When Asking Questions Becomes the Problem

Personal Dispatches — November 10, 2026
Kelowna, British Columbia

There’s something particularly exhausting about having to fight for the things that should never have been a fight in the first place.

A place to sleep.

A safe place to charge a phone.

A wheelchair.

A little dignity.

And, apparently, the right to ask questions without becoming a problem.

Tonight, I’m sitting in a motel room, preparing to move to another motel tomorrow. My back is in considerable pain. My mobility has deteriorated, and the simple business of packing my belongings has become something I genuinely don’t know how I’m going to manage.

But at least I have somewhere to go tomorrow.

For seven nights.

After that, the uncertainty begins again.

And somewhere in the middle of today’s chaos, I found myself thinking about Turning Points Collaborative Society.

Not because I particularly wanted another confrontation.

But because the history matters.

And because sometimes the paperwork tells a story that deserves to be heard.

A Place Called Richter Street

I arrived at the Richter Street emergency shelter in Kelowna on May 22, 2026.

The shelter was operated by Turning Points Collaborative Society, an organization providing emergency shelter, outreach, and housing-related services to people experiencing homelessness.

There were good people there. Staff who cared. Residents who looked out for one another. Moments of genuine humanity in an environment where very little was easy.

I’ve written about those moments before.

The gardens. The artwork. The conversations. The strange little community that develops when people who have lost so much find themselves sharing a roof.

I haven’t forgotten any of that.

But I haven’t forgotten the other things either.

The Medical Necessity of an Electrical Outlet

Before I ever arrived at Richter Street, I explained my electrical requirements.

Not once.

Three times.

I explained them again during intake.

And I reminded staff individually after I arrived.

I use an iPhone running Loop, an automated insulin-delivery system that communicates with my insulin pump and continuous glucose monitor.

That phone is part of my diabetes management.

Keeping it charged isn’t simply a matter of convenience.

My battery packs provide backup power so that I can maintain the system when electrical outlets aren’t available.

I was told that these medically necessary charging requirements could be accommodated.

And initially, they were.

Staff allowed me to charge my battery packs in the office.

It was a practical arrangement that protected equipment I depended on and avoided leaving valuable electronics unattended in communal areas.

Then someone decided that arrangement could no longer continue.

Suddenly, there was a policy.

Suddenly, what had previously been accommodated became a problem.

And suddenly, I was the person being portrayed as difficult for continuing to ask for something I had explained before admission.

The Power Bar

The proposed alternative was to use the electrical outlets near my bed.

There was a problem with that.

The receptacle was so worn that my charger would not remain securely plugged in.

I was asked to bend the prongs on my charger to make it fit.

I wasn’t prepared to damage a relatively new charger, particularly one I relied upon for medically necessary equipment.

I suggested a much simpler solution.

A power bar.

Something inexpensive, perhaps ten or fifteen dollars, that could provide a more practical charging arrangement.

Instead, the situation became another disagreement over what I was permitted to do.

Those photographs document the electrical arrangement and equipment involved. They cannot independently establish the condition of the receptacle, but they show the physical circumstances surrounding the dispute.

The Collaborative Support Agreement

On June 3, 2026 — the day after my birthday — I was presented with a document titled Collaborative Support Agreement.

Its opening description of the issue was:

Continuance of wanting staff to charge battery pack in office after being told that we cannot accommodate due to policy.

That was the organization’s characterization of the situation.

Mine was considerably different.

I had disclosed a medical requirement before arriving, received assurances that it would be accommodated, and experienced an arrangement that initially worked.

The agreement stated that my bed would be moved to a location with electrical outlets above it, allowing my devices to be charged.

It also instructed me to use those outlets and outlets in common areas to maintain sufficient battery power for diabetes management.

The document even suggested that staff could remind me to keep my battery packs charged.

Think about that.

The organization acknowledged, in writing, that the battery packs were necessary for my diabetes management.

Yet the issue was framed around my continued requests for staff assistance, rather than the difficulty of maintaining reliable, secure access to electricity.

I wasn’t asking someone to charge my phone because I wanted to watch YouTube.

I was trying to maintain the technology I use to manage a chronic medical condition.

The Problem With Charging in Common Areas

There was another reason I was uncomfortable leaving battery packs charging in communal spaces.

Theft.

Not some hypothetical possibility.

A legitimate and frequent occurrence.

During the months I spent at Richter Street, I lost more than $600 worth of various belongings to theft.

I even filed a police report.

Nothing was recovered, and I received no meaningful resolution.

In that environment, leaving valuable battery packs unattended was not a reasonable solution from my perspective.

Those batteries were not disposable conveniences.

They were part of how I kept my diabetes management equipment operating.

If someone stole them, replacing them would cost money I didn’t necessarily have.

And the consequences could extend beyond the financial loss.

Yet the written agreement treated charging in communal areas as an acceptable alternative without addressing the theft concerns that made me reluctant to use them.

What I Saw Happen to Other People

My concerns about Richter Street were not limited to my own experience.

I witnessed people being put out of the shelter in the middle of the night.

Two in the morning.

Three in the morning.

Four in the morning.

People being sent outside without even being given a coat or access to their personal belongings.

Those are incidents I personally witnessed.

I am not claiming that every discharge happened that way, nor am I claiming to know every circumstance behind those decisions.

But I know what I saw.

And I know what it means to be vulnerable, exhausted, and suddenly told that the place where you’ve been sleeping is no longer available to you.

