would eat the entire Gulf Coast. Despite our usual storm complacency, something felt different this time. We decided to beat the rush and just get out. No preparation. No moving valuables upstairs. No taping windows. Just go.
Even with our ‘beat the rush’ strategy, my poor dad still boarded up windows in 100-degree heat while we threw things in the car. My mom, dad and I left 36 hours before Katrina would hit, joining the stream of vehicles heading out of the city. We left behind photos we’d never get back, official documents that took years to replace, and an entire floor of furniture and memories. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was getting out alive.
That question—what would you take?—becomes a lens through which we examine what we truly value when everything else is stripped away. It’s about more than disaster preparedness; it’s about understanding what makes a life worth living, what connections matter most when the world as you know it might be ending. The answers surprise you, revealing gaps between what you thought was important and what actually is when faced with potential loss.
Now, two decades later, I understand that the real question isn’t about what you can carry in your hands, but what you carry in your heart long after the storm has passed.
The Calm Before
Hurricane warnings in New Orleans had a peculiar rhythm, a seasonal ritual as familiar as Mardi Gras beads dangling from oak trees. We didn’t so much prepare for storms as accommodate them—another item on the calendar between jazz festivals and crawfish seasons. The drill was always the same: fill bathtubs with emergency water, stock up on batteries and canned goods, maybe tape windows in crisscross patterns that everyone knew were more psychological comfort than actual protection.
Growing up in Lakeview, I’d actually welcomed storm days. They meant canceled school and neighborhood kids playing in the streets as rain began to fall. The worst I’d seen was some minor flooding, a few downed tree limbs, the occasional lost roof shingle. Our neighborhood felt protected, nestled near new pumping stations and surrounded by those massive levees that gave us all a false sense of security. We were safe, or so we told ourselves.
Then came Hurricane Ivan in 2004—what many would later call our dress rehearsal for catastrophe. That evacuation was its own kind of disaster: twelve hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic with a million other fleeing residents, highways transformed into parking lots, gas stations running dry. I remember watching cars abandoned on road shoulders, families sleeping in their vehicles, the entire exodus feeling like some cruel test of endurance.
For many in New Orleans, where nearly thirty percent of residents lived below the poverty line, evacuation wasn’t just inconvenient—it was economically devastating. Missing work meant missing rent payments. Running out of gas meant choosing between safety and financial survival. We heard stories of elderly evacuees needing medical care with nowhere to go, families cramming into whatever motel rooms they could find. Ivan ultimately missed us by a hundred miles, but the lesson many took away wasn’t about taking storms seriously—it was about either ignoring warnings entirely or getting out early to beat the traffic.
So when Katrina began swirling in the Gulf that August, my initial reaction was that familiar New Orleans shrug. Another storm, another few days of disruption. I was working the camera at the Superdome during a Saints game when the first chatter about the storm came through the headsets. The Saints were losing, as usual, and the storm talk felt like background noise until someone pulled up the satellite image.
Seeing Katrina filling the entire Gulf of Mexico changed everything. This wasn’t another seasonal nuisance—this looked like something that wanted to swallow the coastline whole. The casual attitude evaporated, replaced by a gut-level understanding that this time was different. We decided to beat the rush, to get out before the highways clogged again. No elaborate preparations, no careful packing—just grab what we could and go.
Even with our early departure plan, my father still spent hours boarding up windows in the oppressive hundred-degree heat while we threw things into the car. We left thirty-six hours before landfall with just weekend bags, a handful of photos, and that unshakable New Orleans optimism that we’d be back home in a few days. Like always.
What we left behind would haunt us for years—irreplaceable photographs, important documents, entire lifetimes of possessions stacked on lower floors. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was getting out ahead of the storm that was already changing how we thought about safety, community, and the fragile geography we called home.
The Last-Minute Exodus
The satellite image told a story words couldn’t capture—Katrina filling the entire Gulf of Mexico like some monstrous creature stretching its tentacles toward land. I’d seen hurricane warnings before, lived through the drill of boarding up windows and stocking supplies, but this felt different. This wasn’t another seasonal ritual like crawfish boils or Jazz Fest preparations.
