Housing

I never thought I would be the one writing this.

If you had told me three years ago that I would be typing these words, fighting back tears in a public library just to use the Wi-Fi, I wouldn’t have believed you. Back then, I had a career. I had a savings account. I had a plan. I was the person others came to for help, the one who donated to food drives and volunteered on weekends. I was proud. I was independent.

I thought my house of cards was built of brick. But when the medical bills started piling up, followed by the layoff, the foundation crumbled in weeks.

I have spent every moment since then trying to rebuild. I have worked two jobs—sometimes three—scrubbing floors, working cash registers, and taking night shifts while the world sleeps. I have sold my car, my jewelry, and almost everything I own just to keep the lights on for another month. I have swallowed my pride and asked for extensions, I have gone hungry so my kids could eat, and I have smiled through a pain that feels like a physical weight in my chest.

But despite working myself to the bone, I am drowning. The cost of rent has skyrocketed, and the deposits required just to *sign* a lease are thousands of dollars—money that, despite my 70-hour work weeks, I simply cannot save fast enough before the next bill hits.

I am not looking for a handout to fund a luxury. I am not asking for a vacation or a new car. I am asking for a chance to reclaim my dignity.

I need a home. Not a shelter, not a temporary room in a stranger's basement, but a real, safe place with a door that locks. A place where I can stop apologizing to my children for circumstances I can’t control. A place where I can look in the mirror and recognize the strong, capable woman I used to be, rather than the tired stranger staring back at me.

Your help would give me more than walls and a roof. It would give me the safety I need to finally breathe, to regroup, and to stand on my own two feet again. Please, help me and my cousin get a home.