Every time I tell someone “I used to be homeless…” I’m met with the same slanted head and sympathetic eyes I saw every time I told a teacher I didn’t have my homework again. It feels like a second coming out, a blunt reminder of the omittance of unhoused peoples from our communities and conversations. Does it come as a shock to you that I have penetrated your bubble of protection? These walls are thin, and the streets you have paved outside stretch further than these halls. Do I seem different to you now? Do my problems hold a new weight or validity in your eyes? My pain is no more relevant than it was when I lacked a bed of my own. Do they matter to you now that I can shower before I tell them to you? Do you have an affinity for my suffering now that I’ve penetrated your social circle with privilege? Will you still listen to my screams if I fall back to where I crawled from to finally be heard by you? The first year of having my own space, I found myself carrying the guilt of abundance with me everyday. I thought of my friends back home who still lacked that same security, the frozen bodies being picked up the morning after a cold night outside. Why did I get a home, what made me worthy? Was it how I talked, what I said, what I wore? What more did I have that granted me life, safety, comfort, and security. What would I do with these privileges? I remember when I first moved in I almost gave the spare room I had to someone I met in the storage locker I had my belongings in, he was living in the shelters, and I was telling him I finally had found a home. The only reason we met was because I left my locker open and when I came back upstairs with the rest of my things I saw him standing there admiring my work, he told me it was important, beautiful, and encouraged my efforts. I knew he understood what I hoped to do with my time, my hands, my life, my work, he saw me, because he knew my reality, I didn’t have to meet him before now to know the man, I had met him before, and I’m sure I’ll meet him again, I gave him what I could and gave him my number, we kept in contact as long as I could afford to, I hope he found home too. I remember dropping him off with an extra $20 to go get a dime bag from his dealer, a temporary escape, from the lack of autonomy he carried. When you live on the streets your idea of consent changes drastically, for it is violated every second of your existence, I think I’m still learning what that looks like for me. I never would have imagined that on a day of both mourning, and celebration, I would be thrown so rapidly into a past I thought I had left behind with the spit of one drunk stranger. I think I forgot that no matter how far away I may stray from the unhoused and hurting time in my life, there is no escaping bad things. There is nothing I can do to protect myself or the ones I love from the harshness of reality. I will hurt, this is unavoidable, no matter what I do, I will lose loved ones but rather than prolonging the inevitable, I shall welcome the suffering at my door with open arms, for I have room for him now. These works, writings, paintings, sketches, and screenshots are living proof, that I have learned how to finally welcome all that I once avoided. The inevitable pain that comes from being a person. My pain is a person and he no longer scares me like he once did before, and I welcome the lessons he brings, and the reminder that I am alive, that I can be hurt, and I can heal. This is how I grow and I will no longer shelter myself from the sun out of fear of that he might be waiting outside my door. He may scream, shout, yell and tell you, “You are undeserving! You are unworthy, and you are incapable of love.” Listen to him, he’s only trying to protect you, and prevent you, from seeing his face again. He is there to help you, despite the hurt he brings. He is a necessary and beautiful part of being alive and human, and it is privilege to have him in your life. He if your reminder that unfortunately, you are not alone, and to welcome your monster, means to learn how to offer a seat to others too. You deserve the company of others, I assure you. I promise they’ll come, just open the door, feel the sun, put out a hand, and you’ll find love. Thank you for coming to my door. May I have the privilege of coming to yours soon.