It is easy to look at the steady drumbeat of floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and wildfires and ask whether something fundamentally different is happening or whether we are simply more aware of risks that have always existed. When people talk about once-in-a-century floods arriving every few years, the question is not really theological or political. It is about whether the data supports what our instincts are telling us. And in at least one important way, it does.
If you step back from individual disasters and look at the hydrology data, extreme precipitation stands out as a measurable and observable trend. Since around 1950, North America has experienced roughly a 15 to 20 percent increase in extreme precipitation events. That does not tell us exactly when the next flood will occur, but it does help explain why certain types of flooding feel more frequent and more severe. The science is better at identifying where risk exists than pinpointing the exact timing, and that distinction matters.
Flooding itself is not a single phenomenon. River flooding tends to be slower and more predictable, with water spreading across wider areas over time. Flash flooding is more violent, driven by intense rainfall that funnels quickly through constrained terrain, turning creeks into instant rivers that carry debris and cause outsized damage. Urban flooding follows a different pattern altogether, where concrete and pavement prevent absorption and force water into places it was never meant to go, even as cities rely on drainage systems to blunt the impact. Coastal flooding adds yet another layer, where storm surge can suddenly erase the boundary between land and sea. The common thread is water, but the way risk shows up is deeply local.
That localization is why flood risk, and climate risk more broadly, is often misunderstood. A striking share of insurance and disaster claims come from a small fraction of geographic areas, which creates repetition that feels surprising to outsiders but predictable to those who study it. It also highlights a disconnect between how risk is mapped and how risk is experienced. Floodplain maps, including those used by FEMA, are often rooted in historical data that reflects a very different climate baseline. Updating those maps is not simply a technical exercise. It runs headlong into trade offs around budgets, staffing, and political priorities. Government systems are not designed to move quickly, and every dollar spent hardening one area is a dollar not spent elsewhere.
That does not mean society has failed to understand risk. In many ways, we are far more resilient than we were decades ago. Technology, forecasting, communication, and building standards have dramatically reduced loss of life relative to past disasters. What we struggle with is the expectation of perfection. There is an implicit belief that with enough foresight, no one should ever be surprised by a catastrophe. That is not realistic. Natural disasters are, by definition, disruptive and chaotic. Even the best prepared systems will fail under certain conditions, and judging every outcome through the lens of hindsight ignores how much uncertainty remains.
This is where politics inevitably enters the conversation. Climate risk has become a proxy for broader political identity, in part because politicians talk about it constantly and frame it as a defining issue. Beliefs about whether the climate is changing, and whether that change matters, shape consumer behavior, voting behavior, and willingness to pay for protection. When an issue is carried into public consciousness primarily through political messaging rather than lived experience or direct education, polarization is almost unavoidable.
Yet one group operates largely outside that political debate: insurers. If there is any industry that understands climate driven risk at a granular level, it is insurance. Insurers have powerful incentives to model hazards accurately, price them correctly, and update their assumptions quickly. In many respects, they are ahead of universities and public agencies in translating climate signals into real world financial consequences. Insurance premiums are one of the clearest mechanisms society has for communicating risk. A higher premium sends an immediate and intuitive signal that two seemingly similar properties are not exposed to the same hazards.
Expecting individual homeowners to fully understand their own flood, wildfire, or wind risk is unrealistic. We do not expect borrowers to assess their own credit risk without guidance. We rely on banks to price that risk through rates and terms. The same logic applies to insurance. When pricing accurately reflects underlying risk, it gives people both the incentive and the information they need to make better decisions. When pricing is flattened or subsidized, surprise becomes inevitable.
Data sharing across institutions is often held up as a solution, but it is not a panacea. Risk models are competitive assets, and organizations are understandably reluctant to give them away. The challenge is not a lack of data so much as how to communicate risk clearly without overwhelming people or fueling unnecessary anxiety. Humans are notoriously bad at aligning fear with probability. We worry about dramatic but unlikely events while ignoring mundane risks that are far more statistically dangerous.
The goal, then, is balance. Climate risk is real, observable, and increasingly relevant to housing and mortgage markets. It deserves attention, investment, and thoughtful adaptation. At the same time, panic is not a strategy. Not every hot day is a crisis, and not every disaster is evidence of systemic failure. The work ahead is less about predicting the exact moment of the next catastrophe and more about building systems that can absorb shocks, price risk transparently, and adapt over time.
In the end, resilience is not about eliminating loss entirely. It is about understanding where risk lives, signaling it honestly, and making tradeoffs in full view rather than pretending they do not exist. That may be an uncomfortable conversation, but it is far more productive than arguing about whether the rain should have surprised us at all.