I’m witnessing something I was afraid would come to pass.
We’ve grown comfortable watching people lose their homes.
We scroll past posts about eviction.
We avoid eye contact with folks on the street.
We offer silence where sanctuary should be.
And even worse—some are justifying it.
Some of you think “we’re all struggling,”
but let’s be honest: many who say that are still
ordering delivery, getting their nails done,
buying prepared food while someone they know
has been washing clothes in a bathtub for a year
and eating once a day—just to stretch survival.
Let me be clear:
This isn’t about shaming people who have some comfort.
It’s about what we choose to protect when we have it.
When did we decide that survival was only sacred when it’s ours?
When did we start equating inconvenience with poverty?
This isn’t only about housing.
It’s about what happens to a society when we start measuring someone’s worth by their ability to “pull themselves up” in a system built to keep them crawling.
Here’s what I want to ask you—gently but truthfully:
When was the last time you paused and really considered someone else’s survival—not out of pity, but out of shared humanity?
What story have you told yourself about why people are unhoused or in need?
What would it cost you to care just a little more than is comfortable?
What if your voice, your access, your presence—was the lifeline someone else was waiting for?
This moment is asking us to remember each other.
To remember that housing is not a reward for performance.
It’s a right. A baseline. A portal to dignity.
If you’re housed—how might you use that position to protect someone else?
Not for praise.
Not for performance.
But because that’s how we undo what capitalism taught us:
That only some people deserve to be safe.
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