Early last year, Xaz Willcuts, 33, thought she might go on using fentanyl and methamphetamines for the rest of her life. She had been homeless for almost a decade and doubted whether any place would take her in. Shelters throughout San Diego County are often full, and the region has long struggled t o supply enough detox beds for those needing more medical care. Officials are making strides on those fronts, but progress can be slow. When Willcuts’ boyfriend told her that they could leave their tent and move into a house — an actual house in a quiet residential neighborhood — she didn’t think much of it. Then Willcuts walked through the front door. “I realized it was a really great opportunity and I didn’t want to mess it up,” Willcuts said in an interview. “That’s when I quit.” Heather Newhart, 61, currently oversees two homes for people with nowhere else to go. (Nelvin C. Cepeda / The San Diego Union-Tribune) In 2024, a longtime outreach worker and substance abuse counselor named Heather Newhart, 61, began renting a six-bedroom, single-story house in the College Area. She got access to a second large home around the same time and offered the bedrooms to people with nowhere else to go: Homeless residents, former prisoners, the newly sober. Newhart’s now got four other houses lined up and ready to open once staff are in place, which would bring the total number of beds to 82. “You gotta have a place to call home — you can’t do it on the street,” Newhart said. “Someone’s gotta give these people a chance.” California law makes it easy to turn residential homes into small, sober-living spaces. This can lead to tension with neighbors. Several years ago, one City Council meeting in Lemon Grove nearly turned into a shouting match when residents objected to the fact that a local house was taking in people leaving prison. (City leaders responded that they had little jurisdiction over the matter.) A man in Oceanside once told The San Diego Union-Tribune he’d been surprised to learn that a neighboring home was actually a tiny rehab program. It made him nervous. Sandra Acosta, 57, shares her soup with Nancy Jaques, right, Kaeyla Bryant, left, and Bryant’s toddler Evana. (Nelvin C. Cepeda / The San Diego Union-Tribune) Staffers and residents in the College Area houses are hopeful that the rules they have in place will allow everyone to feel like just another group of neighbors. On a recent Thursday afternoon, more than a dozen people were inside the first home. Two women lay under blankets in bunk beds. Many sat in the living room. A thick binder by the entrance broke down who was in charge of what chore, a process that appeared to be working: The kitchen was clean, the carpet unmarked and the bookshelf organized. The loudest noise may have come from a 1-year-old girl who was happily drumming her hands on a chip container. Residents said they had come from sidewalks, prison, safe sleeping sites, the “E Street trolley station.” One had been clean for 50 days. Others were at the 9-month mark, a year, a year-and-a-half, six years. A woman noted that the biggest adjustment to staying in a house had been realizing that her belongings were no longer in constant danger of being stolen. As a result, she’d stopped sleeping in her shoes. Julie Jordan, 45, checks on her dog, Koa, who sleeps next to her bed. Jordan is a lead resident who helps manage one of the homes. (Nelvin C. Cepeda / The San Diego Union-Tribune) A key part of the endeavor is connecting those inside with services. Newhart, the organizer, nodded toward a man with a history of addiction. “We need to get you PCP,” she said. The man’s eyes widened. “PCP?” “Primary care physician,” Newhart clarified. The man’s body relaxed. Newhart filed paperwork with the state in 2024 to start a nonprofit called People’s Advocacy Voices and Education, or PAVE, partially to collect donations for the houses. The federal government granted the group tax exempt status the next year, according to records shared with the Union-Tribune. PAVE is new enough that leaders have not yet filed public tax forms. Newhart said she’s kept the effort afloat largely by draining her retirement savings. She and the staff are volunteers, Newhart added, although each site has a live-in manager who’s given free housing in exchange for watching over the place. Heather Newhart, center, speaks with residents at one of her two emergency group homes in San Diego on Feb. 12, 2026. (Nelvin C. Cepeda / The San Diego Union-Tribune) Most tenants pay rent on a sliding scale. Whiteboards hanging in the houses note that several people are using their own money. Some receive support from outside groups like the McAlister Institute, a substance abuse treatment organization. Additional agencies that work with homeless residents are similarly involved. A spokesperson for the city of San Diego confirmed that both city outreach workers and the Police Department were in touch with Newhart about her open beds. The project has faced its share of problems. Early on, Newhart discovered that a tenant was selling drugs out of one of the houses. She kicked him out, took all the doors off their frames and searched the place, staffers said. There’s also the constant tension about how much grace to give. Lawrence Harris, 49, was an early resident who then left and relapsed. When he was later arrested, Harris wanted officers to call Newhart, thinking she would quickly take him back in. Instead, Newhart told the cops to put Harris in jail. That initially made him mad. But he ended up getting clean again and recently celebrated a year of sobriety. Newhart eventually made him a house manager and PAVE’s director of outreach. “When I look at my resume now, I want to cry,” Harris said. Heather Newhart hugs Vincent Oliveri, 33, who has been living in one of her homes for the past several months. (Nelvin C. Cepeda / The San Diego Union-Tribune) His story was echoed by others. One woman said she’d repeatedly tried to return to the streets, but every time she left a PAVE team seemed to find her. “When you’re homeless, a lot of people offer to help,” said Paul Marahrens, a 57-year-old house manager. “But they don’t, and then you think everyone’s full of (expletive). But Heather wouldn’t go away.” ...read more read less