Salem will never know the full impact of Jayne Downing’s career, but it is felt in thousands of households across the community and state. The longtime executive director of the Center for Hope and Safety is retiring in January after 27 years with the organization. She said the part of her legacy she’s proudest of will never be public.“The survivors I’ve been able to help would number one, for me. If I made some small difference in their life, that’s incredible,” she said. “I feel really lucky that I got to do that.”Ashley Carson Cottingham, a state worker whose career has focused on improving protections for vulnerable adults, will be the organization’s next executive director.The Center for Hope and Safety shelters and supports survivors of domestic violence, abuse and stalking in Marion and Polk counties. The nonprofit was founded as a rape crisis line in 1973. Today, about 20,000 people contact the program per year. Some people just need one call’s worth of information about the signs of domestic violence. Others need months of shelter and support in a safe place. The agency distributes information in English, Spanish, Russian, Vietnamese, Chinese, large print, audio, braille and in pictures for people who can’t read.  Colleagues said that Downing’s legacy is one of deliberate, responsible growth. Under her leadership, the organization has grown from three employees to 35 and moved from a cramped old house to a $1.6 million building in downtown Salem.  They expanded and improved emergency shelter space for survivors and trained thousands across the state in how to support survivors in the workplace.Despite running the organization, guiding major projects and working to secure grants daily for over two decades, Downing still worked directly with survivors as an advocate.  “It has certainly fed my soul for all these years,” she said. “Even a day, I have not been bored.” It wasn’t the career she expected to have 27 years ago, or even in the middle of her tenure. Downing doesn’t think organizations should have the same director for too long, and tried to step away from her job after nine years. The board did three rounds of interviews and couldn’t find the right candidate. When they asked Downing to come back, she agreed on the condition that she could do some “cool things,” like increasing staff benefits and wages, and open up a childcare center for staff and survivors. “And after that, just kept doing more and more things that I never thought we’d get to do,” she said.The daughter of a logger, Downing grew up in Eugene and briefly lived in Reedsport on the Oregon Coast. She worked in insurance for years before attending Chemeketa Community College as a non-traditional college student at age 38. She later transferred to Willamette University as a full-time student, while also working full-time with support from scholarships. She started an internship with the Center for Hope and Safety in college, then called the Mid-Valley Women’s Crisis Service. Early on in her volunteer training, she listened to a talk by its executive director, Vietta Helmle.Downing had known she wanted to make a career in helping women and children, but hearing Helmle talk about the impact of listening to people and sharing information about abuse resonated. “I went home that night and said to my partner, ‘Someday, I want to be doing with my life what that woman is doing,” she said. Still, when the opportunity came to lead the organization, Downing wasn’t immediately sure she wanted it. She had volunteered for six years and joined the board of directors. She didn’t apply for the executive director position when it first opened, and someone else stepped in for a brief time.The job reopened around the same time Downing lost her sister to cancer.“I had always wanted to work in this kind of job, but I always said ‘Someday,’” she said. “I always thought that I would apply when I was older. And watching what happened to my sister, I’m like ‘You don’t always get someday.”Downing became the executive director in July 1997, three months after her sister died. “I just said, ‘I’m going to go for it.’ And it was the best decision I ever made,” Downing said. Jayne Downing sits behind her desk around the year 2000. Downing is retiring in January 2025 after 27 years at the Center for Hope and Safety. (Courtesy/ Sara Brennan) Expanding the team At the time, the organization worked out of a small office in a century-old home on Winter Street. The team slowly expanded and Sara Brennan, the sixth hire, didn’t mind the cramped space knowing that the funds were going toward survivors.Brennan has been with the organization for about 20 years, starting as a volunteer. She was previously a social worker, and said Downing was “already a legend,” and throughout her career the person that fledgling nonprofit directors across the state were told to emulate.“First and foremost, she’s a mentor. She sees potential in everyone,” Brennan, now the program manager, said. “She wants everyone around her to succeed.”Brennan said one of the most memorable moments of her career came in 2014 when they moved into the new, centrally located building at 605 Center St N.E. She said Downing, being famously debt-averse, only did it because it would better serve their clients.“Within two weeks, we had pivoted from ‘We could never afford a new building.’ to ‘Maybe we should just raise a million dollars and get this new space, because think of how much better we could serve survivors,’” Brennan said.They raised the $1.6 million for the project in less than two years.With a central location near the Cherriots downtown transit center, their walk-ins increased from about 2,000 people a year to nearly 10,000, Downing said. That’s the year they switched the organization’s name to Center for Hope and Safety.“That was such an adventure,” Brennan said. “And I think it just opened our eyes to the possibility. It truly was limitless.”  Downing’s spirit guided future ambitious projects, like the 2021 effort to convert a former motel into a new shelter space, Mosaic, or the recent completion of Hope Plaza, a permanent supportive housing complex for survivors downtown. “When things like a motel property to change into shelter or Hope Plaza came up it’s like – ‘Well, okay. She’s fearless. We’ll figure out how to make it happen.’ And we did,” Brennan said. Jayne Downing demolishes the old Greyhound Bus Terminal in 2019, which would become the site for Hope Plaza. (Courtesy/ Sara Brennan) But careful planning can’t account for outstanding circumstances.The pandemic was the toughest time in Downing’s career, she said, and a rare time where she didn’t know if they would be able to pay for the services they were providing.People were stuck at home with their abusers, domestic violence rates increased and The Center for Hope and Safety saw an 83% increase in calls asking for shelter.Their shelter was full, Downing said.