When governmental systems designed to support you fail or fall short, who steps in to fill the gap?

In one senior public housing development in Houston, neighbors became that support system. Over the past several years, residents endured a series of compounding disasters that reshaped daily life and tested their ability to remain safely housed. From surviving Hurricane Harvey, to navigating the unprecedented isolation of COVID-19, to enduring the rare and devastating Winter Storm Uri, residents repeatedly confronted crises with limited institutional support.

Drawing on lessons passed down from parents and elders, stories of past storms, survival strategies, mutual aid, and community responsibility, residents relied on collective memory and shared practices to weather each event. Their homes, hallways, and common spaces became sites of care, coordination, and resilience. Through everyday acts of support, neighbors transformed public housing from a physical structure into a living archive of disaster knowledge, cultural memory, and collective survival. In the absence of consistent institutional support, neighbors became the system through which care, knowledge, and resources flowed.

Long before Hurricane Harvey made landfall, residents were preparing in ways learned over decades. Preparation itself had long been a cultural practice. Many described carefully stocking supplies months in advance—habits shaped by years of navigating instability. “I’ve been doing this all my life,” one resident reflected. “My family has been doing this for years; I learned from my dad and then I taught my kids.” These routines were not just about personal survival; they also created a network of support for neighbors.

When Harvey struck, residents put these practices into action. Those with experience guided neighbors who had little or no hurricane experience, helping them secure water, food, and other essentials, and offering advice on survival and safety. Lessons passed down through families circulated through hallways, living rooms, and common spaces, transforming the building into an informal classroom of disaster knowledge and a living archive of survival strategies

COVID-19 brought a different kind of challenge, one of prolonged isolation and public health risk. Residents relied on their community networks and neighbor-to-neighbor support to meet immediate needs. Resident Council members took a leading role, going door-to-door to check on neighbors and address unmet needs. “We’d go door-to-door assessing everyone,” one Resident Council member shared. Other residents emphasized the importance of sharing resources when official distributions were inconsistent: “They [property management] give it [resources] to who they wanna give it to, so we look out for one another.” Neighbors shared masks, hand sanitizer, and other essential items, and kept each other informed whenever property management restocked supplies, ensuring their neighbors had access despite limited official communication.

Winter Storm Uri tested residents in a new and unfamiliar way. Unlike hurricanes, extreme winter weather was rare in Houston, and residents had little prior experience to guide preparation. “We don’t get snow in Houston; I didn’t know what was going on,” one resident admitted. Nevertheless, they drew on lessons learned from hurricanes and the neighbor-to-neighbor practices developed during COVID-19 to respond collectively, stocking water, blankets, non-perishable food, and other essentials. When the storm arrived, neighbors became the primary source of information, guidance, and assistance. Even without firsthand experience with severe winter weather, residents adapted strategies from past crises, checked in on one another, shared resources, and ensured their neighbors had what they needed to endure the cold. The building became, yet again, a space of collective knowledge and mutual aid, where lived experience and collaboration sustained survival.

Through these practices, residents produced more than safety, they produced place. Their building became a living archive of stories, strategies, and shared responsibility, sustained through conversation, observation, and mutual care. While this community offers a powerful example of mutual care, shared memory, and collective survival, their story should not be mistaken for proof that existing systems are sufficient. The ability of residents to support themselves and one another in moments of crisis does not negate the need for stronger, more equitable governmental policies and infrastructure. Instead, it exposes the depth of the gaps that remain in resource distribution, communication, and preparedness.

These residents survived not because systems worked as intended, but because they transformed their living space into a network of care when formal support was limited—or entirely absent. Through storytelling, intergenerational knowledge, and everyday acts of solidarity, they produced a place rooted in protection and accountability. Their homes became more than units in a housing complex; they became sites of memory, instruction, and resistance.

To truly honor this legacy, policymakers and institutions must learn from, rather than rely upon, community resilience. Cultural memory and mutual aid should be recognized as sources of knowledge, not substitutes for public responsibility. When we listen to the stories embedded in these spaces, we are reminded that survival should not depend on improvisation and sacrifice, but on systems designed to sustain life with dignity.