These Maternity Homes Offer Sanctuary, but It Can Feel Oppressive

TEQUESTA, Fla. — In Naples, Florida, Sunlight Home offered refuge and a fresh start for pregnant women on the brink of homelessness. It also required them to get permission before leaving the property and to download a tracking app on their phones, former residents said and its policies show.

At Hannah’s Home of South Florida, near West Palm Beach, women needed a pastor’s approval to have romantic relationships and were compelled to attend morning prayer, according to former residents, employees and volunteers. They also had to hand over their food stamps to pay for communal groceries, a practice that two government assistance experts said most likely violates the law.

In many parts of Florida, where housing costs are soaring and lawmakers have curtailed abortion access, pregnant women and teens who need a safe, stable place to live are increasingly turning to one of their few options: charity-run maternity homes.

The homes, most of which are affiliated with churches or Christian nonprofits, often help women and teens as they flee abuse, age out of foster care or leave drug rehabilitation.

But Florida allows most homes to operate without state standards or state oversight. An examination by The New York Times and the investigative podcast and radio show Reveal found that many homes require residents to agree to strict conditions that limit their communications, their financial decisions and even their movements.

Homes often disclose the rules to women before they move in and sometimes post them online. Codes of conduct are common in residential programs. Still, in interviews, women who lived in some maternity homes said they had not anticipated how burdensome the rules would be.

“I felt like Sunlight Home was dehumanizing, almost like we were criminals, not single mothers,” said Kara Vanderhelm, 33, who lived at the home for about eight months until July.

At several homes, residents faced serious consequences for violating rules. In some instances, employees called the police when women questioned their authority or left the property without permission. In others, women said they were expelled with little notice.

After Kristina Atwood lit incense in her bedroom at Genesis House in Melbourne, Florida, one night in June 2021, she was told to wake her two children and leave immediately, she said. The home’s director, Kristen Snyder, said employees had warned Atwood that fire of any kind was not allowed. Atwood, 35, said she did not recall any warnings.

“I had nowhere else to go,” she said.

For decades, maternity homes were institutions where unmarried pregnant women could give birth in secret and put their babies up for adoption. Most shut down by the 1970s, when access to birth control had widened.

More recently, however, the homes have experienced a nationwide renaissance. The number of homes has grown by nearly 40% in the past two years and now surpasses 450, according to Heartbeat International, a national anti-abortion group that supports maternity housing.

Homes today typically focus on keeping mothers and babies together. Many let expectant mothers, and occasionally women with children, stay for free so they can save money and find a permanent place to live. Women often learn about them through social services providers or anti-abortion pregnancy centers, and move in voluntarily.

In Florida, maternity homes that house pregnant teenagers are subject to oversight. Those that admit minors in the foster care system must obtain state licenses, which entails meeting qualification and training requirements for employees, among other standards, and allowing state inspections.

Other homes with teenagers can instead register with the nonprofit Florida Association of Christian Child Caring Agencies, an alternative for voluntary, faith-based programs that forgo government funding. The association conducts its own inspections and requires less training and formal education for employees, a review of its standards shows.

But about half of the maternity homes in Florida do not accept pregnant teenagers and can therefore develop their own standards and rules. Several of those homes are staffed by employees who lack relevant professional experience, people who worked in them said.

The Times and Reveal identified 27 total homes in Florida. The news organizations examined 17 of them by touring some facilities, reviewing published policies, examining hundreds of pages of police reports and interviewing 48 current or former residents, employees and volunteers.

The news organizations found that the homes with mandatory religious programs and restrictions on outings and communications tended to be unregulated or registered with the religious nonprofit. Many licensed homes did not have such rules, even though state standards do not explicitly prohibit them.

Some directors of homes with strict rules said that they were necessary to maintain order, and that they had limited residents’ movement to keep them away from drug users and abusive people. The Florida Association of Christian Child Caring Agencies said the restrictions in its homes were meant to “help each client break the cycles of poverty and addiction to find hope and healing in Christ.”

In a statement, Sunlight Home said residents regularly leave the property for job interviews, work and appointments, but that employees “provide some accountability to ensure their safety.”

In a separate statement, the CEO of Hannah’s Home, Karen Hilo, said that her home’s food stamp practices did not violate any laws and that its other rules were in place to “curtail behaviors and attitudes which can undermine individual’s and the entire group’s success.”