We made the decision quickly, almost impulsively. No elaborate preparation this time, no methodical moving of valuables upstairs or careful window taping. Just go. The memory of Hurricane Ivan’s evacuation nightmare—twelve hours in bumper-to-bonnet traffic, hotels booked for miles, the exhausting reality of displacement—lingered in our minds. This time, we’d beat the rush.
My father stayed behind to board up windows in the oppressive hundred-degree heat while my mother and I threw things into the car. The absurdity of that moment stays with me—the meticulous protection of a home we might never see again, performed with the same care as if we were just going away for the weekend.
What do you take when you don’t know if you’re coming back? The question became painfully practical as we stood in our house, surrounded by a lifetime of possessions. We took a weekend bag with a few changes of clothes, some family photos, and that stubborn hope that this would be like all the other storms—an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. We left behind photographs we’d never recover, official documents that would take years to replace, and an entire floor of furniture and memories.
The car felt strangely light as we pulled away from our Lakeview home. I remember looking at the houses on our street, each with their own evacuation decisions being made. Some had already left, their houses dark and quiet. Others were still there, boarding up windows or loading cars. There was an unspoken understanding in those final hours—we were all making calculations about what mattered enough to take, what we could bear to lose.
The drive out of New Orleans was eerily smooth compared to the Ivan evacuation. Our “beat the rush” strategy worked in terms of traffic, but it created its own peculiar tension. The normalcy of the journey contrasted sharply with the reason for it. We passed familiar landmarks—the gas station where we always filled up, the grocery store where we shopped, the roads I’d driven countless times—all while watching the sky begin to take on that peculiar hurricane light, the way it does when something massive is coming.
Staring out at the Louisiana marshes rolling past our car windows, I tried to check on friends. But everyone was clogging the wireless networks of 2005. Text messages wouldn’t go through, calls dropped before connecting. That technological silence felt ominous, a preview of the isolation to come. We were physically moving away from the storm, but the information vacuum was already pulling us into its own kind of uncertainty.
We made it to Houston without incident, found a hotel room—a minor miracle given the circumstances—and tried to settle into what we assumed would be a brief interruption of our normal lives. Going to church that Sunday, praying for the storm to miss us, I felt that peculiar guilt that comes with hurricane prayers. If it misses us, it destroys someone else. There are no winners in these calculations, just different degrees of loss.
Sunday night, we went to bed thinking the levees were holding. The news reports suggested New Orleans had dodged another bullet. That fragile hope lasted until Monday morning, when the trickle of information began to suggest something much worse was happening. The disconnect between our physical safety in Houston and the growing dread about what was happening back home created a peculiar kind of limbo. We were safe, dry, comfortable—and completely helpless.
Looking back, those evacuation decisions—what to take, when to leave, where to go—were made with such limited information. We operated on instinct, past experience, and that deeply human capacity to believe that bad things happen to other people, in other places. The luxury of thinking we had choices, when in reality, the rising water would soon make all those choices for us.
The Silence After the Storm
The highways stretched empty before us, a stark contrast to the gridlock we’d endured during Hurricane Ivan just one year earlier. Our early evacuation meant we missed the worst of the traffic, but we entered a different kind of confinement—one made of static-filled phone lines and endlessly loading web pages.
In 2005, wireless networks collapsed under the weight of a million simultaneous calls. Text messages died somewhere in the ether between Louisiana and Texas. I remember pressing send again and again, watching that tiny animation spin until the screen went dark. My phone became a useless brick in my hand, its silence more ominous than any emergency alert.
We reached Houston and found a hotel room that smelled of disinfectant and stale air conditioning. The television became our window to a world we’d left behind, but even that connection felt distant and distorted. News anchors spoke in grave tones about a storm we’d thought we understood, their words bouncing off our fragile optimism.
On Sunday, we went to church. I knelt in a pew that wasn’t mine, in a city that wasn’t home, and prayed for the storm to turn. There’s a peculiar guilt in that kind of prayer—wanting disaster to pass you by means wishing it upon someone else. The mathematics of mercy never quite add up during hurricanes.
That evening, the reports seemed cautiously hopeful. The levees were holding, they said. New Orleans had dodged another bullet. We went to bed clutching that fragile certainty, only to have it shattered by Monday’s morning light.
