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I support a number of clients – individuals, couples and families – who are experiencing homelessness. Like so many others in this field, I entered this work because I care deeply about people and community.
I recognise that many of those I support have been dealt difficult cards, through circumstances entirely beyond their control, that make it far harder to “succeed” in modern society.
While the core objective of my role is to help people secure housing, the reality is far more complex. I’m also managing risk, safeguarding and, at times, talking people off the ledge. It’s gut-wrenching to witness people you’ve come to care about, people you’ve built trust and connection with, in profound distress… grappling with suicide, violence, grief and loss.
Appropriate housing is increasingly out of reach. Too often, I find myself urging someone to accept an offer of housing that I know isn’t right for them because it might be years before they get another chance, and that next offer could be even worse. It’s a brutal choice that fails them and, in many ways, it fails me too.
When I came into this work, I genuinely wanted to help people. I’ll admit I was naive to the structural complexity and deep-rooted nature of homelessness.
Homelessness rarely exists in isolation – it’s almost always entangled with other forms of marginalisation: untreated mental health conditions, criminalisation, substance use, poverty, systemic racism, family violence. These forces push people further and further to the margins, making the path to stability, let alone thriving, tremendously difficult.
I support a number of clients – individuals, couples and families – who are experiencing homelessness. Like so many others in this field, I entered this work because I care deeply about people and community.
I recognise that many of those I support have been dealt difficult cards, through circumstances entirely beyond their control, that make it far harder to “succeed” in modern society.
While the core objective of my role is to help people secure housing, the reality is far more complex. I’m also managing risk, safeguarding and, at times, talking people off the ledge. It’s gut-wrenching to witness people you’ve come to care about, people you’ve built trust and connection with, in profound distress… grappling with suicide, violence, grief and loss.
Appropriate housing is increasingly out of reach. Too often, I find myself urging someone to accept an offer of housing that I know isn’t right for them because it might be years before they get another chance, and that next offer could be even worse. It’s a brutal choice that fails them and, in many ways, it fails me too.
When I came into this work, I genuinely wanted to help people. I’ll admit I was naive to the structural complexity and deep-rooted nature of homelessness.
Homelessness rarely exists in isolation – it’s almost always entangled with other forms of marginalisation: untreated mental health conditions, criminalisation, substance use, poverty, systemic racism, family violence. These forces push people further and further to the margins, making the path to stability, let alone thriving, tremendously difficult.
Many of the people I work with have experienced complex trauma that stretches back to childhood. I’ve heard stories I can’t even bring myself to repeat. Accounts of severe abuse, unimaginable loss and systemic neglect – things that no-one should have to survive.
If you’ve been through anything like this and are reading these words, I want you to know: I see you. And I’m so sorry.
Working in this sector is nothing compared to the experiences of the people I support, but I won’t pretend this work hasn’t taken a toll on me. Holding the emotional weight of others, day in and day out – especially within the confines of a broken system – has left me depleted. I worry that, if I stay too long, I might become too broken to be of help to anyone, including myself.
Because it’s not just about holding trauma. It’s the system itself that wears you down. Something is profoundly wrong when we have to turn people away at their lowest point, tell them there’s nowhere for them to go, no bed available, no housing option on the horizon. Delivering bad news to people in crisis again and again is heartbreaking. Being unable to offer anything practical, just witnessing someone’s pain and saying “I’m sorry” is spirit breaking.
Still, the people I’ve worked with have given me so much. They’ve taught me, challenged me, humbled me. All I want – for them and for every person experiencing homelessness – is a safe place to call home and equitable access to the services they need to survive and heal.
I still hold hope. Hope for deeper investment in services that prevent and respond to family violence – for both victim-survivors and those using violence. Hope for accessible and sustained mental health and support for alcohol and other drug use. Hope for meaningful pathways for people exiting prison so they’re not released into homelessness. Hope for a system that doesn’t just manage people’s suffering but truly supports them to recover and belong.
Many of the people I work with have experienced complex trauma that stretches back to childhood. I’ve heard stories I can’t even bring myself to repeat. Accounts of severe abuse, unimaginable loss and systemic neglect – things that no-one should have to survive.
If you’ve been through anything like this and are reading these words, I want you to know: I see you. And I’m so sorry.
Working in this sector is nothing compared to the experiences of the people I support, but I won’t pretend this work hasn’t taken a toll on me. Holding the emotional weight of others, day in and day out – especially within the confines of a broken system – has left me depleted. I worry that, if I stay too long, I might become too broken to be of help to anyone, including myself.
Because it’s not just about holding trauma. It’s the system itself that wears you down. Something is profoundly wrong when we have to turn people away at their lowest point, tell them there’s nowhere for them to go, no bed available, no housing option on the horizon. Delivering bad news to people in crisis again and again is heartbreaking. Being unable to offer anything practical, just witnessing someone’s pain and saying “I’m sorry” is spirit breaking.
Still, the people I’ve worked with have given me so much. They’ve taught me, challenged me, humbled me. All I want – for them and for every person experiencing homelessness – is a safe place to call home and equitable access to the services they need to survive and heal.
I still hold hope. Hope for deeper investment in services that prevent and respond to family violence – for both victim-survivors and those using violence. Hope for accessible and sustained mental health and support for alcohol and other drug use. Hope for meaningful pathways for people exiting prison so they’re not released into homelessness. Hope for a system that doesn’t just manage people’s suffering but truly supports them to recover and belong.
Elections never bring anything good for people engaged in the system.
The thought of spending any time in close contact with Jonny sets my heart racing – and not in a good way.
Each court attendance made me feel sick to my stomach with nervousness as rich strangers decided my husband’s fate – and our future.
Education is not regarded as the most significant risk factor for reoffending but there is an undeniable link between a lack of education and crime.
Help keep the momentum going. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
Help us get About Time off the ground. All donations are tax deductible and will be vital in providing an essential resource for people in prison and their loved ones.
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