How I Found Inner Strength Amidst Brokenness and Being Unhoused

In 2019, my life took a sharp detour from romantic bliss to solo survival, trading shared sheets for the stiff seats of Lestat’s, a 24-hour coffeehouse on University Avenue in San Diego. Here, among an eclectic brew of students, bohemians, and drifters, I found shelter along with an outlet for my dwindling spirit.

Each night, the café was a carnival of humanity: drag queens, the high, the homeless. Its vibrant chaos became my makeshift home after my relationship capsized. At Lestat’s, I performed nightly rituals—bird baths in the restroom, changing clothes, and reading a book silently at my table over some tea

By 10:00 pm, having secured a coveted seat, I would strategize how best to stay awake during the night. As we entered into the wee hours of the morning, the place became busier and busier, particularly on weekend nights after the bars and clubs closed. 

I’d ground myself amidst the chatter and clatter, watching over my meager possessions like a hawk. The venue was more than a coffeehouse; it was an observatory, a community hub, a refuge. From one seat, the world seemed both expansive and suffocating.

On nights when the weight of my situation grew unbearable, I'd shift to the Park Avenue location, a darker, more cavernous counterpart, where I could maybe catch a quick, unnoticed snooze. If funds allowed, earlier evenings were spent at another coffeehouse down the way called Twigs, enjoying the bohemian vibe, oatmeal cookies, and the best salads in town.

The man at the Lestat’s order counter at the University Avenue location, Brent, with whom I shared nods of understanding, occasionally let me slide on paying. Bald from cancer battles, his gaunt frame was a stark bulletin of life’s harsher battles.

Peering out from my societal sidelines at a cafe table, I remembered my days as a sociology undergrad, fascinated by the narratives that filled the room. People’s stories unfolded silently around me—tales of despair, whispers of hope.

One night, a young man like myself approached, desperation written in his steps. Initially annoyed, my heart softened when I saw blood trailing from his leg—a painful souvenir from a barbed wire fence he’d tried to scale. Reality reared, reminding me how close we all were to physical and existential wounds. I convinced him to get medical help, my last few dollars a trivial offer against the cost of his unattended wounds.

Another evening, a silent artist in the corner sketched with a fervor that could rival the Renaissance masters. His focus was impenetrable, his talent immense. I attempted conversation, curious about the mind behind the pencil, but he remained an island, absorbed in his art.

Following a tip from Brent, I sought refuge at a nearby Buddhist center, only to be met with suspicion and scorn—a reminder that not all sanctuaries are welcoming, not all those who preach compassion practice it.

By dawn each day, the world reset itself, and so did I. Dressed incongruously in a sports jacket and fine shoes, I maintained the façade of an itinerant journalist tasked with capturing observations of the human spirit, forever the observer, rarely at rest.

This life, transient and unpredictable, taught me the essence of the Tao Te Ching's wisdom — how the sage travels without destination, understanding that the path itself is the lesson. Amidst the ephemeral, there is profound truth in simply witnessing, learning, and moving through the world without attachment.

Thus, from the rugged streets of San Diego to the quiet, reflective moments before sunrise, I lived not just on the edge of society, but on the precipice of enlightenment, where every hardship polished my understanding of the transient, beautiful struggle that is life.

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