Information arrived in fragments, like pieces of a nightmare we had to assemble ourselves. A levee breach here, a neighborhood flooding there. The Industrial Canal. The 17th Street Canal. Each name carried the weight of places I knew, streets I’d walked, homes of people I loved.
I walked out to the hotel parking lot and saw my anxiety reflected in other faces. Strangers became mirrors of our collective dread. A woman stood crying by her car, phone pressed to her ear, listening to nothing. We were all waiting for connections that wouldn’t come.
My family’s particular tragedy unfolded slowly. Lakeview, my childhood neighborhood, sat in the crosshairs of the failing 17th Street Canal. But in those first days, not knowing became its own strange comfort. Uncertainty allowed for hope. Maybe our house stood dry. Maybe the memories remained intact.
We moved to Yoakum, Texas—population 5,000—where my mother’s cousin offered us shelter. The quiet there felt heavy, oppressive. After the constant hum of New Orleans, the silence in Yoakum echoed. My uncle’s 56k dial-up modem became our torturous link to the outside world. Websites loaded in glacial increments, each pixelated image a fresh agony of anticipation.
I spent hours watching progress bars crawl across the screen, willing them faster. News sites showed aerial shots of devastation, but none of my street, none of my house. That absence of evidence felt like evidence of absence—the longer we went without seeing our home, the more we could pretend it might be okay.
About a week after the storm, we gathered around the television in Yoakum’s dim living room. Fox News showed continuous coverage of New Orleans, and there it was—our street corner. Tenth and Pontchartrain, with water lapping against the signpost like some hungry animal.
The image lasted maybe three seconds, but it contained the end of the world I knew. Hope didn’t shatter; it transformed into something heavier, more permanent. The waiting was over, replaced by the dawning understanding of what came next—the long, slow process of rebuilding everything from nothing.
In that moment, I understood why we’d been clinging to the silence. Some truths are too heavy to hold all at once. The information vacuum had been a mercy, giving us time to prepare for what we would eventually have to face. The anxiety of not knowing had been the gentle version of the truth—the reality would require much more of us than worry ever could.
A Strange Land Called Texas
The highway stretched before us like a gray ribbon unraveling into uncertainty. After the relative ease of our evacuation—beating the traffic that had trapped us during Ivan—we arrived in Houston with that peculiar exhaustion that comes from both physical travel and emotional whiplash. The hotel room felt simultaneously too large and too small, a generic space that refused to contain our anxiety.
My parents moved through those first days in a daze, their routines disrupted, their anchors gone. We watched news reports with a desperate hunger, clinging to any fragment of information about New Orleans. The wireless networks of 2005 groaned under the weight of a million simultaneous inquiries, and my text messages to friends sat undelivered as I watched the Louisiana marshes slide past our car windows during brief outings. That digital silence felt heavier than any storm warning.
Then came the call from my mom’s cousin in Yoakum. Population 5,000. The name itself sounded like something from a forgotten Western, and the reality proved even more disorienting. For a twenty-two-year-old who had never lived anywhere but New Orleans—a city that pulses with music even in its quietest moments—the silence of small-town Texas felt like a physical presence. The most exciting event was spotting deer grazing on front lawns, a far cry from the constant hum of streetcars and second-line parades.
My uncle’s dial-up modem became both my torment and my temporary salvation. In 2005, information traveled at the speed of patience, and patience was a commodity in short supply. The screech and buzz of that connection felt like an auditory manifestation of my own frustration. Websites loaded in fragments, images resolving slowly as if emerging from murky water. I’d stare at the progress bar, willing it to move faster, to tell me whether the home I’d grown up in still existed.
There was something perverse about that week of not knowing. The lack of information created space for a fragile hope to grow. Maybe the levees had held in our neighborhood. Maybe our house, elevated slightly on its foundation, had been spared the worst. Perhaps we’d return to find nothing more than downed trees and minor flooding. This limbo state became its own kind of shelter—a psychological space where disaster remained theoretical, where the life I knew might still be intact.
That illusion shattered during a Fox News broadcast. There on the screen, familiar yet alien, was our street corner—10th and Pontchartrain—with water lapping against the signpost. The image lasted only seconds, but it etched itself into my memory with the permanence of a tattoo. Hope didn’t just vanish; it transformed into something else entirely—the dawning understanding that this wouldn’t be a temporary disruption but a fundamental rewriting of our lives.
