When I was in 7th grade, I had an English assignment to write an essay about what I thought my life would be like at 50 years old. In that essay, I envisioned a future with a wife, children excelling in college on scholarships, and my wife and me exploring the country in an RV with a pontoon boat in tow. I was going to be a retired professional motocross racer with several championships, so money wouldn’t be an issue.

 

My 49th birthday is in 2 days. I’ve never been married, have no kids, and haven’t ridden a dirtbike since the year after I wrote that essay. The closest I’ve been to a boat is looking at the Queen Mary from the shore in Long Beach, CA, and since September 1st, 2024, I’ve been homeless following the passing of my father.

 

For more than a year and a half, I devoted myself to caring for him around the clock, which prevented me from seeking employment outside the house. Aside from being hired to sell life insurance, I soon realized that the search for a work-from-home job was far more complex than I had initially thought. And selling life insurance required out-of-pocket expenses that neither my father nor I could afford, from licensing to having to buy “lead packs," the names and phone numbers of prospective clients. My father, solely relying on a monthly Social Security income of $1275, covered all the household bills and the rent, leaving little room for additional financial commitments like life insurance classes.

 

His passing in mid-August left me grappling with grief. I also faced the sudden urgency of finding a job within two weeks to avoid homelessness. Additionally, I had to clear and clean the house within the same timeframe if I chose not to stay. The three tasks combined were overwhelming. I wasn’t able to find a job in that time frame, as job opportunities are limited in my area, and my lack of a car to commute to neighboring towns only made matters worse. So my focus became emptying the house before the 1st. I had to give almost all of my father’s possessions away to make sure I had the house empty on time.

 

There were some personal items I was going to keep, but unfortunately, the “friend" and his girlfriend I asked to help me clear the house ended up stealing the TVs, computers, and other electronics I was going to sell. They also stole the few items I was going to keep, like brass candlestick holders my parents received as a wedding gift in 1972 and a Japanese sake set my brother gave our father as a birthday present that my brother got in Japan while he was in the Air Force.

 

When I discovered they were stealing, I confronted the friend, and he responded by lighting a propane blowtorch and cornering me, waving the flame at my face, and telling me to back off or live the rest of my life as a burn victim. I told him to take whatever else he wanted, and he did, even stealing the remaining laundry detergent and dryer sheets. I was glad to see him go.

 

Although it was tempting to squat in my father’s house, considering the favorable legal view of squatters in California, I couldn’t exploit the kind landlady in that way. My father rented the house from her for over 6 years, and she only raised the rent one time, by $20. If anything broke or needed maintenance, she had someone there either that day or, at the latest, the following day. She insisted that things were repaired with the best available materials and only licensed tradespeople; there was no half-ass repair work going on in her house. And she cried when I told her my father passed away. So there was no way I was going to screw her over like that.

 

In mid-November, I walked past the old house, and someone finally rented it. That brought a tear to my eye. Occasionally I would daydream about getting a job and renting that very house again, but for now, it remains just that—a dream. I know the owner wanted any tenant to sign a one-year lease, so I’ll have to wait at least that long.

 

Currently, I live in a tent in the Mojave Desert with my puppy, Rock, who I got not only as a companion but also as an alarm system to alert me to anyone outside. I’ve had him for about 6 weeks, and he’s only recently started barking at whatever unknowns lurk outside the tent while we’re in it. I’m sure a lot of people think they have the cutest puppy in the world, but I actually have the cutest one. Rock receives compliments without fail every time we come across strangers, and his charm never fails to captivate. I think it’s going to his head. He’s a Pit Bull/Sharpei mix and has the most perfect doggy face. He could be the Alpo puppy.

 

Our tent is a 6-person tent I bought online, not fully comprehending just how big 12 feet wide, 9 feet deep, and 6 feet tall really is. One of the many, many things about being homeless I didn’t consider beforehand was not wanting a tent that stands out. You don’t want to give the impression that you're showing off by displaying your homeless plumage. You also don't want to advertise your location to anyone, whether they’re strangers, cops, maniacal murderers, thieves, etc. Our tent, even though it’s green and gray, stands out like a watermelon on a plum tree.

 

The first spot I ended up choosing to set up the tent was a horrible location, a few hundred feet from several houses and an apartment building. The tent is so tall you could see it from three nearby streets. On the first night, while lying on the ground due to a delayed air mattress shipment, I heard muffled conversations and the sound of dead grass crunching outside the tent as several strangers passed by. As unnerving as that was, I finally fell asleep. At some point in the night, I was awoken by the unmistakable sound of a man peeing close enough to the tent that I could smell it.

 

The sounds of conversations and people walking close to the tent happened every night during my short stay in that location. In one instance, the two people walking by were close enough that I could see their shadows on the tent wall from the moonlight. The final straw in the field coffin was the night I saw a man’s shadow on the back wall of the tent with his hands cupped around his eyes while he was trying to see inside it. I had my Eastwing framing hammer for protection, but when I finally got up from the air mattress and unzipped the tent door, the man had already fled into the desert night.

 

I then relocated the tent to a more secluded spot, but another example of what I didn’t think about before homelessness was to check out a potential tent location during the day and at night. The second location was secluded and very quiet during the day, but at night it became a party spot, which I was unaware of since I only scouted it when the sun was up.

