The car was old, slow, red, and barely large enough to fit me and my three friends. But as high schoolers, we were just happy to have a vehicle. The day had been full of food, laughter, and friendship. As we headed home, thunder cracked the sky open, and rain fell as if a bucket were being dumped over us. The street turned into a small river. The wipers couldn’t keep up, and the driver had to stick his head out the window just to see. Less than a quarter mile from home, we pulled into a parking lot, afraid the car wouldn’t make it through the rising water. The storm passed quickly, but the world felt changed. The baseball fields had become makeshift wetlands, the church parking lot was submerged, and the elementary school playground was so flooded you could swim from the slides to the swing set. The water lingered for days. I heard of businesses near the river stacking sandbags to no avail, and downtown became impassable due to water coursing through the streets. For the first time, I saw how quickly a storm could overwhelm an entire city. This flash flood, though not even a major one for Northern Nevada, transformed how I understood water in the built environment. I grew up hearing adults pray for rain to relieve the drought plaguing Nevada and California. But I came to realize: an outpouring of blessings is only helpful if we have the capacity to receive them. As a native Nevadan, I understand firsthand how one can have “too much of a good thing.” That flash flood taught me how important it is to manage the water we do receive, especially in urban areas covered in impermeable surfaces. Water that once sustained ecosystems now rushes across concrete, causing destruction rather than nourishment. To mitigate risk and harness benefit, we must design systems that allow stormwater to infiltrate, recharge groundwater, or move safely through communities. Nevada’s hills and valleys naturally direct rainfall into floodplains—yet modern cities were often built right in those zones. My exploration of Nevada’s hydrology revealed that many communities remain unprepared for floods, even as climate extremes worsen. I believe floodplain management must prioritize working with residents who may not fully grasp the risks they face. Education must be part of the solution—not just about safety, but about the value of water in our environment. Groundwater across the state is dropping rapidly. With more impermeable development in floodplains, less stormwater can seep into the ground and recharge aquifers. Flood management should not only focus on reducing damage but also on restoring balance—giving water more time to be part of the ecosystem rather than rushing it away as waste. Just as ecosystems are connected through the interactions of land, water, plants, and animals, so too are we. Floodplain managers must recognize and communicate this connection. By helping communities understand their landscapes, we can empower them to protect themselves and their environment. My firsthand experience of floodwaters reshaping my neighborhood instilled in me a deep respect for water and a desire to help others see it not as an enemy but as a misunderstood ally. I bring to floodplain management a passion for public education, a background rooted in Nevada’s hydrology, and a belief that we can learn to live with water in ways that make our communities stronger, safer, and more resilient.