The days that followed moved through me like a slow fever. I watched my parents age before my eyes, their shoulders curving under the weight of uncertainty. We spoke in half-sentences about practical matters—insurance claims, FEMA applications, extended leave from work—but avoided the larger questions hanging in the air between us. How long would we be here? What would we return to? Would we return at all?
Then my friends Chris and Sabrina called. They’d also lived near the 17th Street Canal and had made it to Texas. When they suggested meeting at a Dairy Queen off I-35 and continuing to Austin for the weekend, I agreed before they finished the sentence. The need to escape that suspended animation in Yoakum felt physical, like coming up for air after too long underwater.
Austin revealed itself as an oasis of normalcy. Breakfast tacos and margaritas at a sunny patio table. Laughter that didn’t sound forced. Faces that weren’t etched with the same anxiety we’d been wearing like a uniform. For the first time in weeks, I had conversations that didn’t circle back to water levels or levee failures. I could breathe without every inhalation feeling like an effort.
Becca and Josh, friends of Chris and Sabrina, opened their home to me without hesitation. They asked no questions about how long I might need to stay, made no comments about the imposition. Their kindness felt like a life raft thrown to someone they barely knew, and I clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man. When they offered to let me stay while I figured things out, I said yes before the sentence was complete.
The contrast between their easy generosity and the bureaucratic hurdles we’d been facing with relief agencies was stark. While official systems moved slowly, hampered by paperwork and protocols, individuals reached out with immediate, practical compassion. It taught me something essential about disaster response—that while systems matter, it’s often the personal connections that save us in those first fragile days.
Starting over in Austin presented its own challenges. Fresh out of college with no local connections, I pounded pavement with resumes, cold-called companies from the phone book, and faced repeated rejections. This was before LinkedIn streamlined professional networking, before the gig economy offered temporary bridges. Each “no” felt heavier than the last, compounded by the knowledge that back home, my city lay in ruins.
Yet Austin itself offered unexpected support. The city—not the state, not the federal government—had created a program for Katrina evacuees: free housing and utilities while we got back on our feet. This practical compassion made survival possible, allowing me to take a low-paying production job without immediately facing homelessness. It was a lesson in how local communities often respond more effectively than larger bureaucracies—a lesson I’d carry with me through the rebuilding years ahead.
Even surrounded by this support, nights in my sparse North Austin apartment felt interminable. I’d watch reruns of The OC, the cheerful California sunniness feeling like a transmission from another planet. My heart remained 350 miles east, in a city that might never fully recover. The guilt of being safe, of having found shelter while others struggled, became a constant companion.
Those early weeks in Texas taught me more about disaster recovery than any official guide ever could. I learned that trauma follows its own timeline, that healing isn’t linear, and that sometimes the most important help comes from unexpected places. I discovered that rebuilding begins not with physical structures but with human connections—the casual invitation to dinner, the spare room offered without conditions, the shared meal that feels like a temporary anchor in a world adrift.
Most importantly, I began to understand that disaster strips away everything nonessential, revealing both the fragility of our systems and the resilience of our connections. In that strange land called Texas, surrounded by generosity I hadn’t earned and support I couldn’t repay, I started to rebuild not just a life, but an understanding of what truly matters when everything else falls away.
The Unrecognizable Homecoming
Two months to the day after Katrina made landfall, I returned to New Orleans. The drive into the city felt like entering a different country—one where the rules of reality had been suspended. Military checkpoints, National Guard troops with rifles, and that smell. That smell hit me before I even reached my neighborhood, a sickening sweet-rotten odor that clung to the back of your throat and stayed with you for days.
Turning onto my street in Lakeview, the visual reality matched the olfactory assault. The neighborhood I’d known since childhood had been transformed into a war zone. A mountain of debris three stories high stood where our neighborhood park used to be—refrigerators, couches, photo albums, children’s toys, all mixed together in a grotesque sculpture of loss. That pile would remain for months as families slowly, painfully cleared out their homes.
Our house had taken ten feet of water. The flood line was still visible on the exterior walls, a grim watermark showing how completely the neighborhood had been submerged. When we opened the door, the smell intensified—mold, decay, and something else I still can’t identify, something that smelled like death and mud and the end of things.
