Why do we have to lose everything before we’re eligible for help?

Written by Joshua Rosario King, LEAG Member, Housing Matters

I never imagined I’d be asking this question again.

Not after surviving homelessness.

Not after rebuilding my life.

Not after getting sober.

Not after dedicating my career to helping people navigate housing, recovery, and community resources.

And yet…

Here I am.

Not standing outside looking in.

Standing right back in the middle of the system, asking for help before everything falls apart.

That has left me wondering:

Why does it feel like we have to lose everything before we’re finally considered eligible to be helped?

This isn’t criticism of the incredible people who work in nonprofits, city and county programs, or community organizations. I work alongside many of them every day. I know how hard they fight with limited funding, impossible caseloads, and policies they didn’t create.

This is bigger than any one agency.

This is about a system that often responds to crisis rather than prevention.

My life has been shaped by housing instability.

As a child, I experienced homelessness and lived in shelters. I know what it feels like to wonder where you’re going to sleep. As an adult, I fought addiction, rebuilt my life through recovery, and found purpose helping others do the same. Today, I work in homeless services and serve on the Lived Experience Advisory Group (LEAG), where my voice—and the voices of others with lived experience—helps shape how services can better support our community.

I’ve spent years telling people, “Ask for help early.”

It’s good advice.

Until you’re the one asking.

Recently, my partner became seriously ill and was no longer able to work. Overnight, life changed. Like so many caregivers, I found myself trying to balance work, hospital visits, bills, rent, and the emotional weight of watching someone you love fight just to get through the day.

We didn’t wait until we were homeless.

We didn’t ignore the problem.

We reached out early because that’s what we’re told to do.

We filled out applications.

We called organizations.

We explained our situation.

We searched for every resource we could find.

And what I discovered was something I’ve heard from so many participants over the years.

Sometimes it feels like you’re too stable to receive help—until you’re no longer stable.

Too often, the message isn’t, “How can we help keep you housed?”

It’s, “Come back when things get worse.”

Maybe those words aren’t always spoken directly.

But when you’re denied because you’re a few dollars over an income limit, because funding has run out, because you don’t meet a specific requirement, or because there isn’t a program designed for your situation, that’s how it feels.

Wait.

Lose more.

Then maybe we’ll have something for you.

I struggle with that.

Not just because it’s personal, but because it doesn’t make sense.

If someone is already housed, already connected to their community, already employed, already trying everything they can to stay afloat, why aren’t we doing everything possible to help them stay there?

Because starting over is expensive.

It’s expensive for the individual who loses their home, their belongings, their routine, and sometimes their hope.

It’s expensive for children who change schools.

It’s expensive for employers who lose dependable workers.

It’s expensive for healthcare systems when housing instability affects physical and mental health.

And yes, it’s expensive for taxpayers and communities.

Once someone becomes homeless, we mobilize an incredible number of resources: outreach teams, shelters, emergency healthcare, housing navigation, case management, transportation, supportive services, and permanent supportive housing programs.

Every one of those services matters.

I’ve helped connect people to them.

But I can’t help wondering…

What if we invested just as much energy into making sure people never needed those services in the first place?

What if we expanded flexible prevention funds that could respond before an eviction notice?

What if landlords had more financial support to work with tenants experiencing temporary hardship?

What if eligibility reflected a family’s real financial situation, instead of one income number on a piece of paper?

What if we measured success by how many people never lost housing at all?

This isn’t about creating dependency.

It’s about creating stability.

The people I meet through my work—and the person I see in the mirror—aren’t looking for someone else to solve every problem.

We’re looking for a bridge.

A little help during one of life’s hardest seasons so that one setback doesn’t become a lifetime of rebuilding.

I’ve been the child in the shelter.

I’ve been the person fighting to rebuild after addiction.

I’ve been the advocate speaking on behalf of others.

And now I’ve been the caregiver trying to keep my own family from falling through the cracks.

Those experiences have taught me one thing:

Homelessness prevention isn’t just a program.

It’s a philosophy.

It’s the belief that people shouldn’t have to hit rock bottom before they’re eligible for support.

Because sometimes the greatest impact isn’t helping someone start over.

Sometimes it’s making sure they never have to.