This series is written from lived experience. Posts are authored by Red Conrad, a Co-Founder and Strategic Alliance Lead of the Putnam County Homelessness Solutions Coalition, and other coalition members who have experienced homelessness firsthand. We’re giving you an inside look at the reality behind the myths.
The Myth:
“Once you’re homeless, you can’t get out.”
“You’re either homeless or you’re not—there’s no in-between.”
“Getting out means pulling yourself up by your bootstraps alone.”
People treat homelessness like a binary state: you’re either housed or you’re not, stable or you’re not, “out” or you’re still “in.” They assume that climbing out means doing it alone, through sheer willpower and hard work, with a clear finish line where you’re suddenly “fixed.”
That’s not how it works. And I know—because I’m still in the middle of it.
My Journey: The Full Story
I lived in Putnam County for 13 years before I became homeless. I built my business here. My wife and I built our life here. When she died of cancer, the grief didn’t just break my heart—it broke my ability to function.
Clinical depression locked me away. I could handle repeat customers who already knew me, but every new phone call felt insurmountable. My business crashed not through laziness but through paralysis. I moved friends in who had nowhere else to go, hoping they’d help me stay afloat and maybe give me a reason to keep going.
Instead, on a single day while I was out working, I came home to find I’d been robbed and my property destroyed.
That was day one of living in my van with my dog, Fisher.
The Three-Year Grind
For over three years, I lived in that van. I bathed in it. I parked overnight in the shelter parking lot—before that shelter closed—because it was one of the few places I could do so without getting “the knock” from police. I slept there with Fisher, ran delivery gigs (DoorDash, Instacart) during the day, filled out job applications between orders, and tried to rebuild my business from the driver’s seat.
I had no mailing address. No permanent place to receive mail or documents. Every job application that asked for an address was a reminder that the system wasn’t built for someone in my situation.
I knew where to get a hot meal on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But if I needed help filling out housing applications? Or someone to store my documents safely? Or assistance navigating the maze of eligibility requirements for different programs? Those gaps existed not because organizations didn’t care, but because each operated independently without knowing what the others provided—or didn’t provide.
I’d get referred from one agency to another, only to find out they’d just closed for the day, or they’d run out of funding for the month, or the service I needed wasn’t offered there after all. Every gap cost me time, energy, and hope—and every failed attempt meant burning gas I couldn’t afford to replace.
When people told me to “just go to a shelter,” I calculated whether the help offered was actually accessible and safe. The shelters I knew about didn’t allow pets inside—meaning Fisher would have had to stay in my van alone while I slept inside. I wasn’t leaving my dog unprotected. They were in locations in other counties I couldn’t reliably reach without burning gas I couldn’t afford.
So yes, I stayed in my van. Not because I “preferred” it, but because the alternatives offered weren’t actually viable for my situation.
The Turning Point
On September 27, 2025, Putnam County’s only overnight shelter—operated by the Putnam County Caring Coalition—was suspended due to a magistrate ruling on city zoning and fire safety/code violations. Dozens of people lost their only local option.
I started investigating why. Not as an advocate—as someone who needed answers. That investigation led me to the county grant writer, who put me in contact with Heart of Putnam and invited me to the January 2026 Round Table Alliance meeting.
That meeting changed everything.
The Coalition is Born
At that January Round Table Alliance meeting, the idea of a coordinated Coalition was birthed. Organizations that had been operating in silos realized we needed to work together. By the February meeting, we had a name: the Putnam County Homelessness Solutions Coalition.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just surviving homelessness—I was helping to build the solution.
Through the Round Table Alliance and Coalition, I met key people: politicians, nonprofit leaders, service providers. I learned that one of the co-founding nonprofits of the Coalition was hiring for a Peer Specialist position—someone with lived experience of addiction, mental health issues, and homelessness who could use that experience to help others.
I applied. I got the job.
Now I work as a Peer Specialist at Meridian Healthcare, using my lived experience as an addict/alcoholic, someone with mental health struggles, and someone who’s experienced homelessness, to help others navigate the same crisis I’ve been through.
What “Out” Really Looks Like
Here’s the truth people don’t talk about: I’m still technically homeless.
I’m staying with a friend. I have my own room. It’s relatively stable. But I’m still half in my van.
If you want the full story—the grief, the van years, the spiritual crisis, the pivot that led to the Coalition, and the ongoing paradox of building solutions while still climbing out—I’ve shared that journey in depth on The Red Conrad Show: “Still Half in My Van: The Real Story of Homelessness and Recovery.”