“We had families and 15 children at the time that we were taking care of in our shelter,” she said. “We didn’t have any room, we couldn’t bring other people in.”They ended up funding 14 motel rooms for families to stay in temporarily and paying for food and case management. Staff were working nonstop, Downing said, and she lost sleep wondering how to keep them and the families safe and healthy.“I didn’t know at the time where the money was going to come from. So I’m up ‘till midnight writing grants trying to get anybody that would listen: We’ve got to help these families,” she said.She was able to secure the grants, but she said she’ll never forget the stress of that time.“That was one of our low points,” she said.Other, devastating, low points came when abusers killed survivors they were working with.“We always try to think, ‘What could we have maybe done differently? How could we have helped in a different way? It’s an abuser’s choice to do that. But always, always looking at: Can we do more?” she said. “But I can’t imagine, if our services weren’t around, how many more would be lost.” Jayne Downing (top) poses with Center for Hope and Safety staff to thank sponsors for support during the pandemic. (Courtesy/ Sara Brennan) In her direct work with clients, Downing focused on survivors who had been wrongfully arrested during domestic violence calls. She helped them navigate the system, and built relationships with the District Attorney’s Office and law enforcement to improve training on recognizing signs of abuse. “Sometimes there will be injuries to the other person, but bite marks and scratch marks are self-defense wounds,” she said.An arrest can mean a survivor loses their children or job. It makes them afraid of calling anyone for help during abuse, she said.“Over the years I’ve been able to get some folks through that process and have charges overturned. I’ve testified as an expert witness in cases and had the victim be able to win in court,” she said.Downing also worked to expand the organization’s housing support. They went from a pot of money for $250 rent deposits to a program that can pay for survivor’s apartment fees, deposits and six months of rent.  A major project, the Mosaic Shelter, converted a motel in 2021 into a space serving 30 families. It more than doubled the organization’s previous shelter capacity using $4.7 million in state funding from Project Turnkey.It gave survivors personal space, Downing said. It turned the motel rooms into one and two bedroom suites with a kitchen. Families can bring pets, which wasn’t possible at their first shelter where families shared space. “It’s so much more trauma-informed,” Downing said.This summer, Downing cut the ribbon at the opening of Hope Plaza, 20 affordable apartments for survivors of domestic violence, human trafficking and stalking. Six businesses on the first floor will pay reduced rents for their spaces, while providing employment opportunities and services to residents. Residents will be able to take yoga classes, attend support groups and access services like legal aid and food from Marion Polk Food Share. There’s a boutique with clothes for interviews on the first floor.The project had started as a collection of sticky notes on Downing’s office door, ideas for ways to help survivors. Community, local, state and federal support allowed the $15.8 million project to open debt-free.Hope Plaza was the last thing Downing, now 68, had promised herself and her colleagues that she would do before retiring.Downing’s last job as director will be to help Carson Cottingham settle in. The golden ribbon proved tough to cut at the grand opening of HOPE Plaza in downtown Salem on Friday, Aug. 16, 2024. After it was severed, an attendee joked it’s because they build things to last. (Abbey McDonald/ Salem Reporter) A lasting legacy Downing said that she feels relieved and excited that Carson Cottingham will be taking over the organization.Carson Cottingham began her career in survivor advocacy as a volunteer for a support hotline while attending law school in Vermont. Her career includes helming a nonprofit supporting older women, and working on the landmark Elder Justice Act addressing elder abuse.In Oregon, she served as the Director of the Office of Aging and People with Disabilities for the State of Oregon which oversaw programs like adult protective services and Medicaid. She implemented the state’s first centralized system for abuse management which tracks perpetrators across counties.For the past five years, her work in the state’s Office of Long-Term Care Ombudsman has focused on advocacy for older adults and people with disabilities living in long term care and residential facilities. She oversees 120 volunteers. She is also a member of the Salem-Keizer School Board.“I feel like my experience for the last close to 20 years really has been focused on fighting for vulnerable individuals, people who have experienced abuse and advocating at both a systems level, legislative level, but also directly for individuals who call with concerns or who are experiencing abuse,” Carson Cottingham said. She previously hadn’t worked closely with the Center for Hope and Safety beyond personally donating items. When a recruiter reached out to her and asked if she was interested in the position, she said she felt honored. To prepare for the role, Carson Cottingham completed 50 hours of advocate training with the organization. During the transition, there will be a few months of overlap where she’s looking forward to learning from Downing. “I think Jayne is a visionary,” Carson Cottingham said. “She’s just been so deliberate and careful with how she’s planned for the expansions over time. I hope to be able to follow in her footsteps and continue to ensure that all of the things that she’s built thrive, and that we can build on her success to serve even more people in our community.” Brennan said the staff has mixed feelings about Downing’s departure. Everyone will miss the longtime director, she said, but they’ve also met Carson Cottingham and are excited to have her lead. “I know that all of our staff wish her nothing but the best. We will be asking ourselves, ‘What would Jayne do?’ for, the rest of our careers,” she said. Luckily Downing won’t be far away. Hope Plaza’s emotional support dog, Maxwell, lives with her and still has about five years of work left in him before he’ll retire. “I have to drive Maxwell to work,” Downing said, and laughed. Jayne Downing and Maxwell, the emotional support dog at Hope Plaza. (Courtesy/ Sara Brennan) Contact reporter Abbey McDonald: [email protected] or 503-575-1251. 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