I'm at the library, sitting in a public work space on the 3rd floor. I can see the city to my right through a window that wraps around the curved side of the building, top to bottom. To my left is the grand interior of the library's open space that echoes and encases the din of voices and footsteps. There are a few others here, like me. Just a person looking for a space to work, to read, to make use of what the library has to offer. But more than anyone else, I'm among the unhoused.

They flood in as soon as the library's doors open, I followed shortly behind. This space is something else for them. It's a shelter from the cold, the heat, the wind. Here, there are comfortable chairs, there is light, there are bathrooms, there is a break from car noise and the smell of engine exhaust. There is the absence of so many judgmental eyes, only the occasional patron or library worker. That's not so hard to endure.

I sit here among them, typing on my laptop and sipping my coffee from my clean thermos while listening to music from my smartphone and thinking about how easily I could have become one of them. I was well on my way to being another nameless face whose eyes you make an effort to avoid. I was not far off from knowing the best ways to survive a winter without a roof.

I was homeless for a time, many years ago. That's what we called it, “homeless”. I've no issue with the term "unhoused", I appreciate the implication it's attempting. Being unhoused is typically something that happens to a person. Very few would choose the street. The privilege of shelter is lost as a consequence of many things, some self inflicted, some not. While I appreciate and take no issue with the term “unhoused”, the word may overly soften the harsh reality of the situation. I didn't choose to become homeless all those years ago, I was unhoused. However, the way I remember feeling was, unquestionably, homeless.

The feeling wore many costumes, wrapped about being homeless was unworthy, unwanted, victimized, deserving, foolish, unlucky, and even slightly fortunate on rare occasions. But underneath it all, was the great open space, the void living inside me I only knew as being homeless.

I don’t really know what to do with this dissonance, sitting here. Knowing the privilege I enjoy, knowing the unhoused deserve the same. I have a bed and a fridge and a car, but not the means to help all these people.

I’ll do the good I can and trust that little things accumulate to make a difference.