From My Kitchen Table to Two Homes Under Construction

It started one night at our kitchen table. No agenda. No plan. Just a drink, exhaustion, and another one of my many ideas. I looked at Kevin and asked, “What if we started a nonprofit?” Not because I wanted another responsibility. Not because life wasn’t already full. But Anderson was going away to college and I can't sit still. But also because I never — ever — wanted another parent to struggle the way I did.

Because before Dylan’s House existed, we lived the reality so many families quietly face.

When Dylan was 17, we had to transition him out of the only home he had ever known — the home filled with the people he loved most. And he didn’t understand. We used picture stories to try to explain it. One picture showed where he would live — Dylan’s House. Another picture showed the home he loved — and underneath it, the words “Mom and Dad’s house.” He believed he was coming home.

So he couldn’t visit. Because every visit felt like a move back — and every goodbye broke him all over again. And in order to protect him… I did one of the hardest things I had done. I sold the house I loved. The house on a quiet cul-de-sac. With my white picket fence. The home my sweet Anderson loved. The driveway where she drew with chalk. The place I brought her home from the hospital. The neighborhood where friendships were formed just by walking across the street. I wasn’t ready to leave. But love sometimes asks us to do things before we’re ready.

We moved into a condo — when my heart was not ready for condo living. And Dylan moved into a basement bedroom with no windows because at the time, that was the only option available.

That was the moment I knew — this system was broken.Not broken because people didn’t care.

Broken because there simply weren’t good homes. Not enough choices. Not enough dignity.

Not enough understanding of what home truly means.

Eventually, we were able to buy Dylan the most adorable little blue cape cod just ten minutes away. A place of his own. A place where he could build independence while still being close to us. A place that felt safe — for him and for me.

But I never forgot what it took to get there. And I never forgot the families who don’t have that option. There is a housing crisis for adults with autism and developmental disabilities. A quiet crisis — but a very real one.

I get the calls. Emails from parents across the valley — and across the country — asking if there is space. Asking if there is hope. Telling me they would uproot their lives if it meant safety and dignity for their child. These are good people. Deserving people. People who want independence, community, purpose, and a place that truly feels like home.

That night at the kitchen table, Dylan’s House was born — not as a building, but as a promise.

A promise that we would try. A promise that we wouldn’t wait for “someday.” A promise that families like ours would not be forgotten.

Fast forward to today — and I still have moments where I can’t quite believe this is real.

We have two homes under construction. Two homes that will soon hold laughter, routines, independence, friendships, and pride. Two homes that say, “You belong here.” Two homes that exist because this community showed up. Contractors. Donors. Volunteers. Leaders. Neighbors. People who believed in something bigger than themselves. Every board meeting, every site visit, every muddy boot and blueprint moment reminds me: this was never just about us. It was about all of us.

There are days this journey still feels heavy. These days my mom heart aches in ways I can’t fully explain. But then I stand on a construction site and realize — the thing that once kept me awake at night is now becoming something tangible. Something lasting. Something hopeful. From a question asked over a drink at the kitchen table…to two homes rising from the ground.

This is what happens when love refuses to sit still. This is what happens when fear turns into action. This is what happens when a community decides that good people deserve good homes. And we’re just getting started.