The Night That Sparked the Flip

Kids playing basketball at The Midnight Mission’s transitional housing facility—capturing the energy and connection that inspired Flip4Good.

On Tuesday, January 31, 2023, I signed up to volunteer at an event called “Be a Kid Again: Game Night with The Midnight Mission’s Youth.” I wasn’t sure what to expect. I just knew I loved volunteering and was confident I could hold my own at board games.

The event was hosted at The Midnight Mission’s transitional housing facility. I had heard of The Midnight Mission before, but I had never heard of a transitional housing facility. I Googled to learn more.

Before I go further, let me back up—because where this happened is just as important as what happened.

Transitional housing facilities provide interim housing for people in periods of major transition. Think: families exiting domestic violence and human trafficking, individuals recovering from substance use, people reentering after incarceration, or working to stabilize after a housing crisis.

Every facility is different in the populations it supports and how its programs are structured. Some offer shorter-term stays. Others are longer. Most fall somewhere between 9 and 24 months. And they’re not easy to get into. Transitional housing programs have rigorous application processes. They’re looking for people who are committed to doing the hard work it takes to rebuild—emotionally, financially, structurally. 

While residents are there, they receive wraparound services: case management, therapy, job readiness training, financial literacy support, and access to education and healthcare. And their progress is tracked. Many are evaluated against 90-day milestones, and if milestones are not met, residents risk losing their spot. It’s not a shelter. It’s a scaffold. It’s a place to build from.

OK. Back to that night.

I showed up and was immediately nervous. A heavy metal gate marked the entrance, and it was dark out. I hesitated for a moment, unsure what was on the other side. But once I got inside, the energy completely shifted.

The basketball court was alive. Kids were playing soccer and jumping rope. I got pulled into shooting baskets with a group of boys who were clowning me nonstop because I cannot shoot a basketball to save my life. We were running, laughing, trash-talking. There were kids of all ages, speaking Spanish and English, jumping between games and groups. 

After a while, we moved into one of the apartment units and broke into smaller groups to play games. My group landed at the dining table playing Uno. I was fully convinced I was dominating. The kids were clearly not playing by the rules, but I let it go (yeah, I was shocked too). But alas, we were having fun, and I tried to convince myself I wanted them to win.

That’s when the space around me started to register.

I looked around while pretending to focus on my cards. The dining room light above my head was a harsh, cold white. The walls were white-ish or beige-ish and mostly blank. The furniture was mismatched—technically a “set” because there was a couch and coffee table, but nothing about it felt chosen. The carpet was badly stained. Across from me, the kitchen glowed under a fluorescent ceiling light that felt more like my gynecologist’s office than a home. The bedrooms were dark and bare.

I want to be really clear: this is not a criticism of The Midnight Mission. What they offer is vital. Everyone I met that night—kids, parents, volunteers—showed up with joy, kindness, and generosity. This wasn’t about effort or care.

It was the environment. I couldn’t stop noticing how uncomfortable I felt in the space. Something about it just didn’t sit right, and I didn’t have the words for it yet.

As I sat there, I kept thinking:

Does it feel hard to settle into a space like this?

Is this what “home” is supposed to feel like in transition?

Or do the families here just feel grateful for a roof and try not to ask for more?

But even if they feel grateful for a roof, is this what they think they deserve?

You’ve got to understand. I’ve spent more than 20 years in experiential marketing. And the crux of that is creating environments that make people feel something. Seen. Energized. Curious. Connected. That instinct kicked in. My brain lit up with all the changes I’d make.

Then game night was over.

I left feeling heavy. The energy of the night stayed with me, but so did the space. I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might feel like to wake up there every day.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at my desk at home, and the idea came to me, clear as day. Call it God, the Universe, whatever you believe in:

You’re going to redesign transitional housing facilities.

You’re going to do it for free.

I remember looking up at the ceiling, as if God would be looking back down at me—and yes, surrounded by a glow—and I blurted out, “Um. OK.” It had been about seven months since I’d quit my job. I wasn’t chasing the next thing, or anything, really. I was listening. And then that one little line from the magical podcast echoed in my head: when the student is ready, the teacher appears. This had to be it. Gulp.

I didn’t have the language yet. Not for trauma-informed design. Not for any of it. I just had this sense that I could use what I knew—how to plan, how to build, how to shape space, how to serve—to help someone feel held, even for a moment.

Oh, and BTW—the name came in those same moments that followed.

Flip4Good.

Not just what we’d do, but why we’d do it.

One word. One movement. One mission.

This was bigger than furniture or throw pillows. It was about creating something that would last.

I checked the domain. It was available.

So were the social handles.

I claimed them all.

That same day, I registered a DBA.

Everything Flip4Good is now started that night—at a dining table in an apartment surrounded by Uno cards, kids, and a feeling I couldn’t unsee.

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