In our work at Indwell, we often talk about housing, supports, outcomes, and programs. All of those things are incredibly important, but lurking underneath them is one simple word: hope.
Hope is often the first thing people lose when life becomes difficult, and sometimes it’s the hardest thing to rebuild. Yet some people hold on to it, even in circumstances that would cause many of us to lose it.
...lurking underneath all of those things is one simple word: hope
I want to acknowledge that the story I’m about to tell is not my story. It belongs to Paul, and I’m simply the messenger — privileged to have witnessed a very, very small part of his journey. Paul is aware that I share his story and has given me permission to do so.
All of us in our professional or personal lives have experienced what it feels like to see someone struggling and wish there was more that we could do. We can see the need, we can see the person behind the circumstances, but sometimes the supports aren’t there, or the timing isn’t right, or the challenges are just simply bigger than what we have available at that moment.
... there was a faith that sustained him even when the world offered very little certainty
Looking back, I often think that while we were trying to figure out how to help Paul, Paul was teaching us something about hope. Not the kind of hope that depends on circumstances improving, but the kind that remains even when circumstances are difficult.
That’s what Paul represents to me. Four years ago, Paul applied for housing with Indwell. At the time, he was living in an encampment and experiencing significant illness. To this day, he remains one of the most unwell individuals I have ever encountered during an intake. He had very limited support, little access to medication, and he was navigating circumstances that made daily survival incredibly difficult.
One thing that stood out to me, even then, was his faith. Paul wasn’t hopeful because of what he had. In fact, by most measures, he had very little. What stuck with me was that hope wasn’t rooted in worldly things. It wasn’t tied to housing, possessions, money, or even his circumstances. His hope came from something much deeper. There was a faith that sustained him even when the world around him offered very little certainty.
The question isn't whether hope can survive the hardest of circumstances, because Paul's already answered that ... [but] how we will continue to create opportunities for that hope to become a reality for all
At that time, however, we had to make an incredibly difficult decision, and we had to say no. Not because Paul wasn’t deserving, not because he didn’t want help, not because he lacked potential. The reality was that the level of support that Paul required exceeded what we were able to provide at the time in Simcoe. Housing alone would not have been enough for Paul, but the one building we had in Simcoe did not have the types of supports that Paul needed.
I remember feeling such a sense of helplessness. Knowing that somebody needs more than what you can offer is one of the hardest parts of this work. But hope has a way of lighting the next step.
About a year later, Indwell opened our transitional housing program in Simcoe, and Paul’s name came up again. A transitional program helps fill the gap for people who need high levels of support before they can succeed in other types of permanent housing. This time, we had the opportunity to say yes.
hope has a way of lighting the next step
When Paul moved in, the transition wasn’t immediate. For years, he had been surviving outdoors. An apartment may seem like safety and stability for many of us, but for Paul, it was unfamiliar. For the first six months, he spent much of his time outside. Even though he had a place to call home, he often returned to the environment that he knew best.
We didn’t rush him. We walked alongside of him.
Gradually, Paul began spending more time in his apartment. He started trusting that the space was truly his. He began trusting the staff around him and the supports that were being offered.
There were challenges along the way. At one point, Paul came close to losing his housing because people in the external community were taking advantage of his kindness and vulnerability. We had significant issues with guests. Individuals were literally climbing through the ground floor windows to access Paul’s apartment.
It would have been really easy for us to focus on the problem. Instead, we decided to focus on the person. Together, we brainstormed solutions and ultimately moved Paul to a second floor apartment where those risks could be reduced.
It was a simple change, but it reflected something important. When challenges arose, we didn’t ask whether Paul belonged in housing. We asked what supports he needed to be successful. And slowly, he did.
People stopped seeing Paul through the lens of his illness or homelessness and started seeing him for who he truly is, a neighbour, a friend, a valued member of his community
Paul’s health stabilized, his confidence grew, his relationships strengthened, he became engaged with supports and increasingly connected to the community around him. People stopped seeing Paul through the lens of his illness or homelessness and started seeing him for who he truly is, a neighbour, a friend, a valued member of his community.
As Paul continued to grow, he was offered permanent housing at our Hambleton Hall location where he continued to thrive. And today, I’m really proud to share that Paul has taken another incredible step forward. He has moved into his own accessible one-bedroom apartment.
When I think about Paul’s journey, I don’t think about housing. I think about belonging. I think about a man who went from living in an encampment with limited supports and significant illness, to living independently in a home of his own, surrounded by people who know him, care about him, and celebrate his successes.
Today, Paul has a home of his own, a community around him, and a future full of possibility. Those are things worth celebrating.
But when I think about Paul’s story, what stays with me the most is hope — a hope that existed long before the housing, long before the supports, and long before any of us knew how the story would unfold.
Because sometimes the greatest lesson isn’t what we give to people, it’s actually what they teach us. The question isn’t whether hope can survive the hardest of circumstances, because Paul’s already answered that. The question is how we will continue to create opportunities for that hope to become a reality for all.
Indwell