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Forum » What it's actually like to live in a group home (the part nobody talks about)
What it's actually like to live in a group home (the part nobody talks about)
I've lived in a group home for three years. When I tell people, they either get uncomfortable or they say something like 'that must be so hard' in a voice that makes it clear they're already imagining the worst. It IS hard. But not always in the ways people assume.
The hardest parts:
- No privacy. Ever. Staff check on you at scheduled times. Your room door isn't really yours. Someone is always listening.
- The infantilization. I'm 25. I have opinions and preferences and a sense of humor. Staff sometimes talk to me like I'm 7. Or talk about me in front of me like I can't hear them.
- The lack of control over your environment. What you eat, when you shower, who you share space with. These aren't choices — they're assigned.
The parts that are actually okay:
- I have a roof and three meals a day. After being unhoused for 8 months, that's not nothing.
- Some staff are genuinely kind. One of them brings me used books from library sales because she knows I read.
- There's a weird camaraderie with the other residents. We don't always like each other but we understand each other in ways nobody outside can.
The complicated part: I need this support. I can't live independently. And I also hate it sometimes. Both things are true. I'm allowed to feel both.
Anyone else in institutional care? Assisted living, nursing home, group home, residential treatment? What's your experience?
Replies (6)
I'm in a nursing home at 42. MS. The infantilization is REAL. A staff member literally called me 'sweetie' while changing my catheter. I wanted to scream. I also wanted to say thank you because she was gentle and careful. Both. Always both.
My cast iron skillet is over a hundred years old. I found it rusted and forgotten at a flea market, brought it home, stripped it, seasoned it, and now it's the best pan I own. I think about that a lot when I see people discover hobbies later in life. The thing was always good. It just needed someone who knew how to restore it. Same with joy — it was always there, waiting to be uncovered.
I'm not in care — I give care, to my mom with dementia. But reading your post helped me understand something about what she might be feeling that she can't articulate anymore. The privacy part. The lack of control. Thank you for writing this.
I write letters to my niece every Sunday. With a fountain pen, on good paper. It takes me about an hour. She's nine and she writes back in crayon. Neither of us is doing it 'right' and that's exactly the point. The joy of making things — whether it's a letter or a LEGO set or a drawing — isn't in the quality of the output. It's in the act of showing up.
The 'both things are true' line is going on my wall. That's the entire disabled experience. I need help AND I'm a full person. I'm grateful AND I'm furious. Thank you for naming this.
I was in shelters, not group homes, but the lack of privacy thing resonated deeply. You get used to having no space that's yours. And then when you finally GET space, you don't know what to do with it. I sat in my apartment for weeks just... being alone. It was disorienting.
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