A Bed Is Not a Destination
November 2, 2026 — Kelowna, British Columbia
There’s something profoundly exhausting about having to prove, over and over again, that you’re a human being.
Not that you’re homeless. Not that you’re disabled. Not that you’re entitled to special treatment.
Just that you’re a human being.
I’m writing this from Kelowna General Hospital. After losing my shelter placement on October 22, I spent a brief period in a hotel. My chronic pain was worsening, and with ongoing concerns about my spine and foot, I had no other practical way to fast-track the physical assessments I needed.
So here I am.
Waiting for medical assessments, waiting for social work, waiting to find out where I’m supposed to go next.
And I’m angry.
Although, strangely enough, not nearly as angry as I think I should be.
Because after months of navigating shelters, healthcare, government services and the endless bureaucracy surrounding homelessness, I’ve begun to recognize something deeply disturbing.
We’ve normalized circumstances that should never have become acceptable.
And then we blame the people experiencing them for failing to cope gracefully.
This isn’t primarily a story about diabetes, disability or a wheelchair.
Those are parts of my experience.
This is about what happens when people lose their housing, their independence and the ordinary ability to make decisions about their own lives.
And what happens when society decides they must have done something to deserve it.
I’ve Been in Good Shelters. I’ve Been in Bad Ones.
I’ve experienced more than one emergency shelter.
Some have been considerably better than others.
I’ve eaten meals that were excellent. Plentiful, nutritious, varied food that was better than what I could often afford when I was housed.
I’ve also encountered food handling practices I considered appalling.
I’ve stayed in places where cleanliness was clearly a priority and others where basic sanitation raised serious concerns.
But even in the better places, cleanliness could only accomplish so much.
We’re talking about buildings that were often never designed for people to live in.
Warehouses. Industrial spaces. Temporary facilities pressed into service because somewhere had to be found to put people.
Buildings that were already worn out, or that became worn out under the demands placed on them.
You can scrub the floors.
You can disinfect the bathrooms.
You can clean the walls, empty the garbage and do everything possible to maintain the building.
And the staff responsible for that work may be doing an excellent job.
But you can only make something so clean, so comfortable and so acceptable when the space was never suitable for the purpose in the first place.
A clean warehouse is still a warehouse.
A temporary emergency facility doesn’t become a home simply because people have been sleeping there for months or years.
And when those temporary arrangements become the long-term reality for people who have nowhere else to go, the limitations of the buildings become part of everyday life.
I’ve met staff who were compassionate, thoughtful and willing to go well beyond their job descriptions.
And I’ve encountered staff whose conduct I found unnecessarily controlling or dismissive.
There are genuinely good people working in these places, often under difficult circumstances.
But whether the food is excellent or terrible, whether the building is maintained as well as possible or falling apart, whether the staff are kind or indifferent, one thing remains remarkably consistent.
You surrender an extraordinary amount of control over your own life.
When you wake up.
When you can lie down.
When you can eat.
Where you can sit.
Where you can store your belongings.
Whether you can charge your equipment.
When you can access your bed.
Whether you can rest when you’re sick.
These are decisions most people make without thinking.
When you’re homeless, they become matters of institutional permission.
It’s Not About the Fucking Butter
Here’s an example so ridiculously small that people will probably laugh at it.
Butter.
I wanted one little portion of butter for a piece of banana bread.
I was told I couldn’t have it because butter was only available if it had been put on my plate.
Seriously.
Butter.
And I remember thinking, what about the twenty other portions of butter I never took? What about all those meals when I didn’t want any?
I wasn’t asking for twenty.
I wanted one.
For one piece of banana bread.
Now somebody reading this will undoubtedly say, Oh, for God’s sake. He’s complaining about butter now.
And that’s exactly how these conversations go.
People find the smallest detail they can ridicule and use it to dismiss everything surrounding it.
It’s not about the fucking butter.
It’s about having so little control over your life that even the smallest request becomes a negotiation with someone who has the authority to say no.
Can I have a sandwich?
Come back in five minutes.
Can I lie down? My back hurts.
Not right now.
Can I charge my equipment?
