How a tiny home and a current address reconnected this Veteran and his daughter

When his 2-year-old daughter Majesty fell into the foster care system, U.S. Navy Veteran Tim faced a significant barrier in his fight to assert custody: He didn’t have a permanent address.

At that point, he’d gotten his life back on track after a struggle with substance use and he’d built nearly a year and a half of sustained recovery in a residential treatment program. His group living arrangement in that program, however, wasn’t designed for children nor did it meet family court requirements.

Tim says, “I just remember thinking: ‘How can I rescue my daughter?’”

That’s when a tiny blue home at Veterans Community Project (VCP) came into his life. Each of our Villages is built with several slightly larger family units to house couples and, in many cases, help residents reconnect with and regain parental rights of their children. A program manager at Tim’s rehab had gotten to know VCP and made the connection.

In a matter of days, Tim was able to move into his own home in the Village. Soon after, he got full custody and moved to a family unit complete with a bunk bed fit for a toddler.

“Majesty loved the place,” he reflects. “She would run around dressed like princesses... Elsa, you know. Everyone there doted on her.”

In the meantime, Tim focused on building them a future together. Over their year and a half living in the Village, he put in the work to become a licensed drug counselor. In his first day on the job, he found himself in a courtroom sitting in the box next to the judge. He thought, “I never thought I’d be on that other side, you know, considering who I used to be.”

In the early 2000s, he’d struggled with the military-to-civilian transition—and reminders of childhood trauma—after serving three and a half years in the Navy. What followed was a two-decade stretch of substance issues during which he became one of the more than 30,000 Veterans sleeping on the city streets of the country they took the oath to serve.

“I was lost,” he said. “I lived under bridges. Slept in abandoned cars. It’s hard to explain how exhausting it is to just survive. When every little thing—like, finding a bathroom in the morning—is an hours-long ordeal.”

Tim reflects on that time as the lowest point in his life. But then came his turning point: An awakening moment in which he rediscovered his faith and accepted that he needed help, saying, “The opposite of addiction is connection—and that’s what I found.” At a faith-based rehab center, he remembers feeling “like Scrooge in a Christmas Carol” in experiencing a love he’d never before felt—first, from others praying with him, and then, within himself.

It was the second pivotal moment in his life in which he credits an element of divine intervention. The first was his decision to enlist in the military: “So, get this: I had a dream in which God told me I should become a journalist in the Navy.” He explains it with a laugh, yet he’s also dead serious.

Although he wasn’t particularly spiritual or patriotic at the time, he interpreted the dream as a calling toward his future and away from his troubled youth. So, he walked into a recruiting office, scored extraordinarily well on the ASVAB test, and joined the Navy in a journalistic public affairs role.

Tim said his time in the Navy from 2000 to 2003 radically accelerated his communication skills. First, telling human interest stories and hosting live broadcasts from the USS Saipan. Then, 9/11 happened. He remembers hearing about it listening to the Howard Stern show while driving a military vehicle away from the medical center in Bethesda. From that point on, clear messaging became even more critical amid the global war on terrorism.

Today as a drug counselor, Tim draws on those communication skills as well as aspects from the rougher chapters of his life. His office is in the shadow of Kansas City city hall. Inside, he meets with his clients with a tattoo above his eyebrows that reads “Killa City.” It’s a relic of a different time, but he also says that—paired with his lived experience—it gives him a bit of, well, clout. “I’m very relatable,” he acknowledges.

He recently had a profound moment of reflection at a work event with alumni clients. He explains, “I don’t think I realized how many lives I’d affected until I’d walked into that room to 40 or 50 people grinning and yelling ‘Tim!’”

And back home, of course, there’s one person who calls him something different: ‘Dad.’

Majesty is now 7 years old and a recent graduate of the first grade. She and her father love exploring together. Cooking together. Drawing together. Reading together. Being together. “She’s bright, she’s loving, she’s got a wonderful imagination,” said Tim.

He says that’s all possible because, at 40 years old, he for the first time moved into a place of his own at Veterans Community Project—a fresh start with, notably, a current address. VCP, he said, surrounded him with love and provided him with a plan. And it worked.

Now, this Father’s Day, Tim’s not sure what he and Majesty will do together. And frankly, the specific plans aren’t the part that matters to him.

“I’m just so very thankful to have Majesty in my life,” he smiled.