3 Years. $80K. Zero Regrets. The Price of Independence.
Part One
Out of the blue, early in the fall of 2021, an email popped into our inbox.
It said she'd been thinking about the next steps for him.
She'd found a 'nice' group home where she lived, where we onced lived — one she believed he would be “very much at home” living there.
We'd spent years helping him prepare for life in his own apartment. He had built routines, mastered skills, and gained confidence. There wasn’t a prayer’s chance in hell we were going to agree a group home was any step. He was capable of far more.
But still, to be fair — we had to do our research.
The Visit That Opened Our Eyes
We visited the home that had already been “chosen” for him.
The one she insisted he would be very much at home in.
The one that had already been decided — without asking him.
It was a large, nice-looking house on a quiet cul-de-sac in her home town. Four oversized bedrooms, each shared by two young men.
Inside, it was loud. The television was blaring. The rooms were cluttered and messy — it was complete disarray.
He likes things neat and orderly.
He doesn’t react well to chaos.
And loudness? He's autistic - loudness just doesn't work for him.
'Sam', one of the residents, overly anxious but well-meaning, followed us around, asking questions and telling us all about the house. Sam was friendly and enthusiastic.
He wouldn’t have responded well to that kind of energy. It would’ve made him retreat.
It was immediately noticeable — there was no privacy to be found there.
The resident aides were cooking dinner — something he didn’t need help with.
All medications were behind locked doors — again, something he already managed independently.
I didn’t even need to step past the entryway to know: He would NOT thrive here.
She compared it to dorm living — something she said he needed for “socialization.” I don't know what her dorm life was like. It wasn't like mine.
He was as socialized as much as he wanted to be. He’s like his dad — a solitary being. He likes companionship, but on his terms. Something we all want.
This Wasn’t Living. It Was Akin to Incarceration.
When we got back in the car, I was beside myself — angry, disgusted, and heartbroken. I was angry with the system. Disgusted at her words, 'he would be very much at home' there. Heartbroken, becuase I knew that life would break him.
He had never shared a bedroom in his life. He liked things quiet - unless he was making the noise. Sure, he'd enjoy having someone cook for him - who wouldn't? He didn't need it.
The system calls this kind of setting a “transition house.” They say they provide supervision and structure. They promise to prepare residents for independent living.
We were already doing that.
He was:
- Preparing most of his meals
- Managing his medication
- Doing his own laundry
- Keeping his room and bathroom clean
- Cleaning up after himself in the kitchen
Moving him into that home would have undone everything we’d worked so hard to help him build.
I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand how anyone — especially someone who claimed to love him — could believe this was the life he would be happy with.
That version of love wasn’t love at all.
It was control.
He Had Goals
He wasn’t fragile.
He wasn’t a burden.
He certainly wasn’t someone to be tucked away or quietly incarcerated in the name of “safety.”
He was a young man with goals —
Simple goals to you and me, but monumental for him:
- Get a job
- Live in his own apartment
- Get his driver’s license
Another Home, More Heartbreak
Later, we toured another group home — this one in the town where we lived.
And again… I cried. But for different reasons.
The space was smaller.
It smelled bad.
It was quieter.
The staff was kind.
But my heart still ached — not for him, but for the residents already living there.
Some were nonverbal.
Some simply quiet.
Others looked lost in a rhythm that no longer required thinking.
Blank stares. Repetitive motions.
Lives on repeat.
And I thought:
What have they lived through to end up here?
Who made that decision for them?
Who advocated for their right to choose?
More importantly:
Who’s still advocating for them now?
Who sees them as more than a checklist?
Who’s being their voice when their families stop showing up?
Did they even have families?
I understand that some families simply don’t have a choice.
But what I saw didn’t look like living.
It looked like surviving.
And surviving in isolation isn’t freedom.
Let’s Be Honest About the System
Because here’s the truth the system doesn’t want to say out loud:
In many group homes, freedom is fleeting.
They say residents have “freedom of choice.”
But do they really?
The system says: If they don’t want to live there, they don’t have to.
But what about the people who have nowhere else to go?
What about those who could live independently — but no one is teaching them how?
That’s not a real choice.
That’s containment, or worse - incarceration.
You and I are free to backpack across the Sahara if we want to.
It wouldn’t be smart — but it would be our choice.
That’s what real freedom means.
Have You Ever Considered Your Own Freedoms?
The freedom to walk down the street whenever you want?
The freedom to have beef for dinner instead of chicken?
The freedom to say, “No. I don’t agree to that?”
Most of us don’t think twice.
But for him, those freedoms were stripped away the day the court handed over guardianship.
And at the time, we didn’t know better.
Looking back, I wish we had.
I wish we’d found an attorney who specialized in guardianship law sooner.
Someone like 'Lucy' - who eventually helped us undo the damage and fight for the freedom he deserved.
She quite literally helped us save his life.
If I sound angry, I am.
I’m also deeply sad — for the thousands of people trapped in a system that cannot care for them the way they deserve:
With dignity.
With trust.
With room to grow.
We knew we had a fight ahead of us with her.
We’d already been fighting with her for years.
But that’s a whole different story.
Learning How to Do a Job
We sent him to a one-of-a-kind job training institute, and he excelled.
He trained as a laundry attendant for industrial facilities — hotels, hospitals, and laundry facilities. He lived on his own, in a hotel room owned by the institute.
He was free to come and go as he pleased.
They taught him how to safely navigate the city transit system.
He went out every day — seven days a week — to find his own breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All by his choice.
We offered to set him up with food and utensils so he could eat in his room.
He said no.
They gave him a money card that he was solely responsible for. He used it to manage his own meals — and he did.
He was never late to class.
Never late to work.
Never had an incident on the bus.
He walked most places and used public transit when he needed to.
At some point, he noticed a church near the hotel and — completely on his own — decided to start going.
Because autism doesn’t erase spirituality.
And he has that in spades.
(But again — that’s a story for another time.)
The staff loved him.
The director even said she would’ve hired him to work at the hotel.
But he didn’t want to stay.
He wanted to live in our town.
Between you and me? He wants to be wherever his dad is.
(But again — another story for another time.)
At graduation, he bawled.
He was devastated over having to move back home with us.
But he’d made his point.
He’d proven what we'd come to know:
He could live on his own.