In a coffee shop in Galveston, Texas—a barrier island that's been rebuilt after every major hurricane for over a century—I meet with Destiny Disclosure, a real estate agent whose parents apparently had either a great sense of humor or prophetic abilities when they named her in 1987. Her business card, she jokes, writes itself, though the joke has gotten considerably less funny as climate risks have made her professional obligations increasingly complex.
Destiny has spent eight years selling waterfront properties in one of America's most hurricane-prone markets, where the median home price has somehow continued climbing even as flood insurance costs have tripled1. She agreed to discuss the impossible position many real estate professionals find themselves in: legally obligated to disclose known risks while operating in markets where complete climate risk information often doesn't exist. When it does exist, interpreting it accurately can be nearly impossible.
How do you even begin a conversation about climate risk with clients?
She laughs and shakes her head. You know, five years ago, I thought the hardest part of my job was explaining why a 1,200-square-foot beach house costs $800,000. Now I'm trying to figure out how to tell someone that the beautiful property they're falling in love with might flood every other year by 2035, but also that I'm not entirely sure because the flood maps haven't been updated since 2009 and the new modeling studies all give different answers.
We have disclosure requirements, right? But what exactly am I supposed to disclose when the experts can't agree on what's going to happen when? Last month I had a couple from Dallas looking at this gorgeous place right on the seawall. The FEMA flood maps say it's in a moderate-risk zone. The new First Street Foundation data says it's going to flood annually within fifteen years2. The county engineer says the seawall improvements will handle most scenarios. The insurance company just raised their flood premium by 400%.
So what's my disclosure obligation there? All of it? None of it? Do I become a climate scientist in addition to a real estate agent?
What do your clients actually want to know?
That depends entirely on who's asking and why they're buying. I've got three types of buyers right now.
The first group are locals who've lived through hurricanes and know exactly what they're getting into. They ask specific questions: How high did the water get in Harvey? In Ike? Does the house have good elevation? Can you get flood insurance? They're not naive.
The second group are out-of-state buyers, often retirees, who see waterfront property as a dream purchase. They'll ask about hurricanes in this vague way, like "Do you get bad weather here?" But when I start talking about storm surge or evacuation routes, their eyes glaze over. They want the fantasy, not the reality.
Then there's this newer third group—younger buyers, usually remote workers, who ask incredibly detailed questions about climate projections. They'll show up with printouts from NOAA and want to know about subsidence rates and barrier island migration patterns. They're doing their homework, but sometimes they know just enough to be dangerous. They'll reject a perfectly good property because some online calculator said it might flood in 2080, but then they'll consider something in a neighborhood that floods during king tides right now.
How has the insurance situation changed your job?
She pauses, stirring her coffee. Insurance has become the elephant in every room. I used to be able to say, "Don't worry about the flood risk, you'll have flood insurance." Now I'm having conversations about whether people can even get coverage, and if they can, whether they can afford it.
I had this family last spring—teacher and a nurse, saved up for years for their dream beach cottage. Found this perfect little place, not even directly waterfront, maybe 500 yards from the water. They were so excited. Then the insurance quotes came back. Their flood insurance alone was going to cost more than their property taxes and homeowner's insurance combined. More than their car payments. The husband just looked at me and said, "You didn't mention this was going to cost us an extra $600 a month."
And honestly? I didn't know. Insurance costs are changing so fast that what I tell someone in January might be completely wrong by March. I've started telling buyers to get insurance quotes before they fall in love with a property, but that slows everything down and kills deals.
The really tricky part is that I'm seeing this weird split in the market. Properties that can still get reasonable insurance are holding their value fine. Properties where insurance is getting impossible to find or afford? Those prices are starting to soften, but nobody wants to talk about it openly because it might trigger a broader panic.
Do you ever feel like you're selling people a dream that might become a nightmare?
Long pause. That's the question that keeps me up at night. Look, I got into real estate because I love helping people find homes. There's something magical about handing someone keys to a place where they're going to build memories, raise kids, retire peacefully. But lately, I feel more like I'm selling people expensive lottery tickets where the odds keep getting worse.
I had this elderly couple from Ohio last year. They'd been dreaming of retiring to the Gulf Coast for thirty years. Saved every penny. Found this beautiful condo with an ocean view, perfect for their budget. They kept asking me, "Will this be a good investment? Will our grandkids be able to inherit this someday?" And I'm thinking, honestly? I have no idea. Maybe it'll be fine. Maybe it'll be underwater. Maybe insurance will make it worthless even if it stays dry.
Here's the thing—if I started every conversation with "This entire area might be uninhabitable in your lifetime," I'd never sell anything, and someone else would just sell them the same property without mentioning the risks. So I try to give them information to make their own decisions, but I'm not sure that's enough anymore.
What would need to change to make your job more manageable?
God, where do I start? First, we need consistent, reliable data. I can't be expected to synthesize conflicting flood models and sea-level projections for every property. Give me one authoritative source that gets updated regularly, and make it part of the standard disclosure process.
Second, we need some kind of industry-wide standards about what constitutes adequate climate risk disclosure. Right now, it's this gray area where everyone's making it up as they go along. Some agents say nothing beyond the legal minimum. Others, like me, try to paint the full picture and watch deals fall apart.
But honestly? The biggest thing would be if we could just have honest conversations about what's happening without everyone freaking out. This area has always been risky—that's why it was cheap when my grandparents bought here in the 1960s. The risk is just more expensive now. And more certain. If we could price that risk honestly instead of pretending it doesn't exist, maybe we could have a sustainable market instead of this weird bubble where everyone knows something's wrong but nobody wants to say it out loud.
She gestures toward the window, where the Gulf of Mexico stretches to the horizon.
I mean, look at this place. It's beautiful. People are always going to want to live here. But maybe not at current prices, and maybe not without some serious adaptation investments. The question is whether we can have that conversation before the market has it for us.
This interview represents a composite perspective based on conversations with multiple real estate professionals in climate-vulnerable markets. "Destiny Disclosure" is not a real person, though her dilemmas are entirely real.