“I’ve never told anyone this, but I was homeless as a teenager,” a genderqueer person whispered to me, their voice low and cautious. They wore a pressed button-down shirt and jeans—an outfit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a business casual office. They blended seamlessly into the crowd at the big-city West Coast bookstore where I was reading. Their eyes darted around the room, ensuring no one else could overhear.
I was on my first book tour for Kicked Out, an anthology of stories from current and former homeless LGBTQ youth. As they handed me their dog-eared copy to sign, our hands brushed briefly. I can still hear the shame in their voice, the weight of their confession.
While I felt grateful that my book had resonated so deeply with so many, I was also struck by how many readers carried a sense of shame about their experiences with housing instability. It was both humbling and heartbreaking.
As a formerly homeless teenager, of course I realize the stigma that homelessness carries in our society, but the deep personal embarrassment about this experience continues to surprise me, especially within queer communities. Homelessness was never something I personally felt ashamed of. After I was kicked out of my house in high school, I couch surfed my way through senior year. I found community, home, and family within communities of queer punks. I did not hide the fact that I was homeless, and neither did my community of queer friends. We talked openly about our experiences and saw them as part of the connective reality of being queer. It wasn’t until later, during my book tour, that I realized how hidden this epidemic of shame was.
The first Christmas after I was kicked out, I remember awkwardly attending a friend’s family gathering and feeling both grateful for the invite but more out of place than festive. It was uncomfortable watching my friend with her family. They were all so kind, but I felt even more alone with them. They asked me what had happened with my family. I wasn’t necessarily embarrassed about not having a home, but I didn’t want to have to explain my situation to people who didn’t understand. I wanted to spend the holidays with others who had similar experiences. I wanted to be with people who understood how I felt. I didn’t want to deal with other people’s pity.
That night, I went to the drop-in center with the other homeless queer kids. The drop-in center was where I felt most comfortable, most at home. Amongst family. I didn’t feel alone like I did at my friend’s house. I finally felt some holiday spirit. We ate noodles in cups, exchanged handmade gifts, zines, and drawings. We curled up on collapsing couches and held each other. We sang Christmas songs “Don we now our GAY apparel” and dyed our hair in the bathroom. We put together our “fancy” (read: punk and crusty) outfits for the occasion by sharing clothes, accessories, and raiding the donations. I wore my best work pants and button down cowboy shirt. When we were together, it was okay to cry for what we lost. It was okay to curse about the people who had wronged us. Things felt okay. We weren’t ashamed because we were together.
In my 20s, I deepened my work with homeless LGBTQ+ youth as the program director at a drop-in center in NYC. There, I saw the pervasive stigma around LGBTQ+ homelessness—fears of judgment that were often justified. In 2011, I partnered with the now-disbanded Queers for Economic Justice (QEJ) to facilitate “Shelter Stories,” writing workshops for homeless LGBTQ+ adults. Participants shared powerful stories of rejection by family and the broader LGBTQ+ community, their struggles to meet basic needs, and the love and support they found in chosen families. Many wrote about feeling invisible within the LGBTQ+ community, where homelessness and class often made them unwelcome or ignored. For long-term homeless adults, their experiences were impossible to hide, further isolating them.
I hadn’t experienced deep personal shame, thanks to my community at the drop-in center, but I later realized I was in the minority.
Homelessness impacts our queer community in epidemic and profound ways, and yet, we don’t talk about it nearly enough. The LGBTQ+ community as a whole is overrepresented amongst populations of people experiencing homelessness. A 2020 study by the UCLA Williams Institute found that LGBTQ+ adults are twice as likely as their cisgender and straight peers to experience homelessness. While none of us can wave a magic wand and solve LGBTQ+ homelessness by ending homophobia and transphobia and addressing all the systemic structural issues that lead to the astronomical numbers of LGBTQI folks sleeping, sometimes literally, on the streets, is beyond any one person’s ability to fix overnight, we are not powerless.
Drop-in centers can be lifesaving and transformative for LGBTQ+ homeless individuals, especially during the holidays. These spaces provide more than just shelter—they foster a sense of community and belonging that can reduce shame and change lives. For me, the support I found at a drop-in center played a significant role in why I’ve never felt ashamed of my experience with homelessness.
This holiday season—and year-round—consider how you can support drop-in centers and other programs that serve unhoused LGBTQ+ individuals in your local community. Whether it’s donating to these organizations, contributing to grassroots queer mutual aid groups, or volunteering your time, there are countless ways to help. In challenging times, these centers offer more than tangible resources—they provide the emotional support and community connection that many of us take for granted.
You can make a difference by donating hygiene products, sharing food, or simply spending time at these centers to connect with those who rely on them. Sometimes, just being present and listening can go a long way. A lot has changed in my life since that Christmas at the drop-in center, but I’ll never forget the magic and love I found there—a sense of belonging that erased shame and made the holidays truly meaningful.
