The Escoto Family Story
Told by Lisa (Mom)
Jill’s House gave us something we’d never had before: rest and trust. For the first time, I knew [Elena] was completely safe and surrounded by people who celebrated her, who saw her light. I could finally exhale.
My daughter, Elena, can best be described as joyful. She wants to connect with everybody. She has a bright light in her, but not everyone sees that.
Elena has Angelman syndrome, which affects her mobility, communication, and sleep. In the early years, she slept only three hours a night. And so did I. Life felt like survival mode.
When Elena was six, other parents encouraged me to let her go to Jill’s House for her first overnight. I was terrified. How could I trust anyone else with her care? But they said, “She’ll love it, and you need the break.” They were right.
Jill’s House gave us something we’d never had before: rest and trust. For the first time, I knew she was completely safe and surrounded by people who celebrated her, who saw her light. I could finally exhale.
I used to call Jill’s House midway through the weekend, on Saturday afternoons, just to check in. The staff would say, “Hold on,” walk up to her, and hold up the phone. I’d hear her squealing and laughing in the background. Then they’d say, “She’s got the biggest smile on her face, and she’s having a great time.” Hearing her joy in real time meant everything to me.
Elena loved her weekends at Jill’s House in Tysons and later experienced camp weekends at Blue Ridge, where she thrived being outdoors. Blue Ridge was her happy place—smaller, quieter, and full of exciting experiences like hayrides and visits from therapy dogs. She especially loved seeing the horses (from a safe distance—they’re a little too big for her taste!) and spending time with staff who shared her excitement and energy. She felt completely at home there.
I loved the reports I’d get after each Jill’s House visit. They always began with“We love Elena because…,” followed by all the wonderful things about her. When you spend years hearing what your child needs to work on, hearing what others love about them means everything. At Jill’s House, no one told her to calm down or be different. They simply delighted in who she is.
When Elena was away on weekends, I finally had space to breathe. On Friday nights, I’d pick up takeout for me and my older daughter, Sofia, and put on a movie that we could watch, uninterrupted, in peace. For years, after Sofia went to bed, I’d end up crying until Saturday afternoon—all the emotions I’d been pushing down finally had room to surface. (Sofia would sleep in, on teenager time!). For the rest of the weekend, I would read, sleep, and enjoy one-on-one time with Sofia and with friends. Little by little, I began to feel like myself again. Jill’s House gave me that space to process and heal.
That’s what makes Jill’s House different. They don’t just meet needs; they see the whole person. Raising a child with special needs can be isolating. The world doesn’t see the unique stressors, the constant logistics, and the exhaustion. Even when people try to help, they can’t fully understand unless they’ve lived it. That’s why Jill’s House—and the community I’ve found here—means so much to me.
