Across the Southeast, hurricanes dominate conversations from June through September. But this year feels different -- it marks the 20th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's devastating landfall in Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana.
Katrina, one of the deadliest and costliest natural disasters in U.S. history, struck the Gulf Coast on Aug. 29, 2005. Initially a Category 5 storm, it made landfall as a Category 3.
New Orleans bore the brunt. When the levees failed, 80% of the city flooded. Entire neighborhoods vanished, infrastructure collapsed, and tens of thousands were stranded. Over 1,800 lives were lost, and more than a million people were displaced across Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.
The response was slow and fragmented, exposing deep racial and socioeconomic disparities in disaster preparedness and recovery. The economic toll exceeded $100 billion. Even today, some areas remain in slow recovery. Katrina reshaped how the nation thinks about emergency management, climate resilience, and urban planning -- leaving an indelible mark on policy and public consciousness.
The very word "hurricane" traces back to the Taíno word hurakán, god of storms and destruction. Spanish explorers adopted huracán, which entered English by the late 1500s. Today, it evokes images like Katrina: a swirling giant, born of warm seas, unleashing wind, rain, and ruin.
The new National Geographic documentary Hurricane Katrina: Race Against Time revisits those harrowing days through never-before-seen footage and firsthand accounts, underscoring the systemic failures that compounded the disaster.
For me, the memory is personal.
The weekend before Katrina's landfall, I was fishing off Southwest Pass at a family gathering my former boss called "Marsh Madness." I caught my first redfish -- full of fight -- but the air carried an unsettling calm.
On Aug. 21, 2005, as we cleaned up after storms, the boat's weather radio crackled: a storm had formed east of Florida, forecasters said it wouldn't amount to much. I laughed -- being on the water, you could feel its pulse. That evening, after seeking shelter from thunderstorms, I spotted two waterspouts twisting over the marshlands. The sight was surreal and unnerving.
Within 24 hours, Tropical Depression Twelve formed. By the next day, it strengthened; by Aug. 25, it was a Category 1. My boss had asked whether to haul his boat back to Mississippi -- I said yes, but forecasts suggested otherwise, so it stayed. As the storm rapidly intensified, my unease grew. As a graduate student in public administration and geosciences, I expected evacuation orders and counterflow plans to be issued. They never came.
A week later, I watched the storm unfold -- winds howling outside my home -- alongside the rest of the world.
Months later, I returned to New Orleans for a conference. My hotel, once a dorm for displaced students, buzzed with undergrads in pajamas, studying and adjusting to their new reality. In neighborhoods like the Ninth Ward, devastation rivaled the haunting photographs my Papaw had shown me of the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. Water's relentless force had erased boundaries, leaving isolation and darkness.
This reality contrasted with the vibrant, eccentric spirit I'd always associated with the Crescent City. Having spent much time in Southeast Louisiana, New Orleans felt like a second home. Despite enduring more tragedies -- the Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill, COVID-19, the New Year's Day Bourbon Street attack, and numerous hurricanes -- we come together like a squadron of pelicans, ready to pick up the pieces.
The experience reshaped my career path, steering me toward emergency management and deepening my understanding of how disasters affect critical infrastructure. Today, I live in Pensacola, Florida, working as a solutions integrator focused on energy innovation and assurance to strengthen community resilience.
As hurricane season ramps up, it's a good time to stay weather-aware -- especially in Pensacola, a city with distinct vulnerabilities.
Since 1975, the region has endured eight hurricanes, including Eloise (1975), Frederic (1979), Ivan (2004), and Dennis (2005). Hurricane Ivan proved especially destructive, with a massive storm surge that destroyed the I-10 Bay Bridge, damaged tens of thousands of homes, and caused billions in losses. More recently, Hurricane Sally (2020) brought severe flooding to downtown and significant damage to Pensacola Beach.
The Florida Panhandle ranks second in the state -- behind only the Miami/South Atlantic region -- for the likelihood of direct hurricane strikes. Pensacola's location along the Gulf Coast places it directly in the path of storms forming in the Gulf's warm waters.
Within Escambia County, the overall natural hazard risk is exceptionally high -- about 97.9 out of 100. Beyond hurricanes, the area faces significant threats from flooding, lightning, and high winds. Pensacola's low-lying, flat terrain makes it especially vulnerable to storm surge, coastal flooding, erosion, and severe wave action.
Two decades after Katrina, the lessons remain: storms don't wait for plans to be perfect, forecasts aren't always right, and preparedness is more than an option -- it's survival.
Tonya E. Thornton lives in Pensacola and is vice president of R&D at the Global Connective Center. A recognized SME for DOD in emergency management, critical infrastructure and energy security, her current projects focus on mission assurance to support national priorities.