Personal Dispatches — November 3, 2026

I’ve had a lot of things happen to me. Some of them have been difficult to believe, even as I’ve been living through them.

But perhaps the most profound realization I’ve had throughout all of this is that this story isn’t really just about me.

It’s about all the people who go through these things quietly. The people whose struggles never become Facebook posts, newspaper articles, formal complaints, or investigations. The people who simply endure, day after day, because they have no other choice.

And today, perhaps more than any other day, I was reminded just how many of those people are all around us.

This afternoon, I encountered two men whose circumstances have stayed with me.

One was a fellow named Cubby.

His legs were severely twisted, and he was getting around in a hospital-style wheelchair, propelling himself with a single crutch, using it almost like a kayak paddle.

It was a remarkable sight, but not because he was trying to demonstrate anything. This was simply how he got around. This was his everyday reality.

And despite everything, he said something that has stayed with me.

“We always figure it out.”

Five simple words.

There was no grand declaration of resilience. No attempt to inspire anyone. Just a matter-of-fact observation from someone who has learned that, whatever happens, tomorrow still comes and somehow you have to make it through tonight.

I couldn’t help thinking about what those words really mean.

Because nobody should have to become an expert at surviving without somewhere safe to sleep.

Another fellow I’ve encountered several times has spinal injuries and uses a wheelchair. Like me, he’s ambulatory to some extent, but his injuries prevent him from lying down comfortably.

His wheelchair brakes don’t function properly, which has created problems for him when trying to use public transit. That alone has meant having to propel himself farther and farther, despite his physical limitations.

And, like me, he faces many of the same challenges finding shelter that can accommodate his mobility needs.

Think about that for a moment.

Two men, each dealing with significant physical limitations, each navigating a world that seems to expect them to adapt endlessly to circumstances that should never have been acceptable in the first place.

And somehow, these are just ordinary afternoons in their lives.

Then, tonight, outside Dollarama, there were three of us sitting together.

Three people whose lives had been shaped, in different ways, by homelessness.

We sat out front, each with our own little snacks, talking about life on the streets. We shared a few chuckles. Nothing particularly extraordinary. Just three people sitting together, enjoying a little conversation and each other’s company.

For a few minutes, we weren’t problems to be solved, statistics to be counted, or people waiting for the next available shelter bed.

We were just people.

And there was something deeply human about that.

Because even in the middle of hardship, people still laugh. They still share stories. They still find moments of companionship and humour.

Homelessness doesn’t erase someone’s personality, their dignity, or their ability to enjoy another person’s company.

But when the conversation ends, the reality remains.

Some of us have somewhere warm to go.

Others don’t.

Earlier today, at the hospital, there was an elderly woman in the hallway. She appeared to be around 80 years old.

She was crying.

She was calling for help.

She was banging on the wall, desperately trying to get someone’s attention.

And my heart just broke.

The staff were incredibly busy, dealing with what seemed like an endless stream of competing demands. I don’t know everything that was happening around me, or why she had been waiting. I only know what I could see and hear.

An elderly woman was in distress, crying out for someone to help her.

And I wanted nothing more than to give her a hug.

But I was facing my own crisis. I had urgent deadlines, nowhere confirmed to sleep, and a mountain of things I needed to accomplish just to keep myself safe.

I was torn between taking care of myself and taking care of someone else.

And that, in itself, was heartbreaking.

Because there should have been room for both of us to receive the help we needed.

I sat with her for a few minutes. I offered what comfort I could, spoke gently with her, and made sure staff knew she needed attention. More than once.

I couldn’t solve whatever was troubling her. I couldn’t make the demands on the hospital staff disappear. And I couldn’t stay as long as I might have wanted.

But I could acknowledge her.

I could listen.

I could make sure, at least for those few minutes, that she wasn’t entirely alone.

And now, hours later, sitting somewhere warm and safe, thinking about that woman still brings tears to my eyes.

Not because I think I did anything remarkable.

But because I keep wondering how many other people are crying out for help, quite literally, while the rest of the world carries on around them.

