It’s often said that the only two certainties in life are death and taxes. But listening to recent public comments from residents at Salt Lake County meetings, you start to wonder if those two things are becoming more closely related than anyone would like to admit. Several seniors recently stood up and warned that rising taxes are pushing them toward financial desperation. Some said plainly that if property taxes continue climbing, it could shorten their lives.

That might sound dramatic, but it reveals a deeper anxiety spreading across Utah right now. For seniors it’s taxes. For young families it’s housing. And increasingly, the two issues are colliding in a way that raises a troubling question: can Utahns still afford to raise families here?

On a recent visit to the Utah State Capitol, a Utah mother named Kristen Andres delivered a message that captured the problem more clearly than any policy speech from a legislator. Andres, who has six children, told lawmakers that families across Utah are quietly giving up on the idea of having larger families because housing costs have become impossible to manage.

Six kids used to be typical in Utah. Today it feels almost unimaginable.

According to Andres, her inbox is filled with messages from parents who are doing everything right. These are not people living recklessly or beyond their means. They are dual-income families with steady jobs. They went to school. They followed the path society told them would lead to stability.

Yet they still can’t afford a home close to work.

One grandmother told Andres that her children and grandchildren now live nearly an hour away because it’s the only place they can afford. Another mother wrote that every night she sits down with a calculator trying to decide what to cut next—groceries, kids’ activities, or something else. Families are stretching budgets in ways they never imagined they would have to.

And the most striking part of the story is that these situations are not isolated.

This is happening across Utah.

If you talk to people raising families in places like Moab, the situation becomes even clearer. Parents who grew up there say their own children have no chance of staying. The average home price in Moab has climbed to roughly the same level as neighborhoods like Sugar House in Salt Lake City—around $600,000. In a tourism economy where wages rarely keep up with housing prices, that number might as well be a million.

When housing costs climb that high, families don’t simply adjust. They leave.

Young adults delay marriage. Couples postpone having children. Some move out of state entirely.

Utah has long prided itself on being one of the most family-friendly places in America. Large families are woven into the culture, regardless of religion or background. Even people who are not members of the LDS Church often talk about growing up surrounded by cousins, siblings, and neighborhood kids. That environment shaped communities where children were part of everyday life.

But affordability threatens that identity.

When families cannot afford homes near their jobs, the daily math becomes brutal. Commutes stretch longer. Childcare costs pile up. Mortgages consume more of a household’s income. The result is what economists call “house-poor” families—people who technically own a home but have almost nothing left over to live on.

The obvious question is: why isn’t this being fixed?

The prevailing belief in government circles seems to be that housing problems must be solved by government programs funded with more taxpayer money. The idea is that the state will build “deeply affordable housing” through public funding and subsidies.

But that approach raises an uncomfortable reality.

The same political and development systems that helped create the housing shortage often place themselves in charge of solving it. In Utah’s legislature, many lawmakers are closely tied to the development industry. When housing policy is discussed, the solutions frequently revolve around large projects that require public funding, zoning approvals, and significant developer participation.

That doesn’t necessarily mean corruption. But it does create a system where the incentives are not always aligned with simple, fast solutions.

And there are simpler solutions.

One of them involves Accessory Dwelling Units, often called ADUs. These are small housing units built on existing residential lots—tiny homes, basement apartments, or small structures attached to a primary house. They connect to existing utilities and infrastructure.

For landlords or property owners, building an ADU could dramatically increase the supply of small, affordable rental units.

In some parts of the country this has already become common practice. But in many Utah communities, strict zoning rules prevent it unless the homeowner lives on the property. That restriction alone eliminates thousands of potential housing units that could be built quickly and relatively cheaply.

Modern prefab homes make the idea even more realistic. Companies now produce compact housing units that can be installed for a fraction of the cost of traditional construction. With modest incentives or tax credits, many property owners would likely build them.

But the regulatory barriers remain.

The second solution is even simpler: allow tiny-home communities through new zoning categories.

Zoning laws control what types of buildings can exist on certain land. In many areas, those rules prohibit high-density housing even when the land could easily support it. A new zoning category could allow clusters of small homes on parcels larger than two acres. Individuals could purchase a small plot and build modest housing rather than competing for expensive traditional homes.

Tiny homes are not for everyone. But for young adults, first-time buyers, or retirees, they could offer an affordable entry point into homeownership.

The main obstacle is not construction technology. It’s zoning.

Local governments often resist higher density because of neighborhood concerns—what planners call NIMBYism, short for “Not In My Backyard.” Residents worry that additional housing will change the character of their neighborhood or increase traffic and congestion.

Those concerns are real. But they must be weighed against another reality: when housing supply is artificially restricted, prices rise until only the wealthiest buyers remain.

The consequences ripple across the entire state.

Teachers move farther away from the communities they serve. Young professionals delay buying homes. Families with children struggle to stay in the neighborhoods where they grew up.

Eventually, the culture of a place begins to shift.

Utah has built a reputation as a place where families thrive. But reputations alone do not pay mortgages. If housing affordability continues to decline, the state may gradually lose the very thing that made it unique.

That’s why voices like Kristen Andres matter.

Her message at the Capitol wasn’t a technical policy analysis. It was something simpler: a reminder that the housing crisis is not just about real estate markets or zoning maps.

It’s about whether young couples feel confident enough to start families.

It’s about whether grandparents can live close enough to watch their grandchildren grow up.

And it’s about whether Utah will remain a place where families can put down roots without doing financial gymnastics every single month.

None of these problems are impossible to solve. But solving them requires honest debate, new ideas, and the willingness to challenge the systems that created the shortage in the first place.

If that conversation doesn’t happen, the quiet decisions families are already making—waiting, postponing, leaving—may slowly reshape Utah’s future.

And by the time policymakers notice, it might be too late.

Public debate should be open. The investigative reporting behind Utah Stories is supported by our members.