Homelessness often doesn’t start with one catastrophic event. Instead, it starts with a series of events — maybe the first whisper of layoffs at your company, your first drink, your first late notice on your electric bill, or the first moment of panic when you realize that you can’t afford to pay your rent. I think most of the people that make it on the street realized at some point that this was where they’d end up. Some of them gave up when they saw the inevitable. Others fought until the very end.
In my case, I knew I was always teetering towards the edge. As a teenager, I was a foster kid turned teenage runaway. I should have ended up on the streets in that moment — and I knew too many people that did — but I was fortunate that my then-boyfriend’s sister lent me her couch. I ended up renting a room from my ex’s family, who let me stay with them even when my ex’s infidelity cost us our relationship. It wasn’t until my ex’s inability to cope with the living situation led him to drugs and alcohol (and eventually, a year long prison sentence) that I left.
When I was 18, I saved money from my minimum wage job for my first major investment: a 1996 Mercury Sable station wagon. I bought it off Craigslist…
