"We can house up to twelve women at a time," Maggie explains, leading me through the space. "Currently have eight residents, plus three part-time staff."
"Women like us?" I ask.
"Survivors, yes. Not all from trafficking—some from domestic violence, some from other situations. The common thread is trauma and the need for a safe transition back to independence."
As we move deeper into the house, I catch glimpses of life in progress—a young woman reading in a window seat, two others in the kitchen preparing lunch, someone's laundry neatly folded on a table. Normal activities that seem monumental from where I stand.
"Morning, Maggie," calls a woman from the kitchen. She's perhaps thirty, with short-cropped hair and a sleeve of colorful tattoos. "New friend?"
"This is Cara," Maggie introduces me. "Cara, this is Dani. She runs our kitchen program."
"Nice to meet you," Dani says, wiping her hands on a towel before offering one to shake. I take it briefly, the casual contact still unfamiliar. "Staying for lunch? Making stir-fry."
"If that's okay." Maggie looks to me for confirmation.
I nod, oddly touched by being given the choice.
Maggie continues the tour, showing me therapy rooms, a small computer lab for job searches and education, bedrooms shared by two women each. The space is designed for healing—peaceful colors, natural light, security features subtly integrated into the architecture.
"And this is my favorite spot," Maggie says, leading me to a sunroom at the back of the house. Large windows overlook a garden where vegetables grow in neat rows. A woman kneels among them, hands in the soil. "The garden's therapy for a lot of our residents. Growing something after so much destruction, you know?"
I do know. The urge to create, to nurture, after years of having everything taken.
"How do you fund all this?" I ask. "Beyond the Saints Outlaws, I mean."
"Grants, donations, some state funding." Maggie leans against the doorframe. "The women who can work contribute a small portion of their income. We're always scraping by, but we make it work."
"It's amazing," I say sincerely.
"It's necessary," she corrects. "I was lucky—I had a sister to go home to after I was rescued. But most women have nowhere to go. Or their homes aren't safe anymore." She studies me. "What about you? Any plans for after the clubhouse?"
The question catches me off guard. I haven't thought beyond the next day, the next hour sometimes. "I don't know. I can't go back to my old life."
"No," she agrees. "But you can build a new one."
Before I can respond, a timer beeps somewhere in the house. Maggie checks her watch. "Group session's about to start. Want to sit in? No pressure to participate."
Curiosity wins over anxiety. "Okay."
She leads me to a comfortable room where chairs are arranged in a circle. Women begin to filter in, ranging in age from early twenties to fifties. Some bear visible marks of their traumas—scars, burn marks, the too-thin frame that comes from prolonged captivity. Others appear unscathed on the surface, their wounds hidden deeper.
I take a seat slightly outside the circle, relieved when Maggie doesn't push me to join fully. The session begins with introductions, then moves into a discussion about coping strategies for triggers. I listen, absorbing the shared wisdom of women who've walked similar paths.
A young woman, perhaps twenty-two, speaks softly about her progress. "I went to the grocery store yesterday. By myself." Murmurs of encouragement ripple through the group. "I had a moment in the parking lot—you know, the feeling like someone's watching, going to grab you." She twists her hands together. "But I used the grounding techniques. Counted backward from one hundred. And I did it. I got my groceries and drove home."
The pride in her voice strikes a chord in me. Such a simple act—grocery shopping—transformed into a battlefield and a victory.
"That's fantastic, Jessie," Maggie says warmly. "What else helped you through it?"
"I remembered what you said. That each time I push through, I'm reclaiming something they took." Jessie straightens slightly. "I decide where I go now. Not them."
As the session continues, I find myself leaning forward, drawn in by these women's journeys. Their stories are different from mine in the details, but the core experience—the theft of autonomy, the struggle to reclaim it—resonates deeply.
When the group breaks for lunch, a woman with auburn hair and a careful way of moving approaches me. "First time here?" she asks, keeping a respectful distance.
I nod. "Just visiting."
"I'm Rachel," she offers. "Six months out."
