I started a new job this week. That should be a celebration, right? A fresh start. A new beginning. All the things people say when they’re trying to convince you that everything’s going to be okay.
But here’s what they don’t tell you: sometimes you’re rebuilding from ground so unstable you can barely stand on it.
I’m showing up. Professional. Present. Doing the work. And every night, I’m calculating where I’ll sleep. No apartment. No savings. Not even enough for a motel room to get one night of real rest before I have to perform competence again.
You know what’s wild? I can barely cry anymore. Not because I’m strong—but because I don’t have enough water in my body to waste on tears. That’s what homelessness does. It strips you of everything, even the ability to grieve.
This isn’t a plea for pity. It’s a truth-telling. A glimpse into the gap between homelessness and housing—the one people assume is just a matter of time and effort. But that gap is measured in sleepless nights and survival math: Do I eat today or save money for transit? Do I find somewhere safe to sleep or stay awake and hope exhaustion doesn’t sabotage the job I just started?
I sent an email to a landlord, making my case for why I deserve a shot at her studio. I laid it all out: the resilience, the work ethic, the proof that someone who’s stayed productive under these conditions will protect that housing with everything they have. Now I wait. Still homeless. Still working. Still holding it together with nothing to hold onto.
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to start a new job while unhoused—it’s this. Showing up with no place to return to. Maintaining professionalism on zero sleep. Doing mental math for survival while trying not to collapse.
I’m not asking for rescue. I’m asking for recognition. For someone to see that betting on people in this position isn’t charity—it’s investment in someone who’s already proven they can build from nothing.
The studio might not come through. The job might not be enough. I might not make it through this transition. But I will keep showing up. Keep building. Keep believing that circumstances don’t define possibility.
If you’re in a position to help—through my Buy Me a Coffee campaign, through sharing this post, through housing connections—I’m not too proud to ask. The gap is measured in days now, not weeks.
And if you can’t help materially, then just witness this. Acknowledge that this is what transformation looks like before it becomes a success story. This is the part nobody talks about—the part where you’re doing everything right and it’s still not enough, and you keep going anyway because stopping isn’t an option.
I’m still here. Still building. Still believing this darkness is temporary—even when I can’t see the light yet.
👉 www.buymeacoffee.com/adontaimason
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