Prior to June 2024, JP had been staying with a friend, but the situation became unlivable, and he had nowhere to go. After speaking with someone living in a tent near the bottom of the Niagara escarpment in Hamilton, he decided to do the same.

He described the first few nights as a waking nightmare: “I would wake up and say, I had a horrible dream. And then realize I was in a tent and it’s not a dream.” He compared it to “Gilligan on his island,” at first imagining rescue, before eventually pushing those thoughts aside to focus on survival.

Living with type-one diabetes and relying on approximately $300 a month from Ontario Works, JP and others in the encampment worked together to get by. They collected dead wood for fires to cook and stay warm, sometimes using food from a food bank. For drinking water, they rigged a system using a cut-up hose and plastic bottle to fill jugs from a nearby fountain. In the winter, when it was shut off, they walked about 25 minutes to the nearest public source. They also relied on a generator, with fuel taking a significant portion of JP’s limited income.

JP described the community around him as supportive. “A lot of them were really nice people,” he said. “There were four of us, and we’d pool our money together. One guy would cook, one guy would look after the generator if it needed fixing. We would all help each other out.”

He also explained, “A lot of people are out here because they’ve lost their apartments or the rent has gone up beyond what they can afford.” He recalled one man who lost his vision in one eye, then his job as a welder, and went from earning a steady income to relying on the Ontario Disability Support Program.

At night, JP dealt with disturbances from coyotes, raccoons, mice, spiders, mosquitos and other insects.

Weather also posed problems. JP remembered rain flooding his tent, high winds, and the danger of falling trees in a storm. In the winter, his hands would be in constant pain from the cold, although he’d wear several layers of gloves. “It’s like taking a cheese grater to your hands.”

Staff at the hospital joked with him and brought him soup and a sandwich, but he said returning to the encampment in late December was “heartbreaking.”

“We used to have a saying out there: ‘nobody’s that strong.’” JP said, recalling the emotional breakdowns he and his friends would occasionally experience in the woods. “Sometimes people would break down and just let it all out, and you would let them have their moments. And the golden rule was nobody ever made fun of anyone doing that. Because your day’s gonna come.”

JP recalled a conversation from his time experiencing homelessness, when he and four others realized none of them could remember what it felt like to sleep in a bed. Everyday routines, like using a washroom at night or getting a glass of water, began to feel like luxuries. In the winter, he and others would occasionally visit a friend’s apartment to warm up. The heat was so unfamiliar that they would often fall asleep within minutes, despite trying to stay awake. He recalled, “We used to go to urban core for showers. A nice shower would make you feel human again.”

In March of 2025, Hamilton’s encampment protocol was rescinded, prohibiting camping on all public lands. But there was still no housing solution for the people who lived in encampments. JP and his companions would have to constantly move their site. Within a seven-day period, he said he “moved about three times, and sometimes in the middle of the night.”

At one point, JP was told he may have to wait up to eighteen months for housing.

Then one day, his primary housing worker from a local service agency told him that there might be a home for him at Indwell. It felt too good to be true. “You don’t get excited about things until they actually happen,” he said. Even after seeing the space, he held back hope until he had the keys in his hand.