How hurricanes get their names

Hurricanes are like uninvited guests that refuse to be forgotten. You don’t just remember the chaos. You remember the name.

Katrina. Harvey. Sandy. Idalia. Beryl.

Say one out loud, and someone nearby can probably tell you where they were when it hit. That’s the thing about hurricanes: even long after the rain stops and the winds die down, their names linger.

But here’s what most people don’t know—the naming process behind these monstrous weather systems is as orderly as a school roll call. Far from random or reactive, hurricane names are planned out years ahead of time by a quiet global committee you've likely never heard of. And yet, these names hold power: over how we remember, how we respond, and sometimes, how we heal. Let’s get into it.

Before hurricanes had PR-ready monikers, they had saints.

In the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, storms were often named after the saint’s feast day on which they struck. For example, Puerto Rico endured two catastrophic hurricanes both named San Felipe—one in 1876, the other in 1928—because they made landfall on September 13th. It was less about emotion and more about convenience. Until that system failed.

Saint-based names didn’t work well when multiple hurricanes hit on the same day—or when scientists needed to communicate clearly across time zones and languages. So in the early 20th century, a new idea took hold.

A quirky Australian meteorologist began informally naming cyclones after women. The practice was cheeky at first, even satirical, but caught on. When the U.S. National Weather Service adopted the method in 1953, it used exclusively female names to track hurricanes. That stuck for a while. Then the backlash arrived.

By the late 1970s, public pressure and feminist critique led to a revision. In 1979, the lists were updated to include men’s names too, alternating with women’s names in alphabetical order. Fairer? Yes. Less weirdly gendered? Also yes. And just like that, the hurricane naming system became a reflection of evolving societal norms—even if its purpose remained strictly functional.

Short answer: meteorologists. Slightly longer answer: the World Meteorological Organization (WMO).

This Geneva-based agency oversees six rotating lists for Atlantic storms, each containing 21 names. That’s one name per letter of the alphabet, minus Q, U, X, Y, and Z—letters with too few name options across multiple languages. Each list is reused every six years. So the names used in 2024? You’ll see them again in 2030—unless they’re retired (more on that shortly). For the Eastern Pacific, there’s another six-list cycle, which includes names for up to 24 storms and skips only Q and U. But what happens if we get more storms than names on the list?

Until recently, the backup plan was to dip into the Greek alphabet—Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and so on. But that created confusion (no one wants to say “Gamma is worse than Beta” on the news). So in 2021, the WMO replaced that system with an auxiliary list of preapproved names. Less poetic, maybe, but clearer for emergency response teams.

Here’s the cast of characters for the 2024 Atlantic hurricane season:

Alberto, Beryl, Chris, Debby, Ernesto, Francine, Gordon, Helene, Isaac, Joyce, Kirk, Leslie, Milton, Nadine, Oscar, Patty, Rafael, Sara, Tara, Valerie, William

So far, we’ve already met Hurricane Beryl—2024’s first hurricane and the second named storm. If you’re watching the weather, Debby might be up next. These names aren’t just alphabetical placeholders; they carry an emotional and logistical weight. They’re used in news briefings, evacuation notices, insurance claims, and local gossip. A name transforms a storm from abstract data into something personal.

The 2023 Atlantic hurricane season brought us 19 named storms. Some fizzled. Others didn’t.

Highlights included:

• Hurricanes: Don, Franklin, Idalia, Lee, Margot, Nigel, Tammy
• Tropical Storms: Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Gert, Emily, Harold, Jose, Katia, Ophelia, Philippe, Rina, Sean

Even when the names sound soft—like Tammy or Cindy—the impact can be brutal. And that’s part of what makes naming so sensitive. The more destruction a storm leaves behind, the more loaded its name becomes.

Not all hurricane names get a second life. If a storm is especially deadly or destructive, its name is retired permanently by the WMO’s Hurricane Committee. Why? Out of respect for those affected—and to avoid confusion in future seasons. Imagine trying to talk about rebuilding efforts from “Katrina” when there’s a new Katrina brewing off the coast. It’s a naming dilemma with real emotional stakes.

As of 2024, 96 names have been retired. Some of the most infamous include:

• Katrina (2005) – The name that changed New Orleans—and disaster response policies—forever
• Sandy (2012) – The largest Atlantic hurricane by diameter, devastating the US Northeast
• Harvey, Irma, Maria (2017) – A catastrophic trio that hit Texas, Florida, and Puerto Rico
• Ida (2021) – One of the costliest U.S. hurricanes in history
• Fiona (2022) – Retired after battering the Caribbean and Canada

When a name is retired, it’s replaced with another beginning with the same letter. So “Fiona” will be replaced with “Farrah” in the 2028 list.

It’s easy to forget that a storm is first and foremost a system of air, moisture, and pressure. But give it a name, and suddenly it’s something you prepare for, post about, text your mom about. The WMO didn’t set out to play into emotion. But that’s the unintended effect of naming: it humanizes weather.

Hurricane names function like emotional shorthand. They mark trauma, organize memory, and often become the focal point of media narratives. When you say “Maria,” most Puerto Ricans know you’re not talking about a cousin or coworker. This emotional infrastructure matters. It shapes how we tell stories, file insurance claims, and argue for disaster relief funding. In some ways, the name becomes more visible than the storm itself.

At its core, hurricane naming isn’t about drama. It’s about clarity. Meteorologists, aid workers, journalists, and governments across borders need a single, unambiguous word to refer to a storm. A name like “Lee” or “Debby” travels better across headlines than a string of geographic coordinates or technical labels. This is especially critical in a global climate reality where storms are getting stronger, wetter, and faster. Coordinated communication isn’t optional—it’s survival strategy.

And while the naming lists may seem overly structured or overly Western (where are the African or Asian names in Atlantic lists?), they are vetted by international panels aiming for linguistic neutrality, pronunciation clarity, and regional familiarity. The result is a delicate balance between cultural accessibility and meteorological utility. And yes, that’s harder than it sounds.

Ask anyone over the age of 10, and they can probably name a hurricane that shaped their memory. Maybe it flooded their neighborhood. Maybe it took out power for weeks. Maybe they just remember seeing it on TV, watching in disbelief.

Names like Katrina, Harvey, or Fiona stick because they aren’t just weather events. They become bookmarks in our collective story. And as climate change increases the frequency and severity of extreme weather, more names will enter our consciousness—and stay there. The process behind naming may be neat and tidy. But the emotions it triggers rarely are.

Naming hurricanes isn’t just about sorting weather. It’s about preparing for it—and remembering it. When a storm rolls in named Beryl or Chris or Leslie, it may sound like someone you know. But don’t let the friendliness fool you. Behind that soft-sounding name is a force that might change entire coastlines, test government response, or expose infrastructure gaps.

The name is only the beginning. So the next time you hear one—on the radio, in a headline, or in a group chat—pause for a second. Behind the name is a system, and behind the system is a story.

We live in an age where hashtags trend for storms, satellite images go viral, and evacuation plans are tweeted. But none of it would work without the name. The name makes it real. The name makes it memorable. And sometimes, the name is the only part that survives in public memory. This isn’t about how hurricanes get their names. It’s about why those names matter—and what we carry when we remember them.