Everything inside had turned the same uniform gray. Furniture had floated and settled in impossible places—a dining room chair perched on the kitchen counter, a bookshelf lying sideways in the hallway. The water had picked up our entire life, shaken it like a snow globe, and set it back down wrong. That gray coating covered everything—the piano I’d learned to play on, my mother’s collection of ceramic angels, the family photos that hadn’t made it into our evacuation bag. It was like looking at a faded photograph of my childhood, all the color and vibrancy drained away.
Walking through rooms that should have been familiar felt like moving through a nightmare. My bedroom, where I’d spent countless hours as a teenager, was unrecognizable. The water had lifted my bed and dresser and shifted them both against the far wall. The college diploma I’d proudly hung just three months earlier was now a soggy, gray-stained piece of paper clinging to the wall.
The strangest discoveries were the small, personal items that the water had rearranged. My father’s fishing tackle box had somehow ended up in the upstairs bathroom. My mother’s recipe cards were scattered throughout the living room, the ink blurred beyond recognition. These ordinary objects, placed in all the wrong contexts, made the destruction feel personal and intimate.
Standing in what was left of our living room, I had the sudden, overwhelming realization that this neighborhood never should have existed in the first place. Lakeview was built on a swamp—literally. The ground constantly sank, the roads were perpetually buckling, and we were surrounded by water on three sides with only artificial levees protecting us. We’d built our lives on reclaimed swampland, trusting engineering and concrete to hold back nature.
That day, seeing the destruction firsthand, understanding how completely the water had reclaimed what was always its territory, changed how I thought about home, safety, and the arrogance of human planning. The gray coating on everything wasn’t just mud and mold—it was the color of reality finally catching up with us, the physical manifestation of truths we’d been avoiding for generations.
Rebuilding from Scratch
The first few weeks in Austin felt like living in a strange dream. I had a roof over my head thanks to Becca and Josh’s generosity, but everything else felt temporary, uncertain. Waking up each morning in a city where I knew virtually no one, with no job prospects and nothing but a duffel bag of belongings, created a constant low-grade anxiety that became my new normal.
Finding work proved more difficult than I’d imagined. This was 2005—no LinkedIn, no digital job boards that mattered. I bought a physical map of Austin and circled areas with businesses that might need help. Production companies, news stations, anywhere that might value someone who knew how to work a camera and tell stories. I printed fifty copies of my resume at a Kinko’s and started showing up unannounced at offices, hoping someone would see past my lack of local experience.
Rejection became routine. “We’re not hiring right now” turned into the soundtrack of my days. The few interviews I managed to get always ended the same way—when they asked why I’d left New Orleans, their faces would shift from professional interest to pity. I could see them wondering if I was damaged goods, if the trauma would affect my work. The truth was, I wondered the same thing myself.
Then I discovered Austin’s Katrina relief program. The city had set up temporary housing assistance specifically for evacuees, covering basic utilities and rent for those trying to get back on their feet. Walking into that government office felt like finding an oasis in the desert. The woman behind the counter didn’t look at me with pity—she saw someone who needed practical help, and she provided it efficiently and kindly. That program meant I could take an entry-level production assistant job that paid barely enough for groceries, knowing my basic needs were covered.
My apartment in North Austin came furnished with the kind of furniture that suggests previous tenants also left in a hurry. A sagging couch, a table with one slightly shorter leg, curtains that never quite closed properly. I’d sit there at night watching reruns of The OC, the California sunshine on screen contrasting sharply with the grayness I felt inside. The shows provided a weird comfort—they depicted problems that felt both monumental and solvable, unlike the overwhelming reality waiting back in New Orleans.
The psychological toll revealed itself in small, unexpected ways. I’d catch myself staring at weather reports, tracking every storm system in the Gulf with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The sound of heavy rain against my apartment window would trigger a panic that felt physical, my heart racing as I mentally calculated flood levels. I started keeping my most important documents in a waterproof bag by the door, along with a change of clothes and some cash—a habit that would take years to break.
What surprised me most was the loneliness. In New Orleans, I’d taken for granted the constant background noise of community—neighbors calling out greetings, music drifting from somewhere down the street, the easy familiarity of people who’ve known you since childhood. Austin felt polite but distant, everyone moving with purpose toward their own destinations. I missed the messy, interconnected web of relationships that had defined my life back home.
