🏚️ A Day in the Life of a Homeless American: I Exist. You Just Don’t Want Me To.

4:58 AM I wake before sunrise—not from ambition, but because sprinklers don’t care about trauma. My blanket is wet. My back feels like punishment. I have 20 minutes before someone with a badge says I’m “loitering.” Which is wild, because I don’t remember ever being invited.

6:15 AM I pack everything I own into a squeaky grocery cart that rolls like betrayal. It’s 63 pounds of survival and zero pounds of dignity. People look at me like I’m the problem—but I’m just the symptom you keep voting around.

Someone jogs by and tightens their phone grip like I eat iPhones for protein.

7:32 AM I find a public restroom that hasn’t been locked "for security reasons." The sink works. The soap doesn’t. The mirror is cracked, which feels poetic. I wash my face in cold water and pretend it’s a fresh start. It’s not. But delusion is free, and I’m on a tight budget.

9:20 AM I sit outside a coffee shop and order nothing. They offer me hot water. I thank them like it’s a scholarship. I sip warmth and listen to two girls complain about a $4,000 Airbnb that didn’t have natural light. I haven’t seen natural light in a room since Bush was president.

11:45 AM A man gives me change. Doesn’t look at me. A woman gives me advice. Doesn’t hear me. A kid gives me a smile. It’s the only honest thing I’ll get today. I smile back and wonder if he’ll remember me when he learns how gentrification works.

2:00 PM Shelter check. Full. Next one opens at 4 p.m. Line starts now. I hear phrases like “we’re at capacity” and “we’re not a hotel.” What I don’t hear is: “We see you.” Because that would imply I’m human. And empathy has a line item on their budget.

4:38 PM I’m number 52 in a 40-bed shelter. That math doesn’t work. But neither does America’s housing policy. Someone cries quietly. Someone else jokes loudly. I sit and wait like hope’s on backorder. I feel my stomach grumble. It sounds judgmental.

7:12 PM Someone walks by and says “get a job.” Cool. Let me whip out my laptop, wireless connection, permanent address, clean resume, interview outfit, and enough serotonin to fake stability.

Or maybe I’ll just cry next to the outlet that doesn’t work.

9:30 PM I bed down under an overpass with six other ghosts. We don’t speak. We nod. That’s enough. We’ve learned communication through eye contact and trauma telepathy. I close my eyes and dream of silence. I get rats and regret.

🧠 USAYE Take:

Homelessness in America is not laziness. It’s not addiction. It’s not poor choices.

It’s eviction math. It’s a $400 emergency nobody prepared for. It’s mental illness in a country that thinks therapy is a luxury product. It’s capitalism’s fine print written in eviction notices and unlocked dumpsters.

You don’t see us because we make you uncomfortable. But discomfort is a luxury compared to what we feel.