If I were to thread moments of my life together, they’d weave the blanket that led me here.
I never felt like I had a home. The foundation of one’s life; where we begin and establish our identity, a place so normal and readily available for others, was not so obvious to me.
On the outside, we lived in houses. We ate dinners together and traveled together. But the four walls where safety and dreams weave together to give you a solid future, in my house, were protecting lies and abuse.
I only felt comfortable when I slept in my grandmother’s bed. A space so healing that taking a quick nap could alleviate any symptoms of a common cold.
Or as a young adult in my early 20s, when I’d visit my grandfather and sleep on his couch. I’d wake up and he’d grin at me and say, “I don’t know why you say you can’t sleep. I’ve sat here and watch you not move for 14 hours.”
“I think this is the only place I feel safe. Because I get no sleep back home.”
In 2008, I was raising my daughter alone and we lived in an apartment. We were happy there. I was working at Build a Bear, my brother who was 14 at the time, would watch my daughter while at work.
On a day off, I went to hang out with my brother at my mom’s house. When I came home later that day, there were cops in the parking lot.
I went to my apartment and the door was open. I walked in and stepped over a broken magnet – one of my favorite – it was of Winnie the Pooh hugging Piglet. I could see there was blood on it.
Glancing into my kitchen, I could see all the contents of my freezer had been pulled out and tossed on the floor.
I went back to the cops and told them what I had found in my apartment. They explained to me that one of the residents had kicked in the doors to a few apartments, one being mine. He was looking to, “kill a single mother and her kid.”
He actually hung around my neighbor, a single mother with a daughter the same age as mine.
He broke into her apartment and stole a knife. She wasn’t home so he kicked in my door.
BY THE GRACE OF GOD, we weren’t home either.
The layers of divine protection that day is staggering.
First of all, the fact that instead of staying home on my day off, we left.
Secondly, that my kid and baby brother weren’t there because I was (supposed to be) at work.
Thirdly, that I was actually scheduled for work that day! I Iooked at the schedule wrong. My brother and daughter were supposed to be there.
That night, I was afraid to stay there because my door wouldn’t close. I went to stay at my mom’s house.
It wasn’t the most comfortable place to be. Mostly because I was relegated to sleep on an old couch, covered in dog urine and colored by years of stains and dirt.
I was scared, grieving and needed solace.
Unfortunately, I was in an environment that made me feel further victimized, because I was still scared and the arms that held me smelled of years of neglect.
Instead of having a moment of peace, I was stressed.
It was that moment that I decided that I wanted to give back to victims of random acts of violence. A safe place for them to eat a nice dinner, and lay their heads.
The man who broke into our apartments was ultimately apprehended that day, because he kicked in the door where 5-6 young people shared the apartment.
They were able to clobber him and subdue him until the cops came. None of them were hurt, and they saved others from further harm.
I had nothing to offer, but I went and bought them all ice creams. A small, humble token of gratitude.
So I also wanted to be able to give back to heroes. Something, small, but important.
Catalina House was born. Only a dream. But something I felt deeply called to do.
The name originated because I envisioned an actual house with rooms and me cooking for guests in the kitchen. Catalina after my great grandmother who I always felt protected me.
Through various painful events throughout my life, it was no wonder I was always searching for home. I could never shelter within my own four walls. Internally or externally.
A safe place. Four walls that would hold me, my fears, my dreams and my secrets. A soft place to lay my head. A warm blanket.
A place where I’d feel protected.
I never dreamed, a fortune teller couldn’t predict it, I wouldn’t have believed that I’d find home, at a homeless shelter.
I’m broken hearted to depths I can’t explain, how stigmatized, marginalized, and dehumanized that homeless people are treated.
Especially homeless women.
Furthermore, when women end up on the streets, they are more likely to end up dead, they perform sexual favors in exchange for a blanket or a meal.
Patriarchy and misogyny at its finest that this system is being monetized and very little is actually being done to solve the problem.
But that is another essay.
When I moved out of the shelter, I swore to do whatever I could to give back to the women of the shelter where I lived and healed for eight months.
I’d devote the rest of my life to defending and protecting homeless women.
I started a simple fundraiser, to get everything we’d need to have BINGO night, an event at risk of going away when new management took over.
I was successfully able to raise money for a BINGO game, a voice amplifier so that the numbers being called would be easily heard through the dining hall. We had prizes donated and the first night we were fully back was a huge, happy event!
But I was so inspired by the support and encouragement I received, that Catalina House went from a far off dream, to a reality.
When I lived at the shelter, I would bead friendship bracelets and hand them out. I’d knit hats on a loom.
I made a hat for one of my housemates and when she put it on she said, “You can feel the love.”
And Catalina House was renamed to the, “Feel the Love Foundation.”
And my whole life made sense.
People have lost their foundation when they end up homeless. It’s so much more than what statistics say; there are roots that no one talks about or acknowledges.
Homelessness begins in a person’s foundation. A place where trauma is birthed and natured, instead of love and stability.
The problems that would arise at the shelter were similar to those in my own life.
When you enter the shelter they give you sheets and a 50×60 wool blanket. The blanket isn’t enough for some who get colder easier.
When you move to the dorms they give you new sheets and an actual comforter. But i recently heard they’ve taken those away.
I need to look into that.
Warmth is particularly important to me in a literal and metaphorical sense.
My parents always bought one of my brothers, blankets. My mom would crochet blankets. She crocheted me a beautiful sunflower blanket. It took her more than 20 years to complete it, not out of busyness or laziness, but apathy.
When she finally gave it to me, it unraveled.
Not even a metaphorical unraveling of everything she couldn’t actually offer me: warmth, support, protection.
It was literal.
So with Feel the Love, I want to offer homeless women, hope, joy, and love. I want to help them heal their trauma, feel love and get in touch with their inner child. I want to help them feel protected, wanted and worthy.
My inner child longs to laugh and play with theirs.
I want to offer these things to anyone who crosses my path.
But to homeless women first, because they are grossly underserved.
And I hope to do this by being able to provide BINGO nights. Making sure they have blankets and beanies, socks and stuffies, deodorant, mascara and eyelash glue.
I want to renovate their kitchen so that they have a cafeteria style dining hall.
Eventually, my dream is to end homelessness in Washoe County.
I envision a self sustaining community, much like Black Rock City. I see solar paneled tiny homes, a community garden, pool and center where residents can be as involved or not as they want.
I dream of a space, where they feel seen, valued and cherished. A place where people can play again, heal, and maybe, get back out in the world.
Quite simply, I want them to feel the love.
Visit Feel the Love Foundation’s Instagram here:
