I attended the Bylaw 530 public meeting on August.18th and listened to the perspectives of many Salt Springers and although I am in favour of Bylaw 530, I empathized with points on all sides. The one speaker that I found most moving was a tiny little girl. Her mom shared that she decided on her own accord to share. She spoke so clearly and articulately of her need for a home.

After the meeting and much reflection, I realized that what was missing from the meeting, save for the little girl, were our stories. Too often are people's lives reduced to numbers and statistics. Our stories are what connect us, what build empathy, and most importantly what help us recognize the nuance of issues that seemingly divide us. Division that is so often fostered by fear and also so grounded in similarity. As people, we have much more in common than we like to think. It is often the blessing of young minds that reminds us to be open, curious, and most importantly, to listen.

So, thank you, Meadow. I was inspired by you. Although I am terrified of public speaking, I want to share some of my stories.

As background, professionally, I have worked in shelters and the antiviolence industry for the last four years. I could give statistics on the correlation between short and long-term negative health outcomes and homelessness but I think that the voices and experiences of those affected by homelessness speak much louder than numbers.

I think back about my own mom, who if not for the ability to find a safe home to take us, would have never been able to leave her abuser. I think about the long-term impacts that prolonged abuse has had on myself and my brother. Twenty years later, I am grateful every day that we were able to leave.

I think about the parents and children across this island who I have worked with who do not have that privilege. Something that shouldn't be a privilege is the ability to have a safe home to go to.

I think about the friends that I have had here, many of whom were/are long-term residents, who were forced to leave the island, couch surf, rent exorbitantly priced air bnbs, or sleep in their tents or vehicles, all the while working full-time jobs. I think about the time I spent living in a tent while working full-time on Salt Spring and when my partner and I had to make the decision to leave. I remember feeling like we failed.

I think about people who have shared that they have had bottles thrown at them, fireworks blown into their trailers or tents, or rocks thrown through their camper windows. All because they don’t have anywhere else to go.

I think of friends with children, who have had to move and the ripple effects those disruptions have on their families and ultimately the health and vitality of our community.

I think about the many people that I have worked with at the shelter, many of whom also had full-time jobs in the community. I think of those unable to work as a result of complex trauma or disability, and their dreams of a safe place to heal and flourish. I am reminded that our value as integral members of a community should not be contingent on how much or how little we work. We all contribute in unique and important ways.

I think of the women that have had to endure coercive sexual violence because there are no other options for housing. I think about my own experiences that have put me in similar positions.

I also think of the faces of those lucky few who have found housing. The relief and then the joy.

I think about my own face when three years ago a good friend offered a suite to us after we tried living here for many years. I am reminded of the impact that a safe and affordable place has had on my life.

I think about how for the last three years, I have been welcomed back into an incredible community. A community that has the capacity to show that environmental sustainability is not mutually exclusive to our capacity to care about human flourishing. I believe that we can have both.

I have written this as an invitation to share our stories.