How many people are suffering within earshot of someone who might care, but who is already struggling just to survive their own circumstances?

And what does it say about the systems we’ve built when compassion is still there, when people genuinely want to help one another, but the resources, time, and support needed to turn that compassion into meaningful assistance are so often missing?

I’ve spent months documenting my own experiences. The shelter barriers. The accessibility problems. The medical complications. The unanswered correspondence. The exhausting effort required to find somewhere safe to sleep.

I’ve written letters, made phone calls, contacted officials, sought legal advice, spoken with journalists, and tried to navigate systems that are supposed to exist to help people in circumstances like mine.

And even with my experience, my ability to communicate, my technical skills, and my willingness to advocate for myself, I’ve found the entire process almost impossibly exhausting.

So I keep asking myself:

What happens to the people who can’t do all of that?

What happens to someone who doesn’t have a phone, a computer, reliable internet access, or the ability to write a detailed complaint?

What happens to someone who is too sick, too frightened, too exhausted, or simply too overwhelmed to keep asking for help?

What happens to the person who has already called every number, visited every agency, and explained their circumstances so many times that they can barely bring themselves to do it again?

And what happens to the people who quietly accept another night outside because, as Cubby put it, they always figure it out?

We tend to notice these problems when they become dramatic.

When someone loses a shelter bed.

When someone with a disability is turned away.

When an elderly patient waits for assistance.

When a person dies outside in the cold.

When a story finally reaches the news.

And people understandably ask:

“How could something like that happen?”

But I think we’re asking the wrong question.

The question isn’t how something like this could happen to one person.

It’s how these things can happen, day after day, to so many people, and remain almost entirely invisible.

How many people are sleeping outside tonight who have already exhausted every option someone is about to suggest?

How many people with disabilities are struggling with broken equipment, inaccessible transportation, and shelters that cannot accommodate them?

How many elderly people are waiting for assistance in overwhelmed healthcare facilities, while staff struggle to meet more needs than they have the resources to address?

How many people have simply stopped asking for help because they’ve learned that asking doesn’t necessarily change anything?

And how many of us walk past these situations every day without realizing what we’re actually seeing?

I don’t believe most people are deliberately indifferent.

I think much of this suffering has become so familiar, so woven into the background of everyday life, that we’ve stopped recognizing just how extraordinary these circumstances really are.

A person sleeping outside in November should not be ordinary.

A wheelchair user unable to access suitable shelter should not be ordinary.

A man propelling himself through the streets in a hospital wheelchair with a crutch because that’s what he has available should not be ordinary.

An elderly woman crying, calling for help, and banging on a hospital wall should not be ordinary.

And someone having to spend every waking hour navigating bureaucracy just to secure a safe place to sleep should not be ordinary.

Yet here we are.

Tonight, I was fortunate enough to secure a safe room. I have a bed, warmth, and a door I can close.

Others I encountered today were facing a very different night.

We shared some snacks. We laughed a little. We talked.

And then we went our separate ways.

I came back to a room.

Others were still facing the streets.

That difference weighs on me more than I can easily explain.

I don’t want my experiences to be understood as some extraordinary collection of personal misfortunes. And I certainly don’t want this to become a competition over who has suffered more.

I want people to understand that what I’ve been experiencing is not happening in isolation.

It’s happening to people whose names we’ll never know.

People who don’t have an audience.

People who don’t have the energy to complain.

People who have learned to survive quietly, often with remarkable dignity, humour, and generosity toward one another.

People like Cubby.

People like the fellow with the spinal injuries.

People like the people sitting outside Dollarama tonight.

People like that elderly woman in the hospital hallway.

People who deserve more than simply being expected to figure it out.

The things that have happened to me aren’t really just about me.

They’re about all the things happening around us that we don’t see, don’t hear about, or have somehow learned to accept.

And perhaps the most troubling question isn’t how any of this could happen.

It’s how it can keep happening, to so many people, so often, without the rest of us even noticing.

Because behind every story that finally gets someone’s attention, there are countless others that never do.

And those stories matter just as much.

Personal Dispatches — True Stories. Real People. Public Good.