Help A Dedicated Advocate Find Stability

“I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live.”

— George Bernard Shaw

For as long as I can remember, I have dedicated my life to building community—to ensuring that those most marginalized, those too often forgotten, are held, housed, and cared for. I have poured every ounce of my time, energy, and resources into creating safety where none existed, into making sure that others could rest, eat, and heal. Because I believe that care is a sacred duty. That our survival is bound to one another. That none of us should ever have to do this alone.

But today, I am the one in need of care.

For over a year, I have been without stable housing. My car has been my most consistent shelter. I have slept in random hotels when I could scrape together enough for a room, on couches when they were offered, and in spaces that were never safe. I have gone days without food, without medical care, without the basic stability that allows a person to think beyond the next 24 hours.

This past year and a half has been filled with an unimaginable grief I have barely had time to feel. I have lost loved ones and been unable to grieve them because survival took precedence. I have been violated in ways I am still struggling to name. I was raped and left to navigate the aftermath with no home, no stability, no space to process what had been done to me. I learned the hard way that not all emergency rooms perform rape kits—I sat in two separate waiting rooms, holding the evidence of my assault, before I was finally examined. While that specific visit was covered, the medical debt I have accrued from emergency visits, testing, and out-of-pocket care over the past two years is over $25,000. And I still need surgery—soon—one that emergency doctors have told me I can’t afford to put off any longer. But it remains out of reach. Because I don’t have stable housing. Because I don’t have the funds.

I have applied for jobs across the country, receiving hundreds of rejection emails while watching DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) positions—the very roles meant to uplift marginalized people—be gutted or handed to white candidates who do not live the realities they claim to fight for. I have watched people steal my content, my politics, my ideas—building careers off the work I have been doing for years, while I fight just to have a safe place to sleep. The systems that were supposed to create access have shut the door in our faces. And the cost of that failure is borne by people like me. By people you know, too. People suffering in silence, afraid of judgment, ridicule, or worse—the feeling that there is no hope left.

I have fought to climb out of this situation—on my own, with the help of a small, committed community—but it is not enough. Not because I haven’t worked hard enough. Not because I haven’t tried. But because capitalism, racism, anti-Blackness, and structural neglect push people like me—Black, trans, disabled, unhoused—to the margins, expecting us to survive in impossible conditions or die quietly.

I refuse to die quietly. I refuse to pretend this suffering is normal.

Most people know me for being outspoken about injustice—whether through my social media presence or in boardrooms, educating companies and organizations on the impact of their cultural practices. I have dedicated my life to fighting for others. And yet, for all the love and gratitude I have received, I have also been told to kill myself. That I should “finish the suicide” so people wouldn’t have to look at my “gremlin” face and body. I have endured a level of dehumanization that no one should ever have to face.

But I am still here. And I am still fighting.

I am not asking for more than I need. Right now, I urgently need to raise funds to repair my car, access to stable housing, medical care, food, and basic necessities to sustain myself while I continue looking for work.

If you have a dollar or more to give—anything that would not put you in crisis—I ask you to give. If you cannot, I ask you to share this, to amplify my voice, to remember that no one is coming unless we decide to show up for each other. We cannot live under the illusion that “someone else” will help—we are living in a time that calls on us personally to step forward, to make care a practice, to reject the lie that struggle is an individual failing.

I am someone’s friend, someone’s family, and as long as we share this earth together YOUR community member.

So please, speak my name in rooms where help might be found.

None of us get through this world alone.

“On the parable of the Good Samaritan: 'I imagine that the first question the priest and Levite asked was: "If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?" But by the very nature of his concern, the Good Samaritan reversed the question: "If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?"’

— Martin Luther King Jr.