Other home leaders said their programs were improving the lives of mothers and children. Some had helped residents get benefits like day care vouchers and food stamps. “We have women who go to work every day,” said Snyder, of Genesis House. “It’s not enough.”

Valerie Harkins, who oversees maternity housing for Heartbeat International, said more programs nationwide were embracing a more clinical approach by hiring social workers. “We want women to have services,” she said. “We want women to have access to help.”

Social services experts agreed that maternity homes offer vital aid. But the inconsistencies in care and oversight are troubling, said Mike Carroll, a former secretary of the Florida Department of Children and Families who now oversees a network of social services programs, including a licensed, faith-based maternity home.

“It can lead to some pretty abusive situations,” Carroll said.

Living Under a Microscope

Rachel Hunt, 29, was six weeks pregnant, fresh out of detox and homeless at the start of 2022. Employees at the treatment program she had just completed helped her find Hannah’s Home, which is registered with the Christian nonprofit.

At first, Hunt found Hannah’s Home charming: pale yellow with green front doors and located in a leafy, residential neighborhood in Tequesta, Florida. It could house up to eight women and their babies.

But Hunt felt as if she were living under a microscope. There were security cameras in the living room and the entryway, a common feature at both regulated and unregulated homes.

In interviews, 10 former residents, volunteers and employees described strict rules at Hannah’s Home. For the first month, cellphones were prohibited and visitors were not allowed. Morning prayer, art therapy and nutrition classes were mandatory.

Jadyn Merrill, who moved in during the summer of 2022, said she quit her job at a retail store and canceled medical appointments to avoid missing the required programs. With no income, she fell behind financially, she said.

Several women also said the air-conditioning system struggled to cool the women’s bedrooms on hot summer days. The babies napped wearing only diapers, with fans trained on their cribs.

Hilo, the CEO, said in her statement that Hannah’s Home is a voluntary program that requires a “significant commitment” from residents.

“We do not merely meet a housing need,” Hilo wrote. “We offer a comprehensive program which is available from the time a pregnant woman commits until her baby is 2 years old. Ultimately, their motivation needs to be intrinsic for the program to be successful.”

Hilo characterized the religious programming as optional. She said that an air-conditioning unit was replaced four months ago.

In a statement, the Christian nonprofit said it does not oversee the care of adults who live in its registered homes. The group has denied requests for copies of its inspection reports, asserting that they are not subject to Florida open records laws. Last month, the Times filed a lawsuit against the group, seeking access to the reports.

In some ways, Hunt said, Hannah’s Home changed her life for the better: She found a sense of community and stayed for months after her daughter was born in 2022. But many rules felt overly restrictive, she said. Last year, she missed several morning prayer sessions and let her mother into the home’s “private residential area,” which was not allowed. Soon after, she was advised that any further violations would lead to her removal from the program, a warning letter shows.

After returning late from an out-of-state trip this January, Hunt and her daughter were kicked out, she said and text messages between her and multiple employees show.

Hilo said that Hunt was expelled because she “consistently violated rules that are in place to ensure the safety of all residents.”

Hunt had wanted to build a life with her daughter in Florida, she said, but without Hannah’s Home, she could not afford a place to live. She and her daughter moved in with her parents in North Carolina. “I felt like a failure,” she said.

‘It Isn’t a Correctional Institute’

Many, though not all, unlicensed homes imposed similar restrictions as a condition of residency, policies and interviews show.

Two required sexual abstinence. Three conducted random searches of rooms and belongings. At least six mandated attendance at morning prayer, church services, Bible study or a Christian 12-step program, activities that some former residents said felt like religious indoctrination.

One of those homes, Divine Mercy House in Jacksonville, Florida, let residents choose a church and allowed for absences. “I’m very flexible,” said the executive director, Amy Woodward. “I’m not going to force anyone to go to church when their baby is sick.”

At Divine Mercy, outings longer than 30 minutes required written notice at least 24 hours in advance and were subject to approval. Woodward said the rule was intended to ensure the safety of residents who had fled abusive relationships.

“I have really tried my absolute hardest to create an environment that is just peaceful and uplifting,” she said.

Restrictions on cellphone use were also common. Residents of the Inn Ministry in Jacksonville had to leave their phones downstairs overnight — a rule instituted to prevent disruptive conversations, said the director, Judith Newberg. The house had a landline telephone upstairs for emergency use, she said.

Melissa Radey, a professor of social work at Florida State University who has published research on licensed maternity homes in Florida, said employees sometimes believe that such rules protect residents from traffickers and other potential threats.