Some days, the guilt felt overwhelming. Why did I get to be safe in a cool apartment while friends were sleeping in FEMA trailers? Why was I worrying about my career when people were literally digging through mud to recover fragments of their lives? That guilt became a quiet companion, whispering that I didn’t deserve to move forward when so many were stuck in the aftermath.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, Austin began to feel less foreign. I discovered coffee shops where the baristas remembered my order, found running trails along the river, even started recognizing faces in my apartment complex. The city’s kindness wasn’t dramatic—it showed up in small gestures, like when my landlord fixed my dripping faucet without being asked, or when a coworker noticed I was eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch every day and started bringing extra leftovers to share.
Work eventually came through a connection at one of the production companies I’d pestered. They needed someone to help with footage digitization—mindless work, but it paid and got me in the door. I’d spend hours in a dark editing bay, watching other people’s lives unfold on screen while trying to figure out what mine was supposed to look like now. The rhythm of the work became therapeutic in its monotony.
The hardest part wasn’t the practical challenges—it was reconciling the person I’d been with the person I needed to become. The confident college graduate who’d had his life mapped out was gone, replaced by someone who jumped at loud noises and had nightmares about rising water. Recovery wasn’t about returning to who I was before; it was about building someone new from the pieces that remained.
Those months taught me that disaster recovery isn’t a linear process. Some days felt like progress—I’d make a new friend, land a slightly better freelance gig, go whole hours without thinking about the floodwaters. Other days, a news report or particular song would trigger a grief so sharp it left me breathless. The trauma didn’t disappear; it just became part of my landscape, something I learned to navigate around.
What made the difference, ultimately, were the systems of support—both formal and informal. The city programs that provided practical assistance, the friends who offered couches and companionship, the strangers who became allies. Without that network, the challenges would have been overwhelming. With it, I could begin the slow work of rebuilding, not just a life, but a sense of possibility.
Years later, I’d recognize that period as one of the most formative of my life. The struggle to find footing in unfamiliar territory, the humility of starting over, the discovery of resilience I didn’t know I possessed—these became foundations stronger than any levee system. The road was longer and harder than I could have imagined, but it led somewhere worth reaching.
The Unseen Divide
The water receded, but the divisions it revealed remained. Standing in the gray ruins of my childhood home, I understood something that had been abstract before: disaster discriminates. It seeks out the vulnerable, preys on the marginalized, and exposes the fault lines we pretend don’t exist.
In those first weeks after Katrina, we kept hearing the same phrase on news reports: “They chose to stay.” The implication was clear—those who suffered had made their own bed. But this narrative ignored the brutal mathematics of evacuation. When you’re living paycheck to paycheck, evacuation isn’t a choice—it’s a calculus of impossible trade-offs.
I remembered the traffic jam during Hurricane Ivan, the year before Katrina. Twelve hours of gridlock with a million other people trying to escape. For families already struggling, that traffic represented more than frustration. It meant missed work shifts, lost wages, choosing between evacuation and making rent. Running out of gas wasn’t just an inconvenience—it could mean the difference between safety and catastrophe.
The poverty rate in New Orleans hovered around 28 percent back then. Nearly one in three residents lived below the poverty line. Many didn’t own cars. When the evacuation order came, they faced an impossible situation: stay and risk the storm, or leave and risk everything else.
Emergency systems assumed resources that many simply didn’t have. The official advice—”evacuate early,” “book hotels in advance,” “have emergency funds”—felt like a cruel joke to those barely scraping by. Disaster preparedness became a luxury item, affordable only to those with means.
I saw this divide play out in the aftermath. Friends with insurance struggled through paperwork and delays, but eventually received checks to rebuild. Others—often in communities that had been marginalized long before the storm—faced bureaucratic mazes designed to say “no.” The systems meant to protect everyone instead protected those who needed protection least.
The trauma followed different paths too. My friend who stayed through the storm was never the same afterward. He never talked about what he saw, what he experienced in those days when the city descended into chaos. Years later, he took his own life. The storm didn’t just take homes and possessions—it took pieces of people’s souls.
