Drowning in States’ Rights
Texas was promised self-reliance. What it got was a storm, no plan, and a federal government already halfway out the door.
Just weeks after promising to “wean off FEMA,” Trump reversed course in front of flood-ravaged Texans, insisting the federal government would “do everything it can.”
That’s called panic. A scramble. Because the idea of state-led disaster response sounds good until fire meets asphalt.
As of Tuesday, July 8, 2025, flash flooding in central Texas has resulted in at least 104 confirmed deaths, with many of the victims found in Kerr County, including 28 children. The flooding occurred during the early hours of July 5, 2025, catching many residents and campers off guard during the holiday weekend.
Texas’ entire emergency management budget equals the cost of a single wildfire. California’s budget is bigger. But when the Palisade Fires tore through the coastline in January, even that wasn’t enough.
The goal isn’t fiscal discipline. It’s political theater dressed as decentralization.
Cut off the lifeline, then demand the drowning states swim harder. Over the years, disaster response has become a proxy war for control. If a state receives too much federal help, it’s called bloated. If it gets too little, it’s blamed for being unprepared.
Either way, Washington wins the narrative.
FEMA’s design is simple: When the situation overwhelms local capacity, the federal government steps in. There are no turf wars, no red tape, just scale, speed, and national responsibility. That model is now under attack, not because it fails, but because it works without asking who you voted for.
In just 19 months, FEMA responded to 127 major disaster declarations. These were not seasonal storms or routine floods. They were city-shifting, state-draining, economy-breaking events. Twenty-seven of them caused at least a billion dollars in damages.
During the Palisade Fires in California, FEMA covered the entire response. Fire crews, helicopters, medical support, temporary shelters, and federal coordination. Without that assistance, the state would have had to choose between saving homes or saving its budget.
But California’s help came with strings. Trump accused the state of poor forest management and waited days before signing the emergency declaration.
Then came the budget cuts. The Big Beautiful Bill stripped over $190 million from the Hazard Mitigation Grant Program. That money was used to fund fire prevention, relocate high-risk communities, and strengthen local infrastructure.
Another program, known as BRIC, which focused on heat, wildfire, and flood resilience, was eliminated entirely. Projects already underway were halted midstream. Staff were let go. The window to prepare for the next disaster closed a little more.
California is wealthy, but wealth does not mean readiness. A single wildfire can wipe out years of preparation. Yet the same government that delayed assistance now insists California should stand on its own. The state’s punishment is framed as self-reliance. The outcome is abandonment framed as policy.
When fires rage or storms hit or floods rise, the question will not be whether the damage is real. The question will be whether the right zip codes voted the right way.
Disaster relief only works when it belongs to everyone. When that changes, we’re not just losing a safety net. We’re losing the idea that help is still a national responsibility.