Thirtieth Anniversary Issue on Progress and Priorities in Direct Support

When people talk about national crises, they often focus on the moments that make headlines — the collapse of buildings, the rising floodwaters, and the images of chaos that come to define collective memory. Less often do we hear about what happens in the quieter spaces where people keep showing up for one another. For direct support professionals (DSPs), this is often where the real story begins.

In the days after September 11, DSPs in New York supported people with disabilities amid fear, confusion, and grief while trying to make sense of the tragedy. (The Institute on Community Integration documented these experiences in the film “We Watch the City: Stories in the Shadow of 9/11 ”). Many described how ordinary routines suddenly took on extraordinary weight. A familiar walk, a shared meal, and a simple conversation became a way to ground people in a world that no longer felt predictable. DSPs helped explain what had happened, answered difficult questions, and created calm when the city itself felt unsettled. What emerged from those accounts was not simply a story of professional responsibility. It was a story of relationships. DSPs spoke about the trust they had built with the people they supported and how, in many cases, that care flowed both ways. Some recalled being comforted by the very people they were there to support. In the uncertainty of those days, the relationship itself became a source of steadiness.

One third of the way down the page are the words: We Watch the City: Stories in the Shadow of 9/11. Half-way down the page is the New York City skyline at night, with two large light pillars glowing from the location of where the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center used to be. The light pillars are in the center of the photo and run under the words “Stories” and “In”.

On the lower fourth of the page are 4 images: 1) a side view of a man outside, with a gray and white beard, holding his left hand up in front of an American flag. He is wearing a black suite and light blue button-down shirt. 2) A side view of a woman looking up and to her left. She has short brown, curly hair, dark framed glasses, a gold hoop earring and a pink top. She is outside with trees in the background. 3) a side view of a man who is outside and leaning forward onto his walker. He has short black hair and mustache, and is wearing a deep pink polo shirt and tan cargo pants with a black belt. 4) Two people are outside looking away from the camera but at the New York City skyline during a bright sunny day, with blue skies and white puffy clouds. There is a body of water between the people and the skyline. The person on the left has short brown hair, and the person on the right has shoulder length reddish tight curly hair. There is a logo on the bottom left corner that reads: The College of Education and Human Development. University of Minnesota.

Four years later, Hurricane Katrina revealed the same quiet commitment on an even larger scale. (The Institute on Community Integration again documented DSP experiences, in a report and a documentary film ). As the storm approached New Orleans, DSPs worked quickly to evacuate people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, often with little guidance and few resources. Some drove for hours without knowing where they would find gas, food, or shelter. Others used their own money to pay for hotel rooms, meals, and emergency supplies when formal systems failed. Their decisions were rarely dramatic in the moment. Decisions were practical acts of care: making sure medications were packed, calming anxiety during long drives, and finding a safe place to sleep for the night.

After the storm, the challenges deepened. Many DSPs had lost homes or were separated from their own families. Some were living in temporary housing while working long shifts because so many coworkers had been displaced. Others took on far more responsibility than their job descriptions had ever imagined — tracking down prescriptions, coordinating transportation, helping people adjust to unfamiliar surroundings, and providing reassurance when almost everything else had changed.

Again and again, DSPs described doing what needed to be done, not because anyone was watching, and not because the work was financially rewarded in ways that reflected its importance, but because people were depending on them.

This is what these stories, separated by time and circumstance, make clear: direct support is built on something deeper than task completion or policy requirements. It is built on human connection, on trust earned over time, and on a sense of responsibility that does not disappear when systems fail.

That direct support has so often been underpaid and undervalued makes these stories even more striking. DSPs have long carried extraordinary responsibility with too little recognition and too few resources. Yet in moments of crisis, communities depend on their judgment, compassion, and presence. DSPs are indeed essential workers.

This DSP is lending her support with an arm around the shoulders of the woman she supports.

The lessons of 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina are not only about resilience. They are about recognition. They remind us that DSPs are essential to the strength of our communities and that the value of their work should never become visible only when disaster makes it impossible to ignore.

Today, that truth continues to be tested in Minnesota in a different kind of crisis. While Operation Metro Surge has officially ended and no longer draws the same public attention, immigration enforcement activity and workplace raids continue across the region. Reports of sudden detentions, heavily armed operations, and workers being taken with little warning have sent waves of fear through immigrant communities, including many DSPs who are themselves immigrants and many families who rely on their care. For DSPs, this has meant navigating anxiety about traveling to work, concern for family members, and the possibility that an ordinary day could suddenly become life changing. For people with disabilities who depend on consistent support, the potential loss of trusted staff brings its own uncertainty and disruption.

Tony Phillips showing his respect to those killed during the 9/11 attacks on the Twin Towers.

When DSPs are forced to navigate fear and instability, the effects ripple outward. Missed shifts, staffing shortages, and interrupted relationships can mean canceled routines, delayed care, and increased distress for people who rely on familiar support to feel safe and understood. Once again, DSPs are being asked to carry extraordinary emotional and practical burdens while continuing to provide steadiness for others.

The lessons of 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina are not only about resilience. They are about recognition. They remind us that DSPs are essential to the strength of our communities and that the systems people with disabilities rely on are only as strong as the workers who sustain them. Their value should never become visible only when crisis makes it impossible to ignore.