Recently, Indiana learned the devastating news that 15-year-old Jeffrey Epps, a nonverbal autistic teenager, was found deceased after wandering from home in Baldwin County, Georgia. His death appears accidental, but it reveals a deeper truth that families like his live with every single day: the world is not yet built for their children.
Parents of autistic, developmentally delayed, and nonverbal children live with a constant, quiet vigilance. Every door becomes a risk. Every body of water becomes a threat. Every untrained bystander becomes a missed opportunity for safety.
Yet in the midst of heartbreak, my mind keeps returning not to the incident, but to the boy himself:
What was Jeffrey like?
What was his favorite dinner?
Did he have a movie he watched again and again?
What calmed him when he felt overwhelmed?
How did he express joy?
What made him laugh?
What gifts did he carry that the world will now never fully see?
There is so much we do not know — and will never know. Another life taken too soon.
Behind every policy decision, every service cut, and every misuse of the word “efficiency,” there is a person with a story the world often never stops long enough to learn.
When Services Shrink, Vulnerability Grows
Jeffrey’s death comes at the same moment Indiana’s FSSA is reevaluating ABA therapy and pausing new intake for certain services — a shift that has left many families frightened and uncertain.
As a former educator, I know this with absolute clarity: early intervention is not a luxury — it is protection. Therapeutic supports teach individuals:
- how to navigate danger,
- how to communicate distress,
- how to self-regulate when overwhelmed,
- how to respond to cues that may save their lives.
When access is reduced, so is safety. When early intervention is restricted, children do not simply “lose services.” They lose developmental tools that may prevent tragedy. Cuts are not measured in budget lines alone. They are measured in lives made more vulnerable.
A Community Not Yet Educated
Reflecting on Jeffrey’s story also led me to think about the Deaf and hard-of-hearing community — a group we often use to illustrate “progress.” We point to interpreters or captions, but when you listen to Deaf families, a different truth emerges:
- Emergency alerts are still not fully accessible.
- Hospitals struggle to provide interpreters.
- Schools frequently cut essential support services.
- Public spaces remain designed for hearing people first.
If even the communities we believe we’ve accommodated still face overwhelming barriers, what does that say about the public’s understanding of autism — especially nonverbal autism? Which brings me to the questions we must ask gently but boldly:
Who saw Jeffrey?
Did anyone recognize his distress?
Would someone have helped if they were educated, trained, or simply more aware?
This is not about blame. It is about readiness — and the uncomfortable truth that most communities are not yet prepared to protect vulnerable residents.
Design Is Also Protection: Safe Parks Plus
Education alone cannot carry the responsibility of keeping children safe. We must also build environments that anticipate vulnerability. This is why the Safe Parks Plus Initiative urging every community in Indiana to establish at least one fully enclosed playground — a space intentionally designed for children (and adults) who elope or wander must continue.
Elopement is the tendency for autistic individuals to slip away from safe spaces and affects nearly half of those living with autism — and is one of the leading causes of accidental injury and death. A fenced playground is not a luxury. It is not a special-needs amenity. It is public safety infrastructure, every bit as necessary as a seat belt, a crosswalk, or a railing on a staircase.
Imagine a parent taking their child to the park without pacing the boundary in fear. Imagine a community that chooses safety before tragedy forces the conversation. Safe Parks Plus is an invitation to do better — to build with care, foresight, and belonging in mind.
If We Truly Understood
I believe this wholeheartedly: If policymakers truly understood what it means to raise a child who is nonverbal, autistic, or prone to wandering, they would not cut early intervention or restrict access to ABA and other therapies; there would be overwhelming support for community enclosed playgrounds, and disability services would never be and optional line item. Understanding must come before policy. Without it, decisions miss the mark — sometimes with devastating consequences.
Jeffrey’s story is a reminder that safety is not accidental.
It is taught.
It is designed.
It is built.
It is chosen — or it is neglected.
So, I leave you with this question: What kind of world could we create if we chose not just to be aware, but to be prepared — not just to care, but to build a community where every person is seen, protected, and truly belongs?
To the Epps Family
My heart is with you. I cannot imagine the weight of this loss or the depth of the love you carried — and still carry — for Jeffrey.
No parent should know this kind of grief.
No community should stand by while a family bears a tragedy that may have been preventable.
Please know that Jeffrey’s life matters. His story matters. Your courage in the midst of unimaginable pain is calling the rest of us to learn, to act, and to build something better.
May his memory guide our steps toward safer, more compassionate communities.
May you feel the prayers, love, and tenderness of a community holding you close.