After entering the system, Luis, the middle child, was placed with a family that was “highly educated” and “economically more than fine.” His younger brother was sent to a group home. His older brother, already 18, was left to fend for himself. Their divergence began almost immediately. Foster care gave Luis something his childhood had not: stability. For him, education became an anchor. “It was my safe space,” he said. “It was where I felt safe. I was fed. I built friendships that uplifted me. I had teachers that showed kindness.” He became the first in his family to graduate high school, then earned two bachelor’s degrees from the Barrett Honors College at ASU, and a master’s in public policy from the University of Michigan. His younger brother did not finish high school. Today, at nearly 30, he is often unhoused, often unemployed, contending with addiction and the same cycles of economic peril the entire family once shared. His older brother’s life is a similar struggle. “Every day I see that and am reminded that somehow I’m the one that made it, and that is both empowering but also profoundly sad,” De La Cruz said, his gaze drifting toward a bookshelf lined with photos. In one, his foster mother is attending his graduation. His foster family was there for those big moments — his graduations, his wedding, there to pick him up from college when summer arrived and the dorms closed — a quiet, constant presence that helped fill a gap he hadn’t known could be filled. “I understood very perfectly that I’m not special. I was just supported,” he said. “That’s it. I fundamentally believe that if my brother had been equally supported, his narrative today would be different. That is what drives a lot of the work that I do.” Before he returned to the world that shaped him, De La Cruz first had to conquer another. He was a transfer pricing economist at Deloitte, the global consulting behemoth. He was also a fellow at Meta in Silicon Valley, living the tech- shuttle, catered-campus dream. He saw how power worked, “the way that business and government dance together, or not,” he said. De La Cruz was successful and comfortable — living proof of the American Dream. But a quiet question persisted: Now what? The answer arrived with the birth of his first son, Mateo, at the height of the pandemic. Isolated in Chicago, with no family nearby, the world felt fragile. He and his wife, Nataly, whom he met at ASU, decided to move back to Arizona, a return to her family and to his foster “village.” The pull was twofold: a need for community and a reckoning with his past. De La Cruz’s childhood home. Luis, as a baby. Luis’s graduation, with his foster family and brother. 38 | FRONTDOORS MAGAZINE

“When I talked to my wife about leaving that to come do this,” he said, “her response was very clear. She said, ‘You can do whatever you want to do, but just remember that you have a child now, and when he asks what you do for a living and why, you better have a damn good answer.’” Today, he has his answer. At AFFCF, which serves nearly 4,000 children across the state every year, De La Cruz is creating solutions born from his own wounds. He is building what he wishes his younger brother had — a safety net that stretches beyond food and shelter into possibility and hope. The organization’s Keys to Success program aims not for Ivy League prestige, but for the essentials of self-sufficiency. “You need a baseline education,” he said. “You’ve got to be able to get and keep a job, and you’ve got to stay housed.” From there, dreams of being a doctor or a hairstylist or simply experiencing stability can take root. AFFCF’s scholarship program doesn’t just write checks for tuition. Recognizing that for foster youth, “the cost of a mistake is beyond quantity,” they created the Focus-Forward Fund. It is emergency funding for when a car breaks down or a utility bill comes due — the minor crises that can derail a life when there’s no one to call for a hand. “It works,” De La Cruz said, pointing out that the national college graduation rate for former foster youth is a dismal 3 percent. However, for youth in AFFCF’s program, the rate is nearly 70 percent. But De La Cruz refuses to measure success only in numbers. He talks instead about moments of joy — a backpack filled with new supplies, a scholarship check that keeps a student in school, a foster parent waiting at the curb when summer starts so that a child doesn’t have to face homelessness again. Under his leadership, the organization has nearly doubled the number of young people it serves. This is work that requires the entire community to engage, from the volunteers at a recent backpack drive to the major philanthropic partners that provide the fuel. He points to funders like BHHS Legacy Foundation as vital. “As a private foundation, without those dollars, we can’t do this work,” he said. “It enables us to do what we have got to do in the best way that we can, without having to navigate the challenges of strings being attached.” An example was the Backpack Buddies event AFFCF and BHHS Legacy Foundation held at Phoenix College last summer. There, hundreds of children received new backpacks, shoes, clothes and supplies to start the new school year. The location was no coincidence. Dr. Kimberly Britt, the president of Phoenix College, sits on AFFCF’s board and is an alum of the foster care system herself. Embracing a new direction. Sharing AFFCF’s mission. At this year’s Backpack Buddies clothing distribution at Phoenix College. FRONTDOORS MAGAZINE | 39