Five years ago, a beacon of hope rose on 300 East in Salt Lake City. It was called the Magnolia Apartments — a $17 million permanent supportive housing complex aimed at offering Utah’s chronically homeless population not just shelter, but dignity. With quartz countertops, city views, and private balconies, Magnolia was more luxury condo than transitional housing. The idea? Give people security first — and stability will follow.

That was the theory.

But according to both residents and policymakers, the reality inside Magnolia has become far darker, more chaotic, and in some cases, tragic.

“A Luxury Apartment with a Drug Problem”

Step inside Magnolia today and you’ll find scuffed hallways, broken doors, and a population largely unserved by the very “wraparound services” that were meant to accompany their new homes. I was invited by several tenants who described their living conditions not as safe havens, but as “drug dens with granite counters.”

Kelly Johnson, a former resident, told me she witnessed at least one murder and several drug overdoses. “They shot her up with heroin and robbed her,” she said of one tenant’s tragic fate. Another resident, Juanita, who spoke up about the drug use and violence, was evicted shortly after—residents allege for speaking out.

The staff? Some tenants claim they rarely intervene. “They take a lot of smoke breaks,” Kelly said. “And when someone dies, sometimes they’re not found for days.”

If these were isolated incidents, we might call them unfortunate anomalies. But they aren’t.

According to multiple sources, roughly 30 of the 65 residents have died since Magnolia opened in 2020 — many from overdoses. That’s nearly half the population.

“You Can Make Them Thirsty”

James Behunin, a retired legislative analyst and current member of the Utah Homeless Services Board, has been ringing the alarm bells on housing-first policy for years. He helped conduct an audit showing the glaring lack of accountability in how homelessness services are measured and funded in Utah.

“Federal policy says you can’t require sobriety to access housing,” Behunin explained. “But our governor says, ‘You can’t make them drink—but you can make them thirsty.’”

The phrase encapsulates a growing movement in Utah: coupling compassion with consequences. “We’re not doing anyone favors giving them a free apartment where they can continue using,” Behunin said.

He’s not alone in his concerns. Several board members have advocated for adopting the “Other Side Village” or “TOSA” model, where sobriety and work are prerequisites, not optional. These programs, while strict, have shown tremendous success — and even garnered praise from recovering addicts themselves.

A Tale of Two Models

In the current housing-first system, residents can receive free apartments with minimal requirements. In contrast, programs like The Other Side Academy require a 90-day detox and active participation in community-based work programs.

“I met a woman in St. George,” Behunin shared, “who was on the streets for nine years. We got her into a thrift store job, and now her grandkids visit her. She buys them gifts with her paycheck. It’s the best life she’s ever had.”

It’s not flashy, but it’s real progress. Compare that to Magnolia, where Behunin describes visiting and encountering a resident in a violent rage. “He was clearly suffering from untreated mental illness. He needed help, not just housing.”

That difference — housing vs. healing — might be the core issue.

Accountability Vacuum

What’s especially troubling is the lack of transparency. When asked how many residents are sober, how many are in treatment, how many have moved on to independent living — there are no answers. “We don’t have the metrics,” Behinin admitted.

And yet, funding continues to flow. According to reports, each Magnolia unit cost about $280,000 to build. And newer projects may surpass $330,000 per unit. At that cost, Utah would need over half a billion dollars to house just the current chronically homeless population — not counting services, maintenance, or treatment.

Which begs the question: are we measuring the right outcomes? Or are we mistaking buildings for progress?

When Compassion Kills

To be clear, no one is suggesting abandoning compassion. What many — including Behunin— are calling for is a smarter, more structured kind of care. A model where residents are given real tools to succeed: therapy, job training, security, and community.

Instead, what we currently have is a permissive model that too often results in overdose, decay, and death.

“This isn’t compassionate,” one viewer commented during our livestream. “It’s slow suicide in a shiny apartment.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but an essential one. Because while some residents might thrive in a housing-first model, others — particularly those battling severe addiction or mental illness — may need more guidance, not just keys.

As it stands, Magnolia offers no mandatory drug treatment, no 24/7 security, and very little daily structure. It’s a place where suffering people are placed in isolation and expected to heal themselves.

And when they don’t?

They die.

Toward a Better Future

There is hope. Behunin and others are working toward a “transformative campus” model — inspired by Haven for Hope in San Antonio and Nevada Cares Campus in Reno. The idea is a continuum of care: start with low-barrier shelters, then move residents through detox, work programs, and finally, permanent housing.

But this kind of system costs money — upwards of $25 million annually — and Utah legislators have yet to fully commit.

Still, Behunin is optimistic. “We’ve added a board seat for someone with lived experience. That’s a step in the right direction.”

Final Thoughts

We all want to help. No one’s arguing that. But helping requires more than handing someone a set of keys and hoping for the best. It requires structure, support, and yes — accountability.

Magnolia was built with love. But love, without limits, can become enabling. And enabling — as we’ve seen — can become deadly.

If we want to truly honor the dignity of Utah’s homeless, we need more than granite countertops. We need programs that work.

Otherwise, Magnolia isn’t a miracle.

It’s a mirage.