It’s raw, it’s honest, and it’s the story behind the work we’re doing here.
I still keep a change of clothes, supplies, and essentials in there—kind of like my security blanket. I haven’t been able to get myself to completely move out of my van yet, though I haven’t been sleeping in it anymore.
I love my job. I’m extremely grateful to have it and excited that I can use my lived experience to help others. But I’m still nervous about some things, and I’m finding that certain aspects of the work are showing me that I didn’t have my mental health—mainly my anxiety—as under control as I thought I did.
“Fully out” for me would be having my own place again. Whether it’s a home or a campervan/RV I can park at a trailer park or campground. The campervan/RV appeals to me mainly because I’ve been used to being in my van so long, and I like the idea of a nomadic lifestyle—even though I have a full-time job now.
The point is this: “out” isn’t a clean, binary state. It’s a process.
I’m not “fully housed” yet. I’m not “fully stable” yet. But I’m also not where I was three years ago, bathing in my van and wondering if I’d ever find a way out.
What Actually Helped (vs. What Didn’t)
The myths say you have to bootstrap yourself out alone. The myths say you need to be “perfect” before you deserve help. The myths say homelessness is a permanent state you can’t escape.
Here’s what actually worked:
Connection, Not Isolation
I didn’t climb out by isolating myself and grinding harder. I climbed out because investigating the shelter closure connected me to people who were building something bigger. The Coalition introduced me to the grant writer, Heart of Putnam, the Round Table Alliance, and eventually the job that gave me a pathway forward.
If I’d stayed isolated in my van, trying to do it all alone, I’d still be there.
Leveraging Lived Experience, Not Hiding It
For three years, I hid my homelessness. I was ashamed. I tried to look like “just a guy running errands” so no one would know I was living in that van.
But the job I have now? My homelessness, my addiction, my mental health struggles—they’re not disqualifications. They’re my qualifications. As a Peer Specialist, my lived experience is what makes me effective. The very thing I was ashamed of became the thing that opened the door.
Gradual Progress, Not Perfection
I’m not “fixed.” I’m couch surfing. I’m still half in my van. I’m discovering anxiety I didn’t know I still had. But couch surfing is still progress from sleeping in the van. A job I love is still progress from gig work between gas station parking lots. Having a community working toward a solution is still progress from navigating fragmented services alone.
Progress doesn’t require perfection. It just requires moving forward, even messily.
Community Support, Not Bootstrapping Alone
The Coalition didn’t just help me find work—it gave me purpose while I was still homeless. It showed me that my experience mattered, that I had something to contribute, that I wasn’t just a problem to be managed but a voice that needed to be heard.
You can’t bootstrap yourself out of homelessness alone. You need infrastructure, coordination, and people who see your value even when you can’t see it yourself.
The Skills You Don’t See
In the professional world, we value resilience, resource management, and strategic pivoting under pressure. Ironically, these are the exact skills required to survive a night in a car or a tent in Florida.
When I was living in my van, I was managing resources more carefully than most CFOs manage budgets. Every dollar had to stretch. Every decision—where to park, when to move, how to preserve gas, where to access water—was a calculated risk. I was pivoting constantly, adjusting to changing circumstances, solving problems with limited resources.
When a person moves from the street into a home, they aren’t “starting from zero.” They are bringing a battle-tested set of skills back into the workforce. At the Putnam County Homelessness Solutions Coalition, we don’t see “victims”; we see unutilized talent.
I am standing here today as the direct refutation of the myth that “once homeless, always unemployable.” When I was living in my van with Fisher, I was the same person I am today. The only difference was my environment. The same problem-solving, resilience, and determination that kept me alive in that van are the same skills I bring to my job as a Peer Specialist now.
Homelessness doesn’t erase capability—it reveals it.
The Second Crisis: Why Support Matters After the Key
Here’s what people don’t talk about: Making it out is often harder than staying in.
Beth (@voiceofbeth), whose story appears in Voices from the Street, touched on the “death of materialism”—the purging of everything you own just to fit into a shelter locker. When you finally get back into a home, you face a new set of “Success Gaps”:
The Isolation Gap: Moving from a highly visible (though dangerous) community to the four walls of an apartment can be jarring. You went from knowing everyone in the parking lot to knowing no one in your building. The survival network you relied on—people who’d watch your stuff, warn you about police sweeps, share resources—disappears overnight.
