How Many More Have to Die Before Texas Gets Serious About Preparedness?

Preparedness could’ve saved lives. Politics got in the way. Again.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told, “Don’t make this about politics” after disaster strikes—especially here in Texas. In this state, preventable, politically driven catastrophes might be one of our biggest industries. From natural disasters to deadly mass shootings to the most restrictive abortion bans in the country, Texas tragedies are more than just accidents—they’re the manifestations of policy failures.

The harsh reality is in Texas, “politics” isn’t some distant debate between two talking heads in D.C. It’s often the difference between life and death—especially when it comes to extreme weather.

Natural disasters are a common occurrence in Texas; they’re part of the rhythm of life. We’ve built a culture around surviving them one H-E-B run at a time, with shopping carts filled to the brim with peanut butter, batteries, and bottled water. After topping off your gas tanks at Buc-ee’s, you pass neighbors helping neighbors board up windows, murmuring prayers as the sky darkens.

I’ve lived through my fair share of weather disasters—hurricanes, freezes, tropical storms, heatwaves–you name it! Sometimes they land in rural Texas, other times in the middle of Houston. I grew up hearing, “We don’t run from hurricanes,” because being Texas tough means you don’t flinch—not even when Mother Nature comes knocking.

Back in 2021, when Winter Storm Uri knocked out our power, I sat bundled in a farmhouse with my dad. The cold was bone-deep—so sharp and relentless that water bottles froze solid right there on the kitchen table. We were lucky, though. We had a propane heater to keep the house warm. Millions of other Texans weren’t so fortunate. The storm exposed just how unprepared our state was for that kind of winter. Officially, it claimed 246 lives—but some estimates put the real death toll closer to 700.

Just a few years later came the tropical storm, Alberto. When it tore through Houston, I was in my apartment near Buffalo Bayou with my dog and cat. The wind snapped limbs like toothpicks, howling through the trees as if the city itself was groaning. I sat in the pitch black of my bathroom, listening to branches slam into the water outside—praying they wouldn’t come crashing through the ceiling. Again, I was lucky. The only thing I lost was comfort. That storm knocked out my power for a full week. A week without electricity in the so-called “energy capital of the world.”

So when people say “Don’t make it political,” I can’t help but think: What could be more political than the systems meant to keep us safe failing every single time? What element of a government refusing to take action is not political?

By now, Texas politicians know full well that our state routinely falls victim to major disasters. And yet, the urgency to respond–let alone prepare–consistently falls short. The devastating fallout of 2017’s Hurricane Harvey should have been the wake-up call. Instead, it’s become just another chapter in a long story where the lesson remains unlearned.

In August of that year, Hurricane Harvey made landfall as a Category 4 storm, bringing record-breaking rainfall and catastrophic flooding across Texas with the most devastating falling in Houston. The storm caused over $125 billion in damage, displaced tens of thousands of families, and exposed deep cracks in the state’s infrastructure and emergency response systems.

Despite the scale of devastation, Governor Greg Abbott chose not to call a special session to respond, insisting the damage could be left unattended until the next regular legislative session two years later.

When lawmakers finally met, they passed Senate Bill 7, creating the Flood Infrastructure Fund and the Texas Infrastructure Resiliency Fund, which was seeded with $1.7 billion from the state’s Rainy Day Fund. These funds were designed to support flood control, drainage improvements, and long-term disaster preparedness across Texas.

But progress has been slow. As of 2024, less than 40% of the $1.7 billion allocated has actually been distributed. Despite that, during the same year Texas released a comprehensive flood plan outlining over $55 billion in needed projects.

It’s now been six years since that money was originally set aside. In that time, Texas has weathered even more natural disasters—each one demanding new rounds of cleanup, recovery, and relief that could have been mitigated with faster action and proactive planning.

Over the past decade, Texas has spent tens of billions of dollars on disaster response—but much of that spending has been reactive, fragmented, and politically fraught. Between 2015 and 2024, the state received an estimated $14.8 billion in combined federal aid from the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) and the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), averaging around $1.4 billion per year. Much of that came in response to major events like Hurricane Harvey, the 2021 winter storm, and various floods and wildfires.

After Hurricane Harvey, the state legislature allocated $3.5 billion from the Rainy Day Fund for relief and long-term infrastructure improvements. And yet, even with an increasing need for aid, Texas has forfeited or declined over $225 million in federal hazard mitigation funds (roughly a quarter of what was available) due to bureaucratic delays, local inaction, or political resistance to federal programs.

So, though the state has spent enormous sums reacting to disaster, it has consistently underinvested in proactive measures to reduce the human and financial toll of storms.

Nowhere is that failure more evident than in the devastating floods that recently tore through Central Texas—especially Kerr County. Over the Fourth of July weekend, flash floods along the Guadalupe River brought catastrophic losses. After over 20 inches of rain fell in just a few hours, at least 132 people have been reported dead, and over 100 are still missing . This tragedy unfolded in a region known as “flash flood alley.”

For nearly a decade, Kerr County delayed or declined efforts to implement a modern flash flood warning system. In 2021, the county received $10 million in American Rescue Plan (ARPA) funds—more than enough to build a $1 million network of flood gauges and emergency sirens. But instead of investing in weather infrastructure, county commissioners swayed by political antagonism to “Biden money”redirected the funds toward law enforcement upgrades.

Meanwhile, neighboring communities, including Comfort, that used similar funding to install sirens reported zero fatalities from the flood. Even worse is that for more than eight years, Kerr County officials had been requesting state-level support to build a warning system but were left unanswered.

When the state distributed ARPA funds, it included no requirement to prioritize vulnerable communities like Kerr County. No oversight. No coordination. No urgency.

That failure—at the local and state levels—left Kerr County tragically exposed. The rejection and delay of federal funds for disaster preparedness wasn’t just a missed opportunity, it was a deadly mistake.

House Bill 13, introduced this year, would have created the Texas Interoperability Council, tasked with developing a statewide emergency communications and alert plan. It included grant funding for outdoor warning sirens, real-time alerts, interoperable radios, and communications networks for first responders.

HB 13 passed the Texas House in a landslide, 129–18. But it stalled and died in the Senate Finance Committee. Despite bipartisan support—and climate disasters such as Hurricane Harvey making the stakes clear—critics balked at the bill’s $500 million price tag, questioning its scope and long-term relevance.

But experts were clear: Had HB 13 become law, it would have funded warning systems that would have saved lives.

Now the issue is back on the table. Gov. Greg Abbott has called a July 21 special session, with emergency preparedness back on the agenda.

Time and again, Texas chooses the expensive route—waiting until tragedy strikes to spend what would’ve cost far less to prevent. Proactive funding saves lives, protects property, and reduces the long-term financial burden on taxpayers.

The real question isn’t whether we can afford preparedness, it’s whether we can afford to keep ignoring it.

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Olivia Julianna is a Texas Democratic Strategist and Gen Z firebrand. She is an abortion rights activist, democracy organizer, and political influencer. With over 1 million followers across TikTok, Twitter, and Instagram, her content has accumulated over 1 billion views, changing the political landscape and putting youth voices front and center in the fight for our future.