I'm writing this from a hotel room. Not the kind you book for vacation - the kind you get placed in when you've been homeless for 18 months and a rapid rehousing program finally comes through. St. Vincent de Paul gave me this chance, and I'm holding onto it with everything I have.
Two weeks ago, I completed training at a new job. They moved me into what they call "nesting" - that phase where you're finally doing the real work, not just learning about it. I showed up every single day, even when I didn't know where I'd be sleeping next month. Even when the weight of uncertainty made it hard to focus on customer service scripts and company policies.
The hotel room is temporary. The job is new. Everything feels suspended between the life I've been living and the life I'm trying to build. But in this in-between space, I keep coming back to what actually carried me through the hardest moments.
Two things: the people who showed up with genuine hearts, and the books that spoke to something deeper than survival.
The Books That Stayed With Me
When you're living in a shelter, you learn fast what matters enough to carry. Space is scarce. Every item has to justify its weight in your backpack. Most things get left behind.
But certain books - I couldn't let them go. They became more than paper and ink. They were companions when I felt alone. Teachers when I felt lost. Windows into something beyond the immediate struggle of where I'd sleep or how I'd eat.
I'm not talking about self-help books or inspirational quotes. I'm talking about texts that seem to reach into a place you didn't know existed inside yourself. Books that make you feel more awake, even when exhaustion is your constant state.
Even now, in this hotel room between one life and another, those books sit beside my bed. They remind me that transformation isn't just about changing circumstances - it's about what happens inside us while the circumstances shift.
Reading With Intention Changed Me
Here's what I discovered through these 18 months: how you read matters as much as what you read.
Sitting on a shelter bed at night, exhausted and uncertain, I'd open one of these texts. Not to escape - though God knows I wanted to escape plenty of times. But with a real desire to grow. To understand. To connect with something greater than the chaos of housing instability and poverty.
And something would shift.
There's this force - some traditions call it the "Surrounding Light" - that begins working on you from the inside when you read with genuine intention. It's like tuning into a frequency that was always broadcasting, but you finally adjusted your receiver.
I've felt it on shelter beds. In borrowed spaces. In motel rooms where I didn't know if I'd have enough for another week. And now, in this hotel room after work shifts that leave me drained but determined.
The intention you bring creates the conditions for real transformation, even when - especially when - everything around you is unstable.
Something Happens When You Read Together
As powerful as reading alone has been, I've experienced something even more profound when reading with others who share the same intention.
Picture this: sitting with people who understand the journey. Everyone holding the same text. Everyone reaching toward the same light. Not analyzing or debating - just opening your hearts together, creating this unified field of intention.
I've felt this in small groups, in temporary spaces, with people who became more than friends - they became spiritual family. In those moments, the boundaries between us blurred. The connection became palpable. Something previously hidden revealed itself.
This is what I'm building toward again now. The hotel room is a step. The job is a step. But the real goal is creating space - literally and spiritually - to gather with others in this way.
What Actually Matters
Through all the moving, all the uncertainty, all the nights wondering if things would ever stabilize - I've come to see something clearly.
In our spiritual lives, there are really only two things: the environment and the texts.
The environment is the people. The friends who see you when you're invisible to the world. The souls who journey alongside you when you have nowhere steady to stand. The case worker at St. Vincent de Paul who believed in me enough to help me get this placement. The supervisor at work who gave me a chance despite my unstable housing situation. The fellow seekers who never made me feel less-than because of my circumstances.
The books are the map. The wisdom of those who've walked this path before us. The voices that speak truth when everything else is noise.
Everything else? It's just noise. The endless complications that keep us circling at the surface instead of diving deep.
When I strip away all the uncertainty and struggle, what remains is beautifully simple: gather with sincere people, read texts that carry genuine wisdom, and do both with pure intention.
You Don't Need Perfect Circumstances
You don't need a temple. You don't need stability. You don't need your life to be figured out.
I've done this in shelters. In motel rooms. In borrowed spaces. Now in this hotel room between lives. You just need a few things:
A text that resonates with your soul. Trust what calls to you. The books I carried through 18 months of instability chose themselves - I couldn't leave them behind even when space was scarce.
At least one other person who shares your desire for genuine connection. Even two people reading together with aligned intention creates something powerful.
Commitment to sincerity. No pretense. No spiritual performance. Just genuine seeking. When you're exhausted from a work shift and uncertain about tomorrow, pretense falls away naturally. What remains is real.
Consistency. Twenty minutes weekly with full presence beats marathon sessions that fade away. I've learned this the hard way - sustainability matters more than intensity.
The Change Isn't Dramatic
No lightning bolts. No visions. At least not for me.
But over time, you notice something shifting.
Completing two weeks of work training while living in temporary housing. Showing up every day even when I didn't know where I'd be sleeping next month. Feeling less trapped by old patterns of fear and reactivity. Making it through moments that would have broken me a year ago.
These aren't miraculous transformations. They're the gradual work of that Surrounding Light, dissolving the hard shells around your heart, opening pathways you didn't know existed.
It connects you - to yourself, to others, to the infinite. And that connection becomes the foundation for everything else.
Where I'm Going
Right now, I'm in transition. The rapid rehousing program gave me this hotel placement. The job moved me from training to nesting. These are real, tangible steps toward stability.
But I carry a bigger vision.
I want to establish or fund a non-profit that helps others break free from homelessness and poverty. Because I know intimately what it's like to need stability. To need community. To need a space where genuine spiritual connection can happen - not despite our circumstances, but through them.
I want to create environments where people can gather with sacred texts and open hearts. Where housing instability doesn't mean spiritual isolation. Where someone completing their second week of work while living in a hotel can still access the texts and community that transform from within.
Where we lift each other up, one soul at a time.
The vision is clear. The path is emerging. Each step - this hotel room, this new job, this moment of sharing my story - is part of building toward that reality.
What I'm Asking You to Consider
In a world pulling us constantly outward - toward more information, more distraction - spiritual reading calls us inward. And doing it together transforms solitary seeking into shared revelation.
Find your book. Find your people. Bring your genuine intention.
See what light begins to surround you.
Even in hotel rooms. Even between lives. Especially then.
If this resonates with you, if you've felt that same pull toward something deeper, please consider supporting this journey.
Your contributions help me move from temporary housing to lasting stability - and ultimately toward creating a non-profit that will do the same for others. Right now, I'm balancing a new job with rapid rehousing assistance, working toward permanent housing while building the foundation for something bigger.
Every bit of support helps bridge the gap between where I am and where I'm going. Between survival and stability. Between receiving help and being able to extend it to others.
Thank you for being part of this journey. Thank you for seeing what's possible, even in the in-between moments.
If this one stayed with you, you might also like:
When the Hotel Becomes Home: Threshold Magic and Housing Justice