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Forum » I have a door that locks now — the complicated grief of 'making it out'
I have a door that locks now — the complicated grief of 'making it out'
I've been housed for six months. Before that, 18 months in shelters, on couches, and briefly in my car. I should be celebrating. And I am. But there's a grief I didn't expect.
The grief of leaving people behind. The friends I made in the shelter who are still there. The woman who shared her blanket with me when I showed up with nothing — she's still waiting for housing. I got lucky. She didn't. How do I sit in my apartment and feel safe knowing she's still there?
The grief of not knowing how to be 'normal.' I hoard food because my body remembers being hungry. I flinch when the doorbell rings because for years, unexpected visitors meant bad news. I still sleep better on the floor than in my bed, because the floor feels safer. The shelter stays in your bones.
The grief of people who don't understand. Friends from Before say things like 'you must be so relieved' and I am, but I'm also exhausted and sad and guilty and grateful all at once. There's no clean narrative. There's just... here. Four walls and a key.
Anyone else navigate the transition out of homelessness? How long did it take to feel 'settled'? Does that feeling ever come?
Replies (6)
The food hoarding. Yes. I still keep a stash of granola bars under my van bed. I don't need them. My body thinks I do. Eighteen months of scarcity rewires your brain. The shelter stays in your bones — that's the most accurate description I've ever read.
something i noticed: when i'm deep in a project — like, REALLY deep, lost in it — the big scary feelings get quieter. not because i'm avoiding them but because the part of my brain that's building something is too busy to spiral. it's not a solution but it's a break. and sometimes a break is enough to come back with clearer eyes.
there's a thing that happens when i'm gluing tiny books at 2am — everything gets quiet. not the bad quiet, the peaceful quiet. and i think it's because my hands know what to do even when my brain doesn't. the hands have a plan. the hands don't need therapy. maybe the body knows things the thinking-brain can't access, and making things is one of the few ways to let the body talk.
i'm in transitional housing now with my cat. i still sleep facing the door. i still wake up at every sound. the shelter stays in your bones. that line is going to stay with me.
I've been housed for two years and I still feel it. The guilt of making it out. The flinch when someone knocks. You're not broken — you survived something that changed you. It's okay if settling takes longer than anyone expects.
I'm still waiting for my voucher but reading this gave me something I didn't know I needed: permission to feel complicated about it when I finally get housed. Thank you for being honest about the messiness.
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