We watched as billions were spent rebuilding nations overseas while our own city struggled for basic resources. The message seemed clear: some lives matter more than others. Some communities deserve protection while others get promises and photo opportunities.
The uncomfortable truth is that disasters don’t create inequality—they reveal it. They magnify existing vulnerabilities and expose the gaps in our social contract. When the water rises, it doesn’t care about your bank account or social status. But our response to that rising water reveals everything about who we value as a society.
This realization changed how I think about community and responsibility. The “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” narrative falls apart when the boots are underwater. Resilience isn’t just an individual trait—it’s a community resource, built through shared investment and mutual support.
We need systems that recognize this reality. Infrastructure that protects all neighborhoods, not just wealthy ones. Emergency response that doesn’t disappear when the cameras leave. Rebuilding programs that prioritize people over paperwork.
Most importantly, we need to acknowledge that vulnerability isn’t a personal failing—it’s a collective responsibility. The next disaster will come—whether hurricane, wildfire, or flood—and when it does, our response will define who we are as a society. Will we watch each other drown, or will we build the boats together?
Preparing for the Unthinkable
The most important lesson Katrina taught me wasn’t about survival—it was about preparation. Not just the practical kind with emergency kits and evacuation routes, but the emotional and communal preparation that truly makes the difference when disaster strikes.
Every household should have that conversation: what would you take if you had minutes to leave? We learned that documents matter more than sentimental items when rebuilding your life. Birth certificates, insurance papers, property deeds—these became our most sought-after possessions in the aftermath. Keep them in a waterproof container that’s easily accessible. Better yet, digitize everything and store copies with trusted family members outside your region.
But preparation extends beyond documents. Know your evacuation route alternatives. During Ivan, everyone tried the same highways and created the traffic nightmare that left people stranded. Research secondary roads, have paper maps (when cell service fails, GPS becomes useless), and identify multiple destinations in different directions.
The Community That Prepares Together
What stayed with me most wasn’t the destruction but the kindness of strangers. In Austin, people who didn’t know me offered shelter without hesitation. That generosity didn’t happen by accident—it came from a culture of preparedness that includes looking out for others.
Start neighborhood networks before disaster strikes. Know who might need extra help: elderly residents, people with disabilities, families without vehicles. Establish communication trees that don’t rely on cellular networks. Sometimes the old ways work best—walkie-talkies with predetermined channels, or simply knowing which neighbors to check on personally.
After Katrina, we saw how churches, community centers, and even coffee shops became informal aid stations. These places matter because they’re already embedded in the social fabric. Identify them in advance and understand their capabilities. The local diner with a generator might become the information hub when power fails.
Beyond Individual Responsibility
Personal preparation only goes so far. Katrina exposed how systemic failures can overwhelm even the most prepared individuals. The levees weren’t a personal responsibility—they were a public one. The evacuation plan wasn’t something individuals could fix—it required government coordination.
We need to demand better infrastructure investment, particularly in vulnerable communities. The poorest neighborhoods often face the greatest risks yet receive the least protection. Support zoning that respects environmental realities rather than developer interests. Lakeview never should have been built where it was, but profit motives overrode common sense.
Emergency response systems must prioritize equity. During Katrina, people died because they lacked transportation, not because they didn’t understand the danger. Any credible evacuation plan must include provisions for those without resources—public transportation assistance, designated shelters with adequate supplies, and communication channels that reach all communities.
The Long Road of Recovery
Disaster preparation continues long after the immediate danger passes. Mental health support often gets overlooked in the physical rebuilding process. I watched friends struggle with trauma for years after Katrina, their suffering invisible beneath the visible progress of reconstruction.
Communities need established mental health resources before disasters strike. The psychological impact of losing everything—your home, your neighborhood, your sense of security—lingers long after the floodwaters recede. Normalize counseling and support groups as part of disaster recovery, not as an afterthought.
Financial preparedness matters too. Many Katrina survivors faced insurance battles that lasted years. Understand your policies before disaster strikes. Take videos walking through your home, documenting possessions. Keep receipts for major purchases. These small actions can make the difference between rebuilding and financial ruin.
