I. The Unbearable Weight

Mary J. Blige sings about damage so deep it changes how you let people near you. When I hear her voice crack on those lines about winter taking most of her heart, I feel it in my chest—not metaphorically, but physically. Because I know what it means when seasons become weapons.

How do you explain five years of homelessness to someone who’s never walked dark streets with nowhere to go? How do you make them understand why I can’t just “get over it” now that I finally have a hotel room, now that I finally have a job?

The pain runs deeper than anyone can see. Yes, things look better than they did last November when I was lost at night, walking aimlessly because sitting anywhere meant trespassing. But underneath? I’m still a mess. The damage doesn’t heal just because the immediate crisis passes.

People get impatient. They want me fixed now. They want the grateful, transformed version who has learned all the right lessons and can perform recovery on their timeline. But trauma doesn't run on a schedule.

The seasons didn't just pass; they became the framework of my despair.

• Winter took most of my heart—literally. The coldest nights, when I was grateful just for the gas station's light, when turning up the heat in a hotel room felt like a miracle I didn’t deserve.

• Spring punched me in the gut. Every time I thought I’d found a way forward—every job that didn’t work out, every bureaucratic catch-22 that left me in limbo between a property manager who needed program confirmation and a program that needed a signed lease first.

• Summer came looking for blood. The exhaustion that goes beyond tired. The way homelessness strips away your self-esteem until you can’t even sit next to people at work without wondering if you smell, if you look horrible, if they can see how broken you are.

• By Autumn, I was left with nothing—no confidence, missing teeth I try to hide, a body that felt like it was shutting down from constant stress.

The assumptions people make—that you're homeless because you're a drug addict, because you gamble, because you made bad choices—they don't respect what it actually takes to survive this. When even family won't help because they don't want to be seen as supporting your "lifestyle," when the system is designed to make escape nearly impossible, you learn that the world isn't safe.

I thought I was headed for heaven when I found that studio in Seminole Heights, with a program ready to pay for it. But the bureaucratic deadlock took me right back to hell—back to walking streets at night, back to having no place to go, back to the despair I thought I was finally escaping.

The damage isn't just psychological. It’s physical. It’s in my body, in my bones. Four-plus years of walking with hunched shoulders. Four-plus years of stress that destroys your immune system. Four-plus years of not having controlled light, chosen warmth, a door that locks.

It took a whole damn year just to get my body functional again. Except it’s been five years, and I’m not repaired. I’m surviving. I’m showing up for work and navigating the hour commute from Fletcher to Net Park. But repaired? No.

It’s going to take a long, long year for me to trust somebody. Trust that a property manager will actually lease to me. Trust that I won't lose this job. Trust that people see me as human rather than as a problem to be managed.

It’s going to take a long, long year for me to touch somebody—not physically, but emotionally. To stop performing the version of myself that convinces the world I’m worth helping. To stop apologizing for existing. To believe I deserve connection without having to earn it by being the perfect, grateful survivor.

Tonight I have shelter. Tomorrow I’ll navigate that commute. Eventually, when the bureaucratic catch-22 breaks, I’ll have keys to permanent housing.

But the seasons that broke me don't just disappear.

This isn't the triumphant ending people want. This is the truth: transformation is messy, recovery is slow, and some damage runs so deep it changes who you are forever.

But I’m still here. Still trying. Still refusing to let five bad years define what’s possible next.

That has to count for something.

What if the simple act of sweating became the loudest symbol of everything you're fighting against?

This afternoon, I wandered to the library—no particular plan, just searching for space to breathe. As the thermometer crept past 104°F, every drop of sweat morphed into a mirror reflecting my daily struggle living without a home.

I felt the sweat starting, and instantly, the questions circled my mind.
How do you show up as “presentable” when you can’t shower until late tonight? How do you explain to your new employer why you look the way you do on your first day? For most, hygiene is routine. For some of us, it’s a daily negotiation between society’s expectations and impossible circumstances.

I found myself pacing in brutal heat, waiting for the sweat to dry before entering—the kind of ritual that devours mental energy, highlighting struggles that shouldn’t even be struggles.

Living with chronic illness while homeless is what I call the “magnification effect.” Every ordinary experience is intensified, distorted through the lens of uncertainty and survival.

Even something simple—like taking a walk—becomes a calculation:

• How long before shelter is needed?

• Where could I clean up?

• Will people judge me today?

Most people never have to count these mental steps. It’s draining in ways almost impossible to explain unless you’ve lived it.

Does the same day feel different if you’re not also mentally and physically stretched thin? Would the heat just be heat, not another trial layered atop many others?

There’s a special sharpness in knowing you have a new job, but you show up compromised by circumstances out of your control—sleep deprivation, limited access to basic facilities, the weight of financial constraints.

Your self-esteem erodes. Not because you don’t care—but because sometimes, caring isn’t enough when the system isn’t built to accommodate your reality.

Resilience isn’t just “bouncing back.” It’s showing up, sweat-stained and imperfect—and refusing to disappear. It’s recognizing that the smallest wins—making it to the library, getting through another day, choosing hope over despair—all count.

Stigma is real. Judgment exists.
But so does the community—people who understand and see beyond circumstance to the person.

This story isn’t for pity; it’s for dialogue. Homelessness, mental health, chronic illness—these are more common than most admit. Silence helps no one.

What if more of us approached these struggles with curiosity instead of judgment? What if we saw the person first, circumstances second?

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