You’ll have to ask someone else.
Can I have some butter?
No. It wasn’t on your plate.
Individually, these things sound trivial.
Add them together.
Day after day.
Week after week.
Month after month.
Now add the lack of privacy, uncertainty about where you’ll sleep, the risk of losing belongings, the paperwork, the unanswered telephone calls and the knowledge that challenging the wrong decision might cost you your bed.
Then tell me it’s about butter.
Homelessness isn’t one incident. It’s thousands of small losses of autonomy, dignity and control.
And the people who haven’t experienced that accumulation are often the quickest to dismiss it.
The Things You Don’t Realize You’ll Miss
I wrote previously about Things I Miss.
Not extraordinary things.
Ordinary things.
The freedom to decide when to go to bed. To make something to eat without asking. To sit quietly somewhere without wondering whether you’re permitted to be there.
The ability to close a door.
To leave your belongings where you put them.
To have a bad day without having to explain it to anyone.
To simply exist without somebody else’s schedule determining what you’re allowed to do next.
Those things don’t seem particularly important when you have them.
They become extraordinarily important when you don’t.
And that’s one of the things people misunderstand about homelessness.
It isn’t simply the absence of a roof.
It’s the absence of the countless ordinary freedoms that make a place feel like home.
A shelter can provide a bed, food and warmth.
Those things matter.
But they don’t automatically restore the independence that disappears when someone loses their housing.
You Should Be Thankful
You should be thankful.
Thankful you have a bed.
Thankful somebody feeds you.
Thankful there’s a shelter willing to take you.
Thankful. Thankful. Thankful.
Apparently, gratitude is supposed to make everything else acceptable.
You should be thankful for shit on a plate.
Thankful when food is handled in ways that would never be tolerated in a restaurant.
Thankful when your belongings disappear.
Thankful when you’re exhausted but can’t lie down.
And you certainly shouldn’t complain.
Because you’re homeless.
Because somebody is doing you a favour.
Because having nowhere else to go apparently means accepting whatever you’re given.
But gratitude isn’t surrender.
I can appreciate an excellent meal, a clean bed and a worker who treats me with kindness.
And I do.
But gratitude is not consent to mistreatment.
Having nowhere else to go does not mean having nothing worth protecting.
When Losing Your Home Becomes a Moral Failure
One of the most disturbing things about homelessness is how quickly people assume they know why someone is homeless.
They must have made bad decisions.
Spent their money irresponsibly.
Used drugs.
Refused to work.
Been lazy.
Done something.
Because surely people don’t just lose their homes.
Except they do.
People get divorced.
People become ill.
People lose jobs.
People develop disabilities.
People become caregivers.
People experience family breakdown, unaffordable housing and financial circumstances they never imagined facing.
And sometimes people leave abusive relationships.
Think about that.
We tell people experiencing intimate partner violence that they deserve safety.
That they shouldn’t have to endure abuse.
That they have the right to leave.
And they do.
But what happens when leaving means becoming homeless?
What happens when someone must choose between remaining in a dangerous relationship and entering a system where they may lose their privacy, independence and control over everyday life?
I’m not suggesting those experiences are equivalent.
I’m asking why escaping one dangerous situation can mean entering another form of insecurity.
What kind of society tells someone they deserve to escape abuse, then offers them so little stability that leaving may mean surrendering much of their autonomy?
And then judges them for becoming homeless?
Sometimes losing housing is the consequence of trying to survive.
Sometimes it’s the consequence of doing precisely what society told someone they should do.
Well, Why Don’t You Just Move?
And this isn’t just about shelters.
It’s about hospital social workers, ministry workers, housing providers, healthcare institutions and anyone else who offers solutions without necessarily understanding what those solutions require.
Having problems in your apartment?
Why don’t you just move?
Can’t manage the stairs?
Find somewhere accessible.
Can’t afford the rent?
Look somewhere cheaper.
Don’t like the shelter?
Go to another one.
Can’t get to the bus stop?
Take the bus.
As though someone living in poverty has never considered the astonishingly obvious possibility of finding somewhere else to live.
Where, exactly, are they supposed to move?
With what money?
