One year ago marked the beginning of a week that was so intense and frightening that it still feels surreal.
I returned home one evening with my daughter to find both the sunroom door and front door wide open. It seemed odd, but I knew my husband had been hanging out with friends earlier that day and I assumed one of them was just careless. I settled down on the couch to feed Mabel and started browsing my phone. My heart stopped when I saw a notification from the baby monitor in her nursery.
Motion was detected at 5:58 p.m., not long before I had returned home. I looked at the six-second clip that was captured, and saw a hand covering the lens of the monitor and pushing the camera down toward the shelf. Muffled footsteps can be heard walking away.
I called 911, and dispatch advised us to evacuate immediately and lock myself in my car. Unmarked police cars surrounded our home within minutes, and I sat in the van and clutched my 1-year-old as my heart pounded, watching the officers search for the intruder.
No one was found in the house that evening and nothing was taken – both a relief and a nightmare.
I experienced panic attacks in public over the next few days. My sleep was restless, and I spent most waking moments scanning the security footage our cameras had captured to look for clues.
At 2:39 a.m. on Dec. 1, I was again watching the footage when I heard a loud crash and knew someone was attempting to break into the back of the house. I called 911 while my husband shouted to let the burglars know we were awake and aware. I opened the security camera feed while I was on the phone with dispatch just in time to see a dark figure run off my property. Police arrived quickly, but found no suspects – only opened car doors around the neighborhood.
My husband and I attempted to stay calm to avoid scaring our young children, but neither of us slept again that night. Our 3-year-old son was having trouble sleeping, too, but for a different reason: The flu.
We encouraged Max to rest and go back to sleep, but each time he tried he would become suddenly freeze with a look of terror on his face, unresponsive and inconsolable. These episodes would last a few minutes each, and then he would fall into a deep sleep for a few hours. We realized he was experiencing focal aware seizures and took him to the emergency room.
The exhaustion was overwhelming. I hadn't slept since the burglary, and after spending hours in the emergency department, my need for rest was desperate. My mother-in-law, despite the risk of catching the flu from Max, came to help. I was able to drift off knowing Max and Mabel were safe with “Maw Maw”. I woke soon after to the sound of police outside, interviewing my mother-in-law about her car being broken into while she stood guard over us. It felt like a cruel, unending game – as we installed security at the front, the break-ins continued at the back. My world became a place of fear and paranoia.
I couldn't even step outside during daylight without experiencing a panic attack. The world felt threatening, hostile, even as police officers parked their car for hours in the alley next to my house. Our only saving grace was the kindness of our neighbors, who texted with offers to watch our house while we slept or start a parole. One neighbor was walking her dog when she saw someone rummaging through our car in the driveway (we had removed valuables and kept it unlocked intentionally, not wanting to deal with broken glass). She hid behind a tree and called the police for us.
While that week felt like a lifetime, the fear and panic disappeared in an instant. My husband and I were leaving our house in daylight when we noticed a bike sitting on our lawn. We looked down our driveway and saw someone in our car. My husband instructed me to go back into the house and lock the doors. I texted my neighbor, joking about stealing the bike as payback, but my husband took another approach: he chose compassion.
I watched as a young boy – not older than 13 – raced to his bike and took off down the street. My husband called after him: “Hey! Do you need something? Can I help you?” The boy stopped and cautiously returned. Seeing the young boy respond to my husband's offer to help, my fear was replaced by a deep sadness.
The revelation that the perpetrator was a young boy with a traumatic past shifted something in me. It wasn't just about our family's experience anymore. Watching my husband talk to him with empathy, I saw the situation through a different lens. The boy’s actions, once so threatening, now seemed like a cry for help.
This experience led me to think about restorative justice and its potential to change the trajectory of juvenile offenders. The traditional punitive system often fails to address the underlying issues that lead youths to commit crimes. Instead, a restorative approach can offer a path to rehabilitation, focusing on healing for both the victim and the offender. In the case of this boy, understanding his background and the hardships he faced, it became clear that what he needed was guidance and support, not punishment.
Our community's response was heartening. Neighbors sought to understand and help rather than seek retribution. This approach reflects a belief in the possibility of change and the value of addressing root causes over punitive measures.
Though the fear and anxiety from that time still visit me, we have not experienced any break-ins or thefts since that conversation. The way this situation unfolded has given me a new perspective on how we handle juvenile crime. The idea that empathy and support can redirect a young person’s life is powerful. I hope that the boy who once caused us so much distress finds a path to a better future, one where his past doesn't dictate his potential.
