The Garnett Family Story: From the AZ Desert to the Heart of Texas — A Journey of Resilience, Family, and Finding Home Our story begins in October 2024—a turning point that changed everything. Since then, we've faced medical crises, homelessness, job loss, and the heartbreak of leaving behind the life we built in Arizona. What followed was a series of painful, humbling, and ultimately transformative events that led us—hand in hand—from the desert we once called home to the heart of Texas. It’s hard to put into words all we’ve walked through. But one thing has remained constant: our love for each other and our belief in this simple truth: “Every problem is a new opportunity.” We’re still standing. Still singing. Still holding on. And still together. --Who We Are-- We are the Garnett family. I’m Katie—wife, mom of five, and a passionate special education teacher specializing in autism. My husband Kelly is a skilled handyman and devoted father. Together, we’re raising five amazing children: Ashton (20), Gavin (16), Halo (16), Sophia (13), and Killian (6). Four of our children are on the autism spectrum, each unique in their strengths and challenges. Killian, our youngest, is non-verbal but progressing daily—his growth is a testament to the love and commitment we share. Our journey is not just about survival—it’s about growth, advocacy, perspective and love. --A Medical Emergency That Shook Our World-- In October 2024, Kelly went to the hospital for what we thought would be a routine cyst removal. Honestly, we expected a couple of stitches and some grumbling about hospital food. Instead, we were launched into a life-threatening crisis that turned our world upside down. Kelly had been managing his diabetes naturally with home remedies like sea moss, and it had been working for him. But the hospital gave him insulin—and when he was discharged, he returned to his usual routine. Two days later, everything spiraled. He was in unbearable pain. We tried everything we could—ginger tea, heating pads, pacing—but nothing helped. I finally said, “Enough,” and rushed him to the ER. He was diagnosed with diabetic ketoacidosis and ileus—his digestive system was shutting down. Even on the strongest medications, the pain wouldn’t stop. I stood by helplessly as he faded in and out of consciousness. He spent over a month in the hospital, much of it in ICU. At the time, I was still working full-time as a middle school autism teacher at Victory Autism Academy—a job and school I loved deeply. I’d cry in my car before walking into work, holding it together for my students while quietly falling apart. The staff at Victory were amazing—supportive, flexible, and kind. They helped keep me afloat when I felt like I was drowning in fear and exhaustion. I miss them more than I can say. Kelly eventually returned home—only to be hospitalized again for the same complications. At the same time, our housing fell apart. We bounced from Airbnbs to motels to a tense (and short-lived) stay with Kelly’s ex-mother-in-law. That one ended... well, exactly how you'd expect. We were broke, exhausted, terrified—and still cracking jokes when we could. A dance in the kitchen, a car singalong, a “remember when we had a couch?” laugh that turned into a much-needed cry. Somehow, we kept going. --Homelessness in the Desert-- Two weeks before our final stretch of homelessness began, I injured my right hand on a cactus needle. I tried to ignore it—like moms do—but it became infected. The wound turned septic, and I was hospitalized for over a week for emergency surgery to treat deep-tissue cellulitis. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t use my dominant hand. I could barely hold myself together. The day I was discharged, our time at a friend’s house ran out. That night, we drove into the desert and set up camp in the dark—flashlights, tarps, and kids in sleeping bags. Kelly was still recovering. I was bandaged and weak. But we were together. We cooked over fires. We lived out of our car. We told stories under the stars to make it feel like more than survival. We called every shelter and program we could find. The response was always the same: six-month waitlists or offers that would separate our family. That was never an option. --Choice to Leave Everything Behind-- Eventually, an old friend of Kelly’s offered what felt like a lifeline—a chance to start over in Texas. But accepting that offer came with a heartbreaking cost. It meant leaving behind Arizona, the place that had always been home. It meant leaving our routines, our support system, and most painfully, our 16-year-old son, Gavin. He wanted to finish the school year with his friends, his girlfriend, and some sense of normalcy. Arrangements were made with his grandma and biological mom so he could stay. It was the right decision—for him—but it tore at all of us. With heavy hearts, we packed up what little we had left into our one vehicle, a Dodge Journey, and hit the road. We didn’t get to say goodbye to coworkers or students— friends or family, people we all deeply loved and still miss. We had to leave our three dogs behind, too—Luna, Nova, and Ferrah—another kind of grief we still carry and are working on processing still. We didn’t know what Texas would bring. But we clung to the hope that this would be the new beginning we so desperately needed. --The Texas Reality-- We came to Texas with hearts full of hope and just enough gas money to get us there. Kelly’s friend had promised a job, housing, and a fresh start—and after everything we’d just been through, we believed it was finally our turn to catch a break. But the reality was very different. When we arrived, we found out he hadn’t even told his wife we were coming. The “help” he offered quickly turned into something else entirely. What was promised as support became long, grueling days of labor for Kelly and Ashton, working sunup to sundown—most