A Culture of Mutual Aid
The most enduring preparation isn’t what you pack in your go-bag—it’s the relationships you build before the storm. Those breakfast tacos in Austin tasted like salvation not because of the food, but because they came with human connection in our most isolated moment.
Create networks of mutual aid that extend beyond your immediate circle. Know people in different regions who might take you in if displaced. Maintain those connections even when the sky is clear. The friend who offered me shelter in Austin did so because we’d maintained our friendship through ordinary times—that ordinary connection became extraordinary when everything else fell apart.
When Systems Fail, People Remain
Ultimately, preparation comes down to recognizing that systems will fail—levees break, governments move slowly, insurance companies deny claims—but people can still show up for each other. The most important thing we can prepare is our capacity for generosity.
Keep your gas tank half full. Have cash on hand when ATMs fail. Know how to turn off your utilities. But more importantly, know which neighbors might need help carrying their belongings down stairs. Remember that the family down the street doesn’t have relatives out of state to call. Offer your guest room before someone has to ask.
Katrina taught me that disasters don’t create character—they reveal it. The preparation that matters most happens in ordinary moments through ordinary kindnesses that become extraordinary when everything else falls apart. That’s the preparedness no government program can provide, but every community can cultivate.
Conclusion: What We Carry Forward
Twenty years later, that question still lingers—what would you take if you knew you might never return? The weekend bag, the handful of photos, the fragile hope that things would be okay. We packed light, believing we’d be back in a few days. We always came back before.
But some things you can’t pack. Some things reveal themselves only in the emptiness left behind—the weight of what was lost, the lightness of what remained.
What stayed with me wasn’t the gray ruins or the waterlines marking our walls. It wasn’t the silence of a drowned neighborhood or the bureaucratic maze of recovery. What endured were the hands that reached out when we had nothing to offer in return.
The couple in Austin who opened their door to a stranger. The city program that provided housing when jobs were scarce. The friends who shared breakfast tacos and didn’t ask painful questions. These were the things that truly rebuilt lives—not the FEMA checks or the insurance settlements, but the human connections that no disaster could wash away.
We often talk about disaster preparedness in terms of supplies and plans—the bottled water, the evacuation routes, the important documents in waterproof containers. These matter, of course. But the most essential preparation isn’t something you can pack in a go-bag. It’s the cultivation of community, the building of networks that transcend geography and circumstance.
Katrina taught me that disasters don’t create new problems—they reveal existing ones. The poverty that made evacuation impossible for some. The infrastructure neglect that turned a storm into a catastrophe. The social fractures that determined who struggled and who found support. These weren’t hurricane problems—they were human problems that the water simply exposed.
Rebuilding isn’t just about restoring buildings or replacing possessions. It’s about addressing those underlying vulnerabilities. It’s about creating systems that don’t just respond to disasters but prevent them from becoming tragedies. It’s about recognizing that our safety depends not just on sturdy levees but on strong communities.
New Orleans rebuilt—slowly, unevenly, but persistently. People returned not because they denied the risks but because home isn’t just a place on a map. It’s the web of relationships, the shared history, the cultural tapestry that makes a community worth preserving. The same is true for wildfire-threatened towns in California, flood-prone communities in the Midwest, or coastal cities facing rising seas everywhere.
The question isn’t whether we should rebuild in vulnerable places—it’s how we rebuild with wisdom and justice. How we protect not just property but people. How we ensure that the next disaster doesn’t hit the most vulnerable the hardest.
What would I take now, knowing what I know? Still the photos, the documents, the practical necessities. But I’d also carry the certainty that what matters most can’t be taken—it must be built and maintained every day. The relationships, the community ties, the mutual obligations that form our true safety net.
We can’t prevent all disasters. But we can decide how we respond to them—as individuals, as communities, as a society. We can choose to build systems that protect everyone, not just those who can afford protection. We can choose to see disaster response not as charity but as collective responsibility.
Twenty years later, I understand that the most important thing we carry isn’t what we pack in our bags—it’s what we build in our communities. It’s the willingness to open doors to strangers. It’s the commitment to create systems that leave no one behind. It’s the recognition that our fates are intertwined, that another’s vulnerability is ultimately our own.
When the next disaster comes—and it will—may we be prepared not just with supplies but with solidarity. May we remember that what we choose to carry forward defines not just our survival but our humanity.