What damage deposit?
What transportation?
What accessible housing?
What landlord willing to rent to someone whose income barely covers the cost of an apartment?
And what happens while they’re waiting?
A social worker can suggest a shelter.
A ministry worker can explain a policy.
A housing provider can suggest another building.
A hospital can make a referral.
Each may be doing exactly what their job requires.
But the person receiving that advice still has to make it work.
And when it doesn’t, they’re sent around the system again.
Another telephone call.
Another application.
Another waiting list.
Another explanation of circumstances they’ve already explained a dozen times.
Eventually, their inability to make an impossible option work becomes evidence that they’re not cooperating.
They’re negative.
They’re making excuses.
They’re refusing help.
There are compassionate, capable professionals in these systems. Some have lived experience themselves. Others work extraordinarily hard to overcome institutional limitations.
But professional knowledge doesn’t automatically translate into an understanding of what surviving poverty or homelessness actually requires.
There’s an enormous difference between knowing what resources are listed in a directory and knowing whether someone can use them.
A referral is not transportation.
A waiting list is not housing.
A policy is not a solution.
And telling someone to move is not giving them somewhere to go.
This isn’t a game.
These are people’s lives.
The person giving the advice may go home at the end of the day.
The person receiving it may not have a home to go to.
Your Behaviour Is Unacceptable
How many times have you heard it?
Abusive language will not be tolerated.
It’s on telephone systems, in government offices, hospitals and service organizations.
Before you’ve even spoken to someone, a recorded voice is warning you about your behaviour.
And I understand that workers deserve respect.
Nobody should endure threats, intimidation or personal abuse simply for doing their job.
But here’s my question.
What happens when the system’s behaviour toward you is unacceptable?
When you’ve been transferred six times, disconnected twice, left messages nobody returns and repeated your circumstances to five different people?
When one department sends you to another, which sends you right back?
When you’ve completed the forms, followed the instructions, respected the deadlines and still have no answer?
And then, after days or weeks of this, you finally lose your patience.
You swear.
You raise your voice.
You tell someone that what they’re asking you to do is fucking ridiculous.
Suddenly, the conversation isn’t about the problem anymore.
It’s about your behaviour.
You’re inappropriate.
You’re difficult.
You’re abusive.
Your response to unacceptable circumstances becomes more important than the circumstances themselves.
Where’s the recorded announcement warning institutions that unreasonable delays, contradictory instructions and unanswered correspondence will not be tolerated?
Where’s the policy protecting someone from being passed between agencies until they simply give up?
I’m not suggesting frustration excuses threatening people.
I’m asking why institutions demand standards of conduct from vulnerable people that they don’t seem equally prepared to demand of themselves.
You cannot keep pushing people to the edge of their endurance and then act surprised when they stop sounding polite.
How About Just Fuck You?
I’ve heard the comments.
I have diabetes too, and I manage.
I have a disability, and I don’t expect special treatment.
Other people have it worse.
Stop playing the victim.
Well, how about just fuck you?
And before someone takes that sentence as evidence that I’m a raging lunatic, let me explain something.
I’m actually remarkably calm.
I’m not consumed by rage. I’m not wandering around looking for someone to blame.
If anything, I’m surprised by how little anger I feel.
I’m almost furious that I’m not more furious.
Because when I look at everything I’ve experienced, everything I’ve witnessed and everything people experiencing homelessness are expected to endure, I think I have every reason to be angry.
But this isn’t about whether I have diabetes.
It isn’t primarily about whether I need a wheelchair.
Those circumstances make homelessness more complicated and sometimes more dangerous.
The larger issue is what happens to anyone who loses the ordinary protections that come with having somewhere to live.
The person who can’t sleep because the shelter schedule says it’s time to get up.
The person who has to ask permission for another sandwich.
The person whose belongings disappear.
The person who raises a legitimate concern and becomes a behavioural problem.
The person who doesn’t have the education, confidence, language skills, technology or endurance to keep challenging decisions.
And the person who finally gives up asking.
That’s who this story is about.
I’m using my own experience because it’s the one I can document.
I’m not suggesting my suffering is more important than anyone else’s.
