Arizona opinion: Arizona’s domestic violence lifeline is fraying, and lives are at risk

I have never been as concerned for survivors of domestic violence as I am today.

Across our state, organizations that provide emergency shelter and support for survivors are facing devastating funding cuts. The current and anticipated reduction in federal dollars from the Violence Against Women Act and the Victims of Crime Act will leave an unprecedented number of women, men, and children without help when they need it most. And many survivors, myself included, share the same deep alarm.

These reductions will not simply be inconvenient. They will cost lives.

When a survivor of domestic violence makes the decision to leave, it is often the most dangerous moment in their life. They grab their children, their car keys, maybe a small bag, and they run, hoping that when they arrive at a shelter, someone will open the door. But this year, in Arizona, it is increasingly likely that the door will be closed.

With current and anticipated funding cuts, shelters will be forced to turn people away. Hotlines will go unanswered. Families will be told there is no room tonight. And for many survivors, that means returning to their abuser, a decision that can have fatal consequences.

I received domestic violence court advocacy assistance through a nonprofit here in Mesa, A New Leaf, in 2016. This program saved my life and helped me secure court ordered protection from an abusive, dangerous person. Had I been turned away or been unable to find help, I don’t know if I would be alive today. Unfortunately, this program is one of the most affected by recent funding reductions, a heartbreaking realization for me.

I was lucky enough to witness this system work exactly as it should: a person escaping violence, finding shelter, receiving counseling, starting a new job, and ultimately building a life free of fear. But that process is fragile, and it depends entirely on stable, reliable funding. Without it, we are condemning survivors like myself to fall through the cracks.

Domestic violence affects every part of our community. It fills our emergency rooms, our courtrooms, and, too often, our morgues.

It is also one of the leading causes of homelessness among women and children. When survivors can’t access safe housing, they end up sleeping in cars, parks, or shelters not designed to protect them from abusers. This isn’t just a moral failure, it’s a public safety crisis that we must speak out about.

And it’s not only survivors who are at risk. Domestic violence calls are among the most dangerous situations police officers face, and one of the leading causes of officer fatalities nationwide. When shelters close and resources disappear, officers become the first, and often the only, responders to volatile, high-risk situations. Fewer services mean more danger for everyone: survivors, officers, and the public.

I do want to recognize the tremendous efforts of local governments, police departments, and community organizations like A New Leaf that are doing everything they can to fill the gaps.

Many are rallying to keep programs open, raising emergency funds, and innovating to sustain services. Their determination is inspiring, but the math does not add up. The scale of these federal cuts is too great for local systems to absorb. Without restored federal investment, the safety net will continue to unravel, no matter how hard we try to hold it together.

This is not about politics. It’s about safety, for survivors, for children, for police officers, and for every Arizonan who believes in protecting the vulnerable. If we do nothing, more people will die. More children will grow up traumatized. More officers will be placed in harm’s way. That is the reality we face.

Arizona has long been a place of compassion, collaboration, and courage. As a longtime resident, I have seen this community rise to meet every challenge. We must rise again now, together, to demand action to restore these critical funds for organizations like A New Leaf and so many others.

Because behind every statistic is a person, a mother, a child, a survivor, waiting for someone to answer when they call for help. Someone like me.