In 2021, Benjamin Catlett of Zephyrhills, Florida, bought what he thought would be his forever home: a modest three-bedroom, two-bathroom house nestled in a quiet neighborhood. Like many Florida homeowners, he was required to purchase flood insurance. The seller assured him—and records confirmed—that there hadn’t been any flood claims on the property since the 1970s.
But less than three years later, Catlett found himself standing on an empty lot, watching demolition crews tear down the home he had worked so hard to build a life in.
In his eyes, what destroyed his house wasn’t just nature—it was a chain of human decisions, bureaucratic failures, and a system that left him with little recourse.
The trouble began in 2023, when a large housing development sprang up right next to Catlett’s property—over 300 new homes reshaping the surrounding landscape. Not long after, he noticed his backyard was flooding every time it rained.
“The water had nowhere to go,” he says. “It wasn’t just me—my neighbors started seeing the same thing. Suddenly we were all wading through puddles just to get to our cars.”
When Catlett contacted the city, officials mentioned plans for a retention pond, but it never materialized. Despite visits from risk management and FEMA, no concrete action was taken. In the meantime, the yard became nearly unusable. He and his daughter would wear rain boots just to reach their car, then switch to shoes once inside.
Then the hurricanes came.
In September 2024, Hurricane Helene struck. As a temporary solution, the state set up a tiger dam—a massive orange water-filled barrier—around his property and supplied a sump pump. But a month later, Hurricane Milton hit even harder, sending water surging over the dam.
“I couldn’t get into my house for three weeks,” Catlett recalls. “When I finally did, the walls were covered in mold four or five feet high.”
Initially, he considered salvaging the home. But when workers ripped up the floorboards, they found that the wooden joists—the very bones of the structure—were so rotted, they crumbled by hand. At that point, demolition was the only viable option. A charity group stepped in to do the job for free, and just like that, the home was gone.
What remained, though, were the bills. Although Catlett received payouts from his flood and homeowners insurance, along with $6,500 from FEMA for lost belongings, the total fell far short of his home’s $260,000 valuation. He’s still paying off a $25,000 solar loan and is responsible for property taxes on an empty, flood-prone lot.
His options are bleak: put a travel trailer on the land and try to live there, or sell it to investors for perhaps $50,000—a fraction of what it was once worth.
He’s now pinning his hopes on a state-run pilot program called Elevate Florida, which helps hurricane victims rebuild. But he won’t know whether he’s been accepted until August.
“That’s my only hope,” he says. “FEMA told me they’re not buying out homes. The county won’t buy the land either. I’m running out of options.”
Catlett and his neighbors recently shared their story with ABC Action News. In response, Pasco County issued a statement saying the flooding had been “resolved,” and advised residents to reach out to FEMA or the regional water management district for further help.
“Everyone just blames someone else,” Catlett says. “Yes, the hurricanes were catastrophic, but we were flooding long before they hit. Something should have been done.”
For now, he’s living with his girlfriend while he and other affected residents speak with attorneys about possible legal action. They just want out.
“I feel like I’m stuck in limbo,” he says. “All we want is for the county to buy our properties so we can move on.”
Catlett’s story is far from unique. All across Florida—and increasingly, other parts of the country—homeowners are finding themselves caught in the middle of climate shifts, rapid urban development, and outdated infrastructure. In these situations, insurance payouts often fall short, government programs move slowly, and homeowners are left paying for land they can’t live on.
“This isn’t just about a storm,” Catlett says quietly. “This is what it looks like when the system breaks down—and you’re the one left standing in the water.”