In fact, what frightens me is how many people are experiencing similar things without the ability to tell their stories.
I have the skills to write letters, research policies, contact officials and document incidents.
And I’m exhausted.
Imagine what this must be like for someone who can’t do those things.
So yes, sometimes I swear.
Sometimes I say fuck.
But don’t confuse the language with my emotional state.
I’m not out of control. I’m describing circumstances that are out of control.
And if the strongest objection someone can find is that I used the word fuck, perhaps they should ask why that bothers them more than the conditions I’m describing.
I’m not asking anyone to admire my resilience.
I’m asking why surviving this requires so fucking much of it.
One Winter on Leon Avenue
One winter, before the tents were moved from Leon Avenue, I drove downtown with a friend recovering from heroin addiction.
He looked at the encampment and asked me something I’ve never forgotten.
Could I imagine being down there and not being high?
I’ve thought about that question many times.
Not because everyone experiencing homelessness uses drugs.
They don’t.
Not because substance use is harmless.
It isn’t.
But because we discuss addiction so often without discussing what people are trying to endure.
Cold.
Pain.
Fear.
Violence.
Trauma.
Exhaustion.
The uncertainty of where you’ll sleep.
The humiliation of being treated as disposable.
Then we wonder why people drink or use drugs.
Why they become desperate.
Why they sometimes lose hope.
And when someone decides that sleeping in a tent is preferable to another night in a shelter, we ask why they won’t accept the help available.
Maybe we should ask what that help actually looks like.
Maybe we should ask what conditions make a tent seem preferable.
And maybe we should stop assuming that declining a particular shelter means declining safety.
What Happened to You?
At an International Overdose Awareness Day event, I heard a speaker offer a different way of looking at people.
Don’t ask what’s wrong with them. Ask what happened to them.
What happened before you lost your housing?
What happened when you tried to get help?
What happened when you were sick?
What happened when you complained?
What happened when nobody listened?
And what happened after months or years of being treated as though your circumstances were evidence of your character?
I wonder how many people who weren’t using substances before becoming homeless eventually turn to them while trying to endure the conditions of homelessness.
I’m not claiming that’s everyone’s experience or that there’s one explanation for addiction.
I’m saying we should be willing to ask.
People talk about resilience as though it’s always something admirable and uplifting.
But I think people experiencing homelessness and extreme poverty demonstrate a kind of resilience that much of society will never be required to understand.
Not because they’re stronger or better than everyone else.
Because they’re surviving conditions many people would find almost impossible to tolerate.
Day after day.
Without knowing when those conditions will end.
And they don’t always survive unscathed.
Some become ill.
Some become dependent on substances.
Some withdraw.
Some become angry.
Some stop asking for help.
And society looks at them and asks why they can’t get their lives together.
Maybe we should ask how they’ve managed to hold themselves together for as long as they have.
Because surviving homelessness takes an extraordinary amount of work.
Work nobody pays you for.
Work nobody counts.
Work that rarely earns respect.
I Remember Cory
I think about my friend Cory Hyde, whom I wrote about in Who Remembers the Man Who Walked Home?
Cory had a life, a history, skills, friendships and stories long before his housing difficulties became public.
He was more than a shelter resident or a person with medical needs.
And his experience continues to remind me how easily a human being can become a problem passed between organizations when their circumstances no longer fit what those organizations can provide.
I don’t want to retell his story here. I’ve already done that.
But I remember Cory.
And I think about how many people are remembered only as a case file after the institutions involved have moved on.
When Is Homelessness an Emergency?
When a wildfire forces people from their homes, communities mobilize.
We arrange temporary accommodation, meals, transportation and emergency assistance.
And rightly so.
But when someone loses housing through poverty, disability, illness, eviction or family breakdown, the response can be very different.
Suddenly, people want to examine their decisions.
Did they spend their money properly?
Did they work hard enough?
Did they use drugs?
Did they follow the rules?
Did they do something to deserve this?
Why should the cause of someone’s displacement determine the compassion they’re offered?
If someone loses their home to fire, we recognize an emergency.
