A Profound, Catastrophic Loss: Exploring the narrative around Redding's Unhoused

After years of serving alongside people living on the streets of San Francisco’s Tenderloin District, my family and I joined the mass COVID exodus and relocated to Redding. As we searched for a neighborhood to call home, we were struck by how often neighborhoods were described—not by schools, parks, or community—but by how many “transients” lived nearby. Some even referred to them as “untouchable.”

The shock wasn’t the presence of homelessness. It was the language.

In Redding, it felt as though losing one’s home also meant losing one’s humanity.

When I became a Christian in college, compassion for the poor was one of the first themes that arrested my attention as I read the Bible. Jesus was unapologetic in His love for those society dismissed and pushed aside. He didn’t avoid them—He sought them out.

And yet, I’ve heard strikingly similar comments about people experiencing homelessness from both Christians and non-believers alike. During the height of the racial justice unrest in 2020, a Black man living on the streets of San Francisco said something to me that has never left: “People fear what they don’t understand.”

As a journalist, my instinct has always been to understand. And what I have set out to examine is where this collective fear comes from. What if much of our disdain is born not from truth, but from misunderstanding?

Homelessness is undeniably complex. Our systems have failed to address it in any meaningful, lasting way. The problem feels too big, too layered, too overwhelming—and so we retreat. We distance ourselves with myths: They chose this life. They don’t want help. Nothing will change.

But these narratives protect us more than they reflect reality.

If we want to change the story, we must first rehumanize the people within it. We need human stories—stories that reveal the trauma and loss many of us could just as easily have endured under different circumstances.

Down in the underground tunnels of Olney Creek, I met a woman whose husband suddenly left her. The abrupt departure sent her nervous system into a state of frozen shock. Slowly, she lost everything—watching helplessly as her life unraveled in deep despair. And yet, as grief gave way to survival, she became one of the most organized and hardworking women living outside I’d ever met. She kept a journal filled with prayers and to-do lists, desperate for a way out.

As Alan Graham of Mobile Loaves & Fishes and Community First! Village says,

“This is a human issue and requires a human response. The single greatest cause of homelessness is a profound, catastrophic loss of family.”

After spending the past year listening to men and women in local encampments, I’ve come to believe this wholeheartedly. Over and over, I hear stories of early trauma: abuse, neglect, addiction in the home, unstable caregivers, fractured attachment, and the absence of safety. Many were never acquainted with anything resembling “normal.”

For some, homelessness wasn’t chosen—it arrived quietly, then all at once. A job lost. A marriage ended. A support system vanished. Others were raised without a foundation sturdy enough to withstand adulthood at all.

These are not stories of moral failure. They are stories of survival.

As I sit with our unhoused neighbors and listen—really listen—I’m consistently struck by their resilience. By their humor. By their longing to be seen. Dignity begins to return the moment someone takes the time to hear them.

Perhaps the better question is not why are they here? but rather, what part can I play?

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