10/07/2026
Yesterday, I drove a friend to an appointment in Seattle. The streets and buildings brought back memories of searching for people I love who were living unhoused in Seattle’s International District.
I remember the uncertainty. Not knowing what I would find, or whether I would find them at all. I remember walking into places that terrified me, searching anyway because someone I loved might be there. I also remember the strong smell of urine, seeming to follow me every step. At times, it felt almost suffocating. Yesterday, those memories came back, and I could feel them in my body again.
Closer to home, I hear the frustration from people who work, own businesses, and gather near places where people are struggling on the streets. They are afraid. They are tired. They want to walk to their cars safely, without stepping over needles or wondering what might happen.
Those concerns are real. Compassion does not require us to pretend otherwise.
And I feel deep compassion for the people living on those streets.
For those of us who love someone struggling with addiction or mental illness, the feelings can be painfully complicated. We love the person. We hate the chaos. We miss who we remember.
Sometimes we feel anger toward them, too, because of what we have lived through alongside them.
Love, fear, grief, and exhaustion can all exist in the same heart.
I was homeless as a child. I know what it is to be young and vulnerable, without a safe place to land. I know what it is to feel like a problem instead of a person.
And I am coming up on 36 years sober.
That sounds like a long distance from the street. Sometimes, though, the distance feels very thin.
I worked hard for my recovery. I also know I did not get here alone. People showed up. Help became available. Something in me kept going when I did not know how.
Grace, luck, timing, support. I cannot untangle all the things that helped me survive.
I still wonder why some doors opened for me while people I love kept finding theirs locked.
I do not have an answer.
But I wonder how many of us truly know who we would become if the hard things in our lives kept piling up.
If the grief did not stop. If the trauma began before we had words. If our body hurt, our family disappeared, and the rent came due. If the thing that brought relief also began destroying us.
What would we need then? And what would happen if we could not find it?
Safety matters. Accountability matters. We need boundaries, and we need real responses to harm.
We also need to remember that the person causing pain may be carrying pain we cannot see.
Before we decide someone is worthless, I hope we pause long enough to remember their humanity.
When something shatters, there are sharp edges. We have to protect ourselves and one another from those edges.
But broken does not mean worthless.
May we make room for compassion and empathy, even when the truth is complicated. Especially then.
These complicated feelings are part of why I created Something’s Shattered, a support circle for people who love someone facing homelessness, mental illness, or addiction.
It is a place to find companionship, settle your body, and have room for what you are carrying.
We meet Wednesdays at 6:30 PM at the North Whidbey Center for Wellbeing. Message me with questions or for details. You are welcome.