days for less than $10 an hour. Some days they came home with barely $80 between them, just enough for gas and groceries to keep our family of six afloat. We had no housing of our own, no local support system, and no idea what would happen next. After a few tense weeks, his wife gave us a deadline: six weeks to get out—or we’d be back on the street. We were out of options. But we weren’t out of determination. We pushed on, we pulled through, because that's what we do... So we did what we always do—we found a way. We scraped together everything we had and bought a used Telluride fifth-wheel RV. It needed serious work, but it was our only shot. Between shifts, Kelly and I scrubbed, patched, and repaired it until it was livable. We finished just in time. Actually—one day late. The friend's wife had already called a tow truck. . Then, the Car Was Gone For a brief moment in Crosby, it felt like maybe—just maybe—we were turning a corner. The RV needed work, but it was ours. We had a home we had a door that we could lock, a space we could sit at, to gather and be together... a place to just be, no one watching with those judging eyes. It wasn’t easy, but it was something solid to stand on. Then came another blow. While driving the kids to school one morning, a tire on our Dodge Journey blew out, and I lost control of the car. Thankfully, I was alone, and no one else was hurt. But the vehicle—webhad driven halfway across the country in, the same one we’d lived in, cried in, the same one thay drove us to the woods to get married, where kelly and i slept as our first night and man and wife, rhe one that kept us safe and warm on those rainy days, Ashtons safe place where he found comfort and drew strength from his pain, our one last piece of where we came from, the journey who was just as much a part of this family as any of us — she was totaled. If it wasnt the worst possibility... losing the car also was losing everything inside it our clothes packed for laundry day, important documents, air mattresses, and personal keepsakes that carried memories of Arizona and life before the chaos. That crash took more than metal and rubber. It took a last piece of comfort and continuity we had left. With the car gone, Kelly and Ashton couldn’t work, and I couldn’t get to interviews or appointments. The "friend" who had brought us here? Completely disappeared. No calls. No texts. No support. Just… gone. It felt like another rug pulled out from under us. But we’re getting used to landing on our feet. We kept going—because that’s what we do. Planting New Seeds Today, we’re planting seeds—not just for survival, but for something lasting and meaningful. 🌱 Kelly has started his own handyman business, using his skills to build a future, support our family, and help our new community. 🌱 I’m putting my 25 years of autism education experience into motion by working to launch a microschool and therapy program right here in Texas—because families like ours deserve better access, better support, and better outcomes. 🌱 Ashton is finding his way, growing into the strong, thoughtful young man he’s meant to be. His loyalty to family and self is impressive and his eagerness to leave his mark on the world is infectious! The future isn’t ready for him! 🌱 Halo—after so many difficult transitions—is finally smiling again. She's more positive, joyful, and slowly becoming this bright, confident person we never knew was there. Seeing her laugh and open up has been one of the most healing parts of this journey. 🌱 Sophia—has had to grow up fast. She’s navigating a new world, adjusting to new schools, new rules, and a new rhythm of life, all while carrying the weight of so much change. The pressure of those changes will give way to a beautiful soul and an amazing young lady! 🌱 Killian, our six-year-old, reminds us every day what joy looks like. His ability to smile through anything, to find bliss in the smallest things, is one of our greatest blessings. 🌱 We’re creating new routines, going to school or work, finding new hobbies, amd friendships, and letting roots grow deep into this new soil we’re learning to call home. We’re working to bring Gavin to Texas when the time is right. For now, we talk often, stay close, and keep our family strong—no matter the miles between us. We’ve faced job loss, medical emergencies, homelessness, and a hand injury that nearly changed everything for me. I’ve applied for over 129 jobs, stretching every dollar, every resource, and every ounce of strength just to keep us afloat. Along the way, we experienced betrayal and deep hurt—especially from a friend who promised support but let us down. Yet, despite that pain, we remain hopeful and grateful, knowing that without even that fragile lifeline, it's scary to think what could be. And yet—we’re still here. Still whole. Still together. Because for us, it’s never just about survival. It’s about perspective — and remembering that “Every problem is a new opportunity.” An opportunity to see things in a positive light, and opportunity to take a step back and see that the universe never messes up were all exactly where we are meant to be! It doesn’t always feel that way in the moment. But looking back, every challenge has shaped us. Strengthened us. Brought us here. Here -- where we are needed, where grace found us and saved us -- here where we were always meant to be! “We’ve laughed through tears, held tight through storms, and never stopped believing in each other. We are still standing. Still singing. Still smiling. And we believe the best is yet to come.” "We’re planting the seeds. With a little support, we know they’ll grow." If you can: • Share our story • Connect us with work • Offer resources • Or simply send words of encouragement You become part of our healing. Part of our rebuilding. Part of our future. With hope, gratitude, and a positive attitude The Garnett Family Crosby, Texas