 

We fled that location after some psycho was screaming about killing people and other random nonsense outside our tent for over an hour one night. Thankfully, he couldn’t see us from his position, but since my phone was out of service, I couldn’t reach out for help. It was an isolated location, so the only other ones who heard him were a few guys passing by who confronted him and kicked his ass.

 

After they were done with him, they noticed our tent and tried to get inside. I told them it was occupied, which made them leave briefly, but they quickly returned, shaking the tent and attempting to unzip the door while laughing as they circled around it. At one point, one of them slashed the side of the tent with a knife. I hit his hand with the claw end of a framing hammer as hard as I could. I’m sure I broke it. They fled but threatened to come back. Rock and I ended up sitting on the sidewalk in front of an ambulance station until sunrise. We moved to our current location that morning.

 

I knew homelessness was a very good possibility for me before my father passed away, so for several months before his death, I got to know some of the homeless people in the area. I figured they'd be more accepting of me if they already knew me. Four or five times a week, I would loan out the 3 USB power banks I had to them so they could charge their phones, collecting them the next day for recharging and then distributing them again. This went on for about 2 months until all 3 power banks disappeared. They were cheap, so it didn't bother me.

 

The plan worked well as I quickly gained a reputation for being kind and friendly, so my first night on the street I was a familiar face to many of them. I’ve since become integrated into the local homeless community and rapidly learned to rely only on myself. While I have met a few homeless people I like and have become friends with, most others are the type that will steal your shit just to steal your shit, then help you look for it.

 

By far the worst thing about homelessness is the vulnerability. While a tent offers protection from the sun and rain, it doesn’t offer any protection whatsoever from a knife-wielding fentanyl addict desperately looking for whatever he can trade or sell to get high.

 

Or from whoever will eventually rob you. It’s like you’re in a situation where your fate lies in the hands of this eventual future robber, who will determine the moment they decide to act. They might not even realize you’re a target yet, but one day they will. The timing is a mystery for both of you, but they will have the advantage of knowing when their intentions are about to unfold, while you remain oblivious until it’s too late. This leaves you at their mercy.

 

I’ve had things stolen from my tent when I've been gone, people looking through rips in the rainfly into the tent while I’m in it, and several times a group of people has made a commotion outside in the middle of the night, I assume to get me out of the tent and distracted so one of them can steal my backpack or my dog or both. I’m a night owl; I love the night. But I haven’t slept through an entire one in the tent undisturbed, and it’s at the point now where I dread nighttime, and it is only going to continue getting dark earlier and earlier.

 

I know it’s an obvious statement, but being homeless is not easy. Every aspect of life is more difficult, from sleeping at night to eating to using the restroom to charging electronics. Without electricity, I can’t use a fan to cool off when it’s hot, I can’t store food properly long-term, and I lose touch with the world due to the lack of WiFi.

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My phone battery is constantly dead, and the only locations where I can charge it for a few hours are the library and the emergency room at the hospital. I usually smell so bad I avoid going into the library, and hospital security is on the lookout for anyone loitering who isn’t injured or injured-adjacent in the ER waiting area.

 

Being homeless is also sleeping in the center of the tent to prevent an axe or sledgehammer from penetrating your skull by some nutjob who thinks all homeless people are garbage (unlikely but not outside the realm of possibility); it’s constantly hearing noises outside the tent that sound like someone preparing to storm it; it’s walking daily everywhere for essentials like food and water and only being able to carry back enough for that day, so you’re doomed to perpetually trudge the same exhausting path day after day.

 

Homelessness is using my backpack as a pillow, so I know if anyone tries to swipe it; it’s being constantly dirty and smelling like sweaty everything; it’s suffering from the itchiness of a dozen ant bites on each elbow and a couple mystery bites you hope aren’t from a brown recluse. Homelessness is using a 5-gallon bucket turned upside down as a chair and then lining that same bucket with a grocery store bag to shit in; it's not being able to enjoy playing with my dog because we forgot water when we were out that morning and have to walk back into town to get it; it's lacking nutritious meals, so when I stand up, a swarm of aluminum gnats circles my head.

 

Homelessness is mind-numbing boredom and smelly feet and isolation and constant hunger and the judgmental stares of tourists passing by in their Teslas. It also means lacking access to a shower when needed, always carrying your meager possessions to prevent theft, and wondering when you go to sleep if that’s the night you get robbed.

 

But homelessness is mostly about losing hope and struggling to accept this is your new normal and wondering how much longer you can continue to do it, or if you even want to continue. For me, being homeless means missing out on the pleasure of waking up at 6 am on Saturday mornings in the fall to watch pregame shows and college football games until 11 pm (GO HUSKERS!) and then drifting off to sleep in my warm bed with a satisfied smile on my face in a house with solid walls and a locked door.

 

It means not being able to enjoy simple comforts and routines that many take for granted, like having a real cooked meal or a dry place to wait out a thunderstorm. It means feeling a constant sense of uncertainty and instability, never knowing if your dirty blankets will still be in the tent when you return from a water run or when your next meal will come.

 

Because homelessness strips away the familiarity and security that so many people rely on for a sense of normalcy in their lives. When your new normal is using a bucket as a toilet in a tent out in the desert, you cling to the fading memories of simple, boring comforts and the security of your past life, hoping to one day enjoy those boring comforts again that you didn't appreciate the first time around.​​