Picture this: You\u2019re looking to buy a place to live, and you have two options.<\/p>\n
Option A is a beautiful home in California near good schools and job opportunities. But it goes for nearly a million dollars \u2014 the median California home sells for $906,500<\/a> \u2014 and you\u2019d be paying a mortgage that\u2019s risen 82% since January 2020<\/a>.<\/p>\n Option B is a similar home in Texas, where the median home costs less than half as much: just $353,700<\/a>. The catch? Option B sits in an area with significant hurricane and flood risk.<\/p>\n This isn\u2019t just a hypothetical scenario. It\u2019s the impossible choice millions of Americans face every day as the U.S. housing crisis collides with climate change. And we\u2019re not handling it well.<\/p>\n The migration patterns are stark. Take California, which lost 239,575 residents<\/a> in 2024 \u2014 the largest out-migration of any state. High housing costs are a primary driver<\/a>: The median home price in California is more than double the national median<\/a>.<\/p>\n Where are these displaced residents going? Many are heading to Southern and Western states<\/a>, including Florida and Texas. Texas, which is the top destination for former California residents<\/a>, saw a net gain of 85,267 people in 2024<\/a>, much of it from domestic migration.<\/p>\n This is a housing affordability crisis in motion. The annual household income needed to qualify for a mortgage on a mid-tier California home was about $237,000 in June 2025, a recent analysis found \u2014 more than twice the state\u2019s median household income<\/a>.<\/p>\n More than 21 million renter households nationwide spent more than 30% of their income on housing costs in 2023, according to the U.S. Census Bureau<\/a>. For them and others struggling to get by, the financial math is simple, even if the risk calculation isn\u2019t.<\/p>\n In essence, the U.S. is creating a system in which your income determines your exposure to climate disasters. When housing becomes unaffordable in safer areas, the only available and affordable property is often in riskier locations \u2014 low-lying areas at flood risk in Houston and coastal Texas, or higher-wildfire-risk areas as California cities expand into fire-prone foothills and canyons.<\/p>\n The destinations drawing newcomers aren\u2019t exactly havens. Research shows that America\u2019s high-fire-risk counties saw 63,365 more people move in than out in 2023<\/a>, much of that flowing to Texas. Meanwhile, my own research<\/a> and other studies of post-disaster recovery have shown how the most vulnerable communities \u2014 low-income residents, people of color, renters \u2014 face the greatest barriers to rebuilding after disasters strike.<\/p>\n Consider the insurance crisis brewing in these destination states. Dozens of insurers in Florida, Louisiana, Texas and beyond have collapsed in recent years<\/a>, unable to sustain the mounting claims from increasingly frequent and severe disasters such as wildfires and hurricanes. Economists Benjamin Keys and Philip Mulder, who study climate change impacts on real estate, describe the insurance markets in some high-risk areas as \u201cbroken.\u201d<\/a> Between 2018 and 2023, insurers canceled nearly 2 million homeowner policies nationwide \u2014 four times the historically typical rate.<\/p>\n Yet people keep moving into risky areas. For example, recent research shows that people have been moving toward areas most at risk of wildfires<\/a>, even holding wealth and other factors constant. The wild beauty of fire-prone areas may be part of the attraction, but so is housing availability and cost.<\/p>\n In my view, this isn\u2019t really about individual choice \u2014 it\u2019s about policy failure. The state of California aims to build 2.5 million new homes by 2030, which would require adding more than 350,000 units annually<\/a>. Yet in 2024, the state added only about 100,000 \u2014 far short of what\u2019s needed<\/a>. When local governments restrict housing development through exclusionary zoning, they\u2019re effectively pricing out working families and pushing them toward risk.<\/p>\n My research on disaster recovery has consistently shown how housing policies intersect with climate vulnerability<\/a>. Communities with limited housing options before disasters become even more constrained afterward. People can\u2019t \u201cchoose\u201d resilience if resilient places won\u2019t let them build affordable housing<\/a>.<\/p>\n The federal government started recognizing this connection \u2014 to an extent. For example, in 2023, the Federal Emergency Management Agency encouraged communities to consider \u201csocial vulnerability\u201d in disaster planning<\/a>, in addition to things such as geographic risk. Social vulnerability refers to socioeconomic factors such as poverty, lack of transportation or language barriers that make it harder for communities to deal with disasters.<\/p>\n However, the agency more recently stepped back from that move \u2014 just as the 2025 hurricane season began<\/a>.<\/p>\n When a society forces people to choose between paying for housing and staying safe, that society has failed. Housing should be a right, not a risk calculation.<\/p>\n But until decision-makers address the underlying policies that create housing scarcity in safe areas and fail to protect people in vulnerable ones, climate change will continue to reshape who gets to live where \u2014 and who gets left behind when the next disaster strikes.<\/p>\n