I’ve lived in Oklahoma City the majority of my life. I was born here. I was here for the bombing. I’ve weathered the tornadoes. I’ve lived through the oil busts and the booms. I was raised here, and now I’m raising a family of my own in OKC. That hasn’t always been easy. The weather alone drives many away, and sometimes, overcoming this city’s reputation has felt like an uphill climb.
But over and over again, I’ve witnessed something powerful: the way this city quietly rises to meet hardship. It’s not loud or flashy. It’s neighbors helping neighbors, people showing up for each other, rebuilding what’s broken and offering the type of kindness that doesn’t need an audience. It’s a deep, steady strength that’s earned through hardship, cemented by hope.
Adversity shapes a person. We know this. But what does it do to a city? What does it do to a community of people who refuse to be defined by their darkest day?
For a sleepy, overlooked place like OKC to burst onto the national stage in April 1995 was unthinkable. Yet we did. Not because of an event we chose, but because of how we responded to it. In the face of unthinkable terror, this city showed the world what grit, grace and resolve truly look like.
And in the painful aftermath, something extraordinary happened. We didn’t just rebuild; we reimagined. Our city leaders, our neighbors, our communities came together with an unshakable belief that we could be more. If Oklahoma City was going to survive, let alone thrive, it would require vision, unity and long-term, relentless intentionality.
That vision was realized in MAPS. Again and again, voters said yes to visionary investments and believed in the long game. We built an arena before we had a team. We planted seeds without knowing exactly what would grow, but we trusted it was worth it.
And then, when Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, we opened our arms. We welcomed the displaced Hornets into our city, not just as guests, but as our own. We filled the arena. We cheered. We showed up. And we sent them back home, a little stronger and maybe a little softer at the same time. In return, we got a team of our own, a team that came to define this new chapter of who we are, one that reflected our values: hard work, humility, resilience and community.
And now, Oklahoma City is an NBA champion.
This isn’t just a sports milestone. This is a civic one. It’s a validation of decades of determination, of thousands of everyday choices to believe in our potential, to invest in something bigger than ourselves.
It’s the spirit of the 168 souls we lost, who deserved to be here for this. It’s the echo of the volunteers who cleared rubble, of the citizens who voted yes, of the dreamers who said, “What if?” long before anyone else believed it could happen.
Let me be clear: No, it wasn’t worth it. I would trade every championship, every accolade for just one more moment with those we lost. I would rewrite April 19, 1995, into a quiet, uneventful day if I could.
But I can’t. And since that day, nothing has been normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe we became something different that day, something stronger, more unified, more daring in what we could become.
This championship is more than a gold trophy. It’s the physical embodiment of 30 years of resilience, reinvention and relentless heart. It’s a symbol of what happens when a city dares to believe — not just in basketball, but in itself.
The world sees a championship team. But we know better.
We see the long road here.
We see what it cost.
And we know this is only the beginning.
Amy Blackburn works in higher education and lives in northwest Oklahoma City with her husband, Jeff; their daughter, Everly; and three dogs.