Hubbard Day now offers a full, year-round residential program in Stamford Connecticut. Launched in June 2025, our newly built-out, state-of-the-art dormitories are located contiguous to the Hubbard Day school itself.
Residential students attend our regular school program during the day while simultaneously receiving after school care around the clock for their emotional, educational and physical needs, with 24-hour staff support.
Since sharing the other week that Sydney will be transitioning to a residential special needs school—or, as our family has started to refer to it, “dorm rooms like college” —many people have reached out asking about the program. I thought I’d share a little more.
I’m also sharing these details because while I often use Facebook as a platform to highlight the many wrongs that exist in the special needs world, I think it’s just as important to spotlight the rights—and the extraordinary people out there working hard to support those who simply cannot help themselves.
A man I had gone to high school with—someone I’d loosely kept in touch with only through social media—reached out. He said, “I can save that school. And if I can’t, I’ll build a new one.”
And he did. He built an outstanding special needs school—one that has not only exceeded my expectations, but quite frankly, much of Connecticut’s.
As the years went on and I began to understand the long-term reality for Sydney, I also knew that we would eventually need a residential option—not just for her care, but to secure the kind of support that would outlast me. I began talking to him about what was possible. I told him what I’d seen in my search for programs. How few would accept someone as profoundly impaired as Sydney. How crucial it was that someone create something better.
We left it there.
A couple of years later, when the school was thriving and expanding, I approached him again. I told him I had found a great program out of state that could meet her needs, but that I still believed he and his incredible staff could build something even better—tailored, thoughtful, and specific to kids like Sydney.
He heard me.
And months later, he came back and said, “I’m ready.” He acknowledged the hurdles, the complications, the effort it would take. But just like he did the first time, he said it with confidence, commitment, and heart.
Next week, Sydney will begin the Hubbard Day Residential Program.
It’s hard to express what this means to me. If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I could have sent Sydney anywhere else. Not because she wouldn’t benefit from it, or because there aren’t good programs out there—but because when you have a child who is profoundly impaired, dependent, vulnerable, and defenseless, it’s as if the umbilical cord was never cut.
She is part of me in a way my neurotypical children could never be. Her life depends on me. And my sense of peace has always depended on her well-being.
That kind of enmeshment is unhealthy—for both of us. But here’s the hard truth: I need to know she can be okay without me. That when the cord finally does have to be cut, she’ll have people. A village. And I’ll be able to take a breath.
Caring for someone like Sydney takes a huge toll on a caregiver’s mental, emotional, and physical health. But what can improve that—what does improve that—is knowing there are others who love her, support her, and understand her.
And thanks to this man who heard me, who understood the need, who did something—I have that. We have that.
I have a chance to see if Sydney can survive without me tethered to her.
And I have a chance to see if I can survive with just a little more space to breathe.
Time will tell how we both do. But I can say this with certainty: this program feels like sending Sydney to stay with extended family. Her core team has known her since she was 7. They’ve seen it all—and I mean all.
They genuinely care for her. They’re rooting for her. And they love her.
It’s because of that—I think—I’ll be able to let her go next week.
And maybe, for the first time in a very long time, I’ll be able to breathe.