There are legitimate reasons why shelters need rules.

There are legitimate safety concerns involving staff and residents.

But the existence of rules does not eliminate the obligation to treat people humanely.

Especially when the consequences of enforcement may be exposure to the elements in the middle of the night.

A shelter is supposed to be a place of safety.

That responsibility shouldn’t disappear when someone is told to leave.

When Asking Questions Becomes the Problem

I have never claimed to be an easy person to silence.

I ask questions.

I document things.

I challenge explanations that don’t make sense.

And when someone tells me something is policy, I tend to ask what the policy actually says.

That can make people uncomfortable.

But discomfort is not misconduct.

Nor should a person’s willingness to question an institution automatically become a reason to dismiss their concerns.

I understand that shelters have responsibilities to protect the privacy of residents and staff.

I take those responsibilities seriously.

But privacy and accountability are not mutually exclusive.

An organization can protect vulnerable people while still being answerable for how it exercises authority.

And someone who has lived inside a shelter should not lose the ability to speak publicly about their own experiences simply because those experiences are uncomfortable for the organization involved.

And Then Came the Voicemail

At 4:39 p.m. on November 10, I received a voicemail from a woman identifying herself as Candace, a manager of community programs at Turning Points who oversees its shelter hub.

I had requested a referral to the organization’s rapid rehousing program at Okanagan Seasons.

Her message explained that Turning Points needed to protect the privacy of its staff and clients.

She then referred to what the organization described as a previous violation of its shelter privacy policy during my stay at Richter Street.

Because of that alleged violation, she said its facility-based programs were not an option for me.

The organization would, however, continue to offer outreach support while I searched for market housing.

For immediate shelter, she suggested contacting Kelowna Gospel Mission or Cornerstone.

Those suggestions were particularly frustrating.

Kelowna Gospel Mission had already discharged me from its Bay Avenue shelter following a dispute over my wheelchair use.

Cornerstone had also been identified to me as unable to accommodate my wheelchair.

These were not unexplored possibilities.

They were part of the same exhausting referral cycle I had already been navigating.

The voicemail establishes Turning Points’ stated reason for excluding me from its facility-based programs.

What it does not explain is precisely what conduct constituted the alleged privacy violation, what evidence supported that conclusion, or whether my current disability-related needs were considered when deciding that I could not access those programs.

Those are reasonable questions.

And I intend to keep asking them.

A Referral Is Not a Destination

One of the most frustrating features of homelessness is the endless circulation of referrals.

Call this organization.

Try that shelter.

Speak to this worker.

Submit another application.

Wait for another callback.

Sometimes those referrals lead somewhere.

Sometimes they lead straight back to a door that has already been closed.

I have spent months explaining my mobility limitations, my medical needs, and the barriers that prevent me from safely using certain facilities.

Yet I continue to be directed toward services that have already indicated they cannot accommodate me.

At some point, the question becomes unavoidable.

What is the practical value of a referral when the person making it knows, or could reasonably establish, that the destination cannot meet the individual’s needs?

It may demonstrate that someone made an effort.

But it does not necessarily produce shelter.

And shelter is what I need.

Not another telephone number.

The People Who Have Helped

I don’t want this dispatch to become another account of institutions without acknowledging the people who have made a genuine difference.

Friends have offered rides, helped with errands, checked on me, and tried to find practical solutions.

People I barely know have reached out.

Others have contributed to my GoFundMe campaign, sometimes when I know they have very little to spare themselves.

Those contributions have helped keep a roof over my head during a period when I had no confirmed shelter placement.

To everyone who has contributed, shared my writing, offered practical assistance, or simply taken the time to listen:

Thank you.

I mean that.

The assistance has mattered.

And it has reminded me that there is a difference between sympathy and solidarity.

Sympathy recognizes that someone is struggling.

Solidarity does something about it.

The Morning After the Night Before

Tomorrow, I have to leave this motel.

I have another room booked for seven nights.

That’s progress, even if it comes with a price tag I can barely manage.

My back is sore enough that packing feels like a major undertaking.

My wheelchair needs to be transported.

My belongings need to be gathered.

And I still have to figure out how to get through the next week without another crisis consuming whatever energy I have left.

Tonight, I am tired.

Not just physically.

I’m tired of explaining why I need a wheelchair.

Tired of explaining why medical equipment needs electricity.

Tired of explaining why leaving valuable belongings unattended in a shelter where theft is common might be a bad idea.

Tired of being referred to places that have already said they cannot accommodate me.

And tired of the suggestion that asking difficult questions somehow makes me the difficult person.

But I haven’t forgotten the good people at Richter Street.

I haven’t forgotten the residents who shared what little they had.

I haven’t forgotten the staff who genuinely tried to help.

And I haven’t forgotten the people who were put outside in the middle of the night.

Their stories matter too.

Maybe that’s the point of Personal Dispatches.

Not to pretend that every institution is entirely bad or every individual entirely good.

But to document what happens when the decisions made by institutions collide with the lives of the people who depend on them.

Sometimes the consequences are small.

Sometimes they’re enormous.

And sometimes they’re recorded on a piece of paper dated June 3, 2026.

The day after my birthday.

A document explaining why a person managing diabetes needed to stop asking staff to charge a battery pack.

Six months later, I’m still asking questions.

And I’m still looking for somewhere to live.

Personal Dispatches — Kelowna, British Columbia