If someone loses their home because their income cannot support the cost of living, we may treat the result as a personal failing.
The need for somewhere safe to sleep hasn’t changed.
Only the story we tell about the person needing it.
From One Waiting Room to Another
Now I’m in a hospital, waiting again.
Waiting for medical assessments.
Waiting for imaging results.
Waiting for social work.
Waiting to learn whether there’s anywhere I can safely go.
Pain medication has complicated mobility assessments. I’ve had new concerns about my foot, and I still need answers about my spine and my ability to function safely.
I’m willing to participate in rehabilitation.
But I need to know what I can safely do.
Meanwhile, discharge planning continues.
And I can’t escape the feeling that everyone wants to move me somewhere.
Anywhere.
Somewhere that allows another file to be closed.
I don’t know whether that’s anyone’s intention. Hospitals have limited resources and enormous pressures.
But from the hospital hallway, it feels very different.
I don’t have a home waiting for me.
I don’t have a confirmed shelter placement.
And I don’t know whether the facilities that might accept me can accommodate my needs.
I’m expected to remain patient.
Cooperative.
Reasonable.
And I am trying.
But I am exhausted.
What Resourcefulness Looks Like
People have told me I seem capable.
Resourceful.
Intelligent.
Independent.
I am.
I’ve worked in information technology, shelter support, outreach and journalism.
I’ve researched policies, documented incidents, contacted officials and pursued assistance.
I’ve learned to manage medical equipment, charge power banks, organize supplies, navigate transit and adapt to rules that change depending on where I’m staying.
I’ve spent months doing things most people would never imagine having to do simply to get through a day.
And I’m still here, without somewhere to go.
Think about that.
If someone with my experience, technical skills, contacts and willingness to advocate cannot navigate these systems successfully, what happens to someone who doesn’t have those resources?
Someone without a phone.
Someone who cannot complete an online form.
Someone who is frightened of authority.
Someone who cannot communicate easily.
Someone who is too sick or exhausted to keep asking.
That’s the part that frightens me most.
Not simply what has happened to me.
What must be happening to people whose stories never reach anyone?
I’m Not Asking for Pity
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me.
I want them to understand.
That homelessness isn’t necessarily the result of laziness, addiction or bad decisions.
That disability doesn’t always look the way people expect.
That good staff can exist inside deeply flawed systems.
That offering a service isn’t the same as making it usable.
That people experiencing homelessness are not a separate class of human beings with lesser needs, lesser dignity or lesser rights.
I am angry.
I am frustrated.
I am frightened about what happens next.
But none of that makes my questions unreasonable.
Where am I supposed to go?
Can I safely get there?
Can I access the washroom?
Can I charge my medical devices?
Can I obtain food and essential supplies?
Can I rest when I’m ill?
Can I raise a concern without risking my placement?
Can I remain somewhere long enough to recover and find permanent housing?
These are not extravagant demands.
They’re the questions anyone would ask about somewhere they’re expected to live.
A Bed Is Not a Destination
Somewhere along the way, we’ve become very good at counting things.
Shelter beds.
Admissions.
Discharges.
Referrals.
Placements.
Cases opened.
Cases closed.
But the numbers don’t tell us whether someone can safely remain where they’ve been sent.
Whether they can access transportation.
Whether they can sleep.
Whether they can eat.
Whether they can maintain their independence.
Whether they have somewhere to begin rebuilding a life.
I don’t need another organization to tell me my case has been handled.
I need somewhere I can actually live.
Somewhere I can recover, regain stability and eventually find a permanent home.
I need people making decisions about my life to understand what those decisions mean after their shift ends.
Because that’s the part that disappears from the paperwork.
The worker goes home.
The administrator closes the file.
The institution records the outcome.
And the person who was supposedly helped is left figuring out what happens next.
A bed is not a destination.
A referral is not a solution.
A discharge is not a success simply because the person has left the building.
And a human being is not a completed case file.
I’m still here.
I’m still waiting.
And I’m still asking the same question.
Where am I supposed to go?
Personal Dispatches — True Stories. Real People. Public Good.
Randy Millis | Kelowna, British Columbia | November 2, 2026