“There could be some very good intentions from providers,” Radey said.

Some home leaders said they were scaling back rules. Visitation House, an unregulated home in DeLand, Florida, stopped requiring residents to turn in cellphones at night because it deterred women from staying there, said the board president, Erin Kappiris.

“We don’t want these women to come and feel like they’re going into a penal system,” she said. “It isn’t a correctional institute.”

Sunlight Home, which is registered with the Christian nonprofit and housed up to eight residents and their babies, had some of the strictest rules among the homes reviewed by the Times and Reveal. Beyond the tracking app requirement and needing permission to leave, women had to lock their phones in a safe overnight, former residents said.

“Not being able to just step outside and go for a walk was hard,” said Emily Colts-Tegg, 24, who lived at the home this year from February to July. “It did take a toll on me.”

Former residents and employees also said home leaders withheld access to donated clothing and accessories by requiring women to first earn “Sunlight coins.” The coins were awarded for meeting personal goals.

Calls and messages to the CEO, E.B. Yarnell, were not returned. In Sunlight Home’s statement, a lawyer representing the facility, David C. Gibbs III, called it a “voluntary rehabilitative program.” He said that the home requires residents to agree to its rules before they move in. The coins were required only for luxury items like purses and jewelry, he added.

“Our program provides a safe, residential space for each client to begin getting quality rest and proper nutrition and feel safe and secure to start building their lives,” Gibbs wrote. “This atmosphere assists each client in creating new nondestructive habits that can help them towards a lifestyle that will allow them to survive and thrive.”

But Jessica Behringer, 38, who moved out in April after three months there, said the rules made life unbearable. “Everyone is being controlled there,” she said.

Three other residents departed for similar reasons in the last year, they told the Times and Reveal.

Recently, a complaint about the house led to litigation. This summer, a former director of operations, Jenna Randazzo, posted an online review urging women to avoid Sunlight Home. In the review, she wrote that the home had stopped providing mental health therapy and transportation and that Yarnell had turned the “once nurturing environment into one resembling a strict boot camp.”

This month, Yarnell sued Randazzo over that review, asserting that it was false and defamatory. In the lawsuit, Yarnell denied that she had canceled mental health and transportation services or withheld residents’ access to donated items.

Randazzo declined to comment on the suit.

‘We Weren’t Prepared’

In interviews, some women recalled positive experiences at unlicensed homes. One said she had been raised in a religious family and did not mind the church requirements.

Another, Alice Payne, who stayed with Brehon Family Services in Tallahassee, Florida, appreciated the help employees gave during her infant daughter’s bouts of colic in 2014. “I don’t know where I would have been without Brehon House,” she said, adding that the home did not monitor residents or enforce rigid rules.

But other women faced police visits or expulsion.

Eight homes routinely called police when residents defied rules or employees, a review of more than 500 pages of police records from the past six years found.

Calls to law enforcement are common in group homes, said Shamra Boel-Studt, an associate professor of social work at Florida State University and co-author of the maternity housing research with Radey. But, she said, staff with proper training and resources should be able to manage some situations, and best practice is to call police only when there is a safety risk.

Employees at Mater Filius Miami, which was licensed until 2023 but then opted for the religious registration, frequently called police, records show.

On Aug. 26, 2021, an employee called to report that a 29-year-old resident had stopped eating, according to a police report. The employee wanted her detained under a state law that lets the police temporarily commit people in a mental health crisis.

When officers arrived, employees said the woman had been “disobedient and noncompliant,” records show. Earlier that day, she had walked to a nearby Starbucks, which was not allowed at that time.

In the end, the woman was not detained. Officers advised home employees not to call police “when they had a mom that did not want to follow house rules,” records show.

Mater Filius Miami closed this year. Blanca Salas, who ran the home with her husband, Juan C. Salas, said in a phone interview that the reason was a lack of funding.

“We worked on this pro bono,” Salas said. “We did it for the love of God.”

She said the home had needed the support of mental health professionals. “We weren’t prepared,” she said.

For women at other homes, failing to follow house rules had different consequences. Several homes gave women 24 hours or less to pack up and leave, according to their policies, police records and interviews.

When Genesis House expelled Atwood after she lit the incense, she initially refused to leave. After both she and staff members called police, Genesis House agreed to cover a hotel room for Atwood and her children that night, she said.

The next afternoon, she was homeless again.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times .