The Financial Lag: The first paycheck often doesn’t come for three weeks, but the lights need to stay on today. Rent, deposits, utilities, furniture, kitchen supplies—they all hit at once. You’re expected to be “stable” immediately, but stability requires money you don’t have yet.
The Stigma: Carrying the “gap” on a resume or the weight of a prior eviction. Explaining why you don’t have references from the last three years. Hoping the background check doesn’t flag the trespassing citations you got for sleeping in your car.
The Adjustment: Learning to live indoors again. Trusting that you won’t lose everything overnight. Breaking the hypervigilance that kept you alive on the streets but now keeps you awake in a locked apartment.
This is why I’m still half in my van. This is why even with a job and a room, I keep supplies in there like a security blanket. The transition from “surviving” to “stable” isn’t a switch you flip—it’s a bridge you cross slowly, and sometimes you look back to make sure the bridge is still there.
This is why the R.I.S.E. Strategy (led by Heart of Putnam) is so critical. We aren’t just looking for a building to house people; we are building a four-phase system with a network of Alliance Partners—LSF, Meridian, Veteran Building Solutions, Operation Lifeline, and others—to ensure that once a neighbor makes it out, they have the case management and community support to stay out.
Phase 1 (Day Shelter & Intake) is the launchpad—daytime access to services without overnight pressure. Phase 2 (Shelter Pilot, 3-10 beds) tests operations before scaling. Phase 3 (Full Shelter, 15 beds) provides comprehensive pathways. Phase 4 (Expansion, 20+ beds) becomes the county’s primary response system.
We are telling our neighbors: “Your current circumstance is not your conclusion.” And we’re building the bridge—not just a single step, but a gradual, supported pathway—that helps people cross from survival to stability without falling through the gaps.
Your Story Matters
This is my story of making it out—or trying to. I’m still in the messy middle, still half in my van, still figuring out what stability looks like. But I’m also working, building the Coalition, and helping others navigate the same crisis I’ve been through.
If you’ve experienced homelessness in Putnam County—whether you’re still in it, climbing out of it, or fully out—your story matters.
I’m collecting stories from anyone willing to share. Your journey can help someone else see that climbing out is possible, even when it’s messy and nonlinear. Your voice can challenge the myths, show the barriers, and prove that with the right support, people can and do make it out.
Email PutnamHomelessSolutions@gmail.com to share your story.
Whether it’s a few sentences or a full narrative, whether you’re fully housed now or still in the process, whether your path looked like mine or completely different—we want to hear it.
Together, we build a fuller picture of what “making it out” really looks like.
The Coalition Built While Climbing Out
The Putnam County Homelessness Solutions Coalition exists because people who’ve been through this crisis decided to build the infrastructure we wish had existed when we needed it. The R.I.S.E. Initiative—with its four-phase rollout from Day Shelter to countywide platform—is what I wish I’d had three years ago when I was living in my van, ashamed and alone.
If R.I.S.E.’s Phase 1 Day Shelter had existed when I became homeless, I wouldn’t have had to feel ashamed and do it alone. I would’ve had daytime access to case management, employment support, and benefits enrollment—the foundation I needed to get back on my feet sooner rather than over three years later of struggling and driving a vehicle that is about to literally fall apart.
Now I’m building that system for the next person. And I’m doing it while still climbing out myself.
That’s the truth about “making it out”: Sometimes you build the ladder while you’re still on it.
Related Posts:
– Myths of Homelessness Part 2: “Homelessness is a Choice” — Day one in the van with Fisher
– Myths of Homelessness Part 13: “Homelessness is Unsolvable” — How the Coalition proves it’s solvable
– Myths of Homelessness Part 12: “Service Resistance Myth” — Why I stayed in the van instead of going to shelters
Other Voices:
– Voices from the Street // Beth — Another journey through homelessness
My Complete Story:
For the raw, unfiltered version of my journey—from JoAnne’s death through three years in the van to building the Coalition while still couch surfing—read my three-part series on The Red Conrad Show:
“Still Half in My Van: The Real Story of Homelessness and Recovery”
– Part 1: The Wilderness — Grief, Survival, and God’s Silence
– Part 2: The Pivot — From Investigation to Vocation
– Part 3: The Paradox — Building Solutions While Still Climbing Out
This is Part 14 of 14 in the Myths of Homelessness series. Read the complete series Here.
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