Where I'm Coming From
My Story
I've been without stable housing since I was 21. But if you'd seen me back then, you probably wouldn't have known.
Before I had the van, I would walk to work every single day and walk home every night. I'd set up my tent after dark and take it down before anyone was up in the morning. I didn't want anyone to notice. I just kept showing up, kept working, kept moving forward.
At some point I tried to make it work with my parents. I did everything they asked — everything. I completed Salvation Army programs. I got clean off alcohol. I don't smoke weed. I don't do drugs. I tried to be exactly who they needed me to be.
It still wasn't enough. They wouldn't let me stay.
“I did everything they asked. I got clean. I completed the programs. It still wasn't enough.”
I've been couch surfing or living in my van since I was 21 years old. I'm 33 now. That's twelve years of figuring it out on my own — finding safe places to park, stretching a few dollars as far as they'll go, staying out of trouble, staying human.
I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm telling you because it's the truth, and you deserve to know who you're helping. I've done the work. I've put in the effort. I just haven't caught the break yet.
Through all of it, my dog has been with me. He doesn't care where we sleep. He's just there — steady, loyal, asking for nothing except to be together. That matters more than I can explain.
I'm not looking for handouts — I'm looking for a chance to get back on my feet.