I’ve got friends from every walk of life. Most are homeless. Some by choice, most not. People ask how you end up there, how you stay there. As if it’s that simple.
I know a woman who lives in the woods. Beautiful. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight. Hair always done, clothes neat. She lives better than people I know with walls and a roof. Then there are others who don’t bathe, living straight on concrete. Different stories, same monster, same monkey on their backs. Meth, crack, whatever. I don’t ask. Doesn’t matter. I treat them like people—unlike most who step right over them.
I’d rather spend a day with a homeless man than a rich one. The homeless man has no reason to put on airs. Survival makes them hide things, but once they trust you, you see the truth. They’re some of the most genuine people left because they have nothing to mask.
Next time you want to complain, or walk over one, remind yourself he’s a human being. You don’t have to give him money. Just don’t spit on him. Don’t treat him like trash. Maybe give him a drink, or talk for a minute. Or do none of that. Just don’t be cruel.
Be kind. To everybody. You never know what hell someone’s walking through. If somebody’s ranting at thin air, keep your distance—but don’t be mean.
Some of these people are my friends. Mental illness, addiction—they’re suffering. But none of them are as sick as the ones who spit, yell, and treat them like garbage because they live in a mansion.
Nobody cares about your mansion or the hours you traded away for it. What matters is whether you’re a genuine human being—and that’s rare now. Everyone’s a con, a thief, out to get you. But that’s not true for most of the homeless. It’s the ones driving the Mercedes you better keep an eye on.
#FromHomelessToHustler #StopJudgingHomelessPeople
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