A personal reflection written by Courtney Mabie, Success Coach at Freedom House
I felt the weight of isolation pressing down harder than ever at just 18. The world was unforgiving, much like the turmoil inside me as I navigated my senior year of high school.
Mental health struggles, compounded by a series of unfortunate events, had me experiencing homelessness just as I was supposed to be living some of the best days of my life. With each one that passed, I learned what it truly meant to fight to survive.
I found myself at a local homeless shelter for adults barely an adult myself, trying to blend in with people who had lived through their own stories of heartache. For two weeks, I fought to keep my head above water, juggling high school and the harsh realities of a new environment. It was a terrifying balancing act.
During those two weeks, life tossed its worst at me. I lost my job, the little source of income that had given me a sliver of stability. I experienced a traumatic event that left me shaken and broken. As stress mounted, I began suffering from debilitating migraines that landed me in the hospital. I felt trapped, lost in a world that seemed to have no exit. When I was finally discharged, a family from my church took me in. They offered kindness, but I still felt like a stranger in a new world.
My mental health remained fragile. I faced the shadows of suicidal thoughts, which led to another hospitalization—this time at a psychiatric facility. Once discharged, I was moved to a short-term diversion shelter for medication stabilization, but I ended up staying for six long months due to not being able to return to the former shelter I once called my temporary home.
This time was marked by the struggle to attend school and maintain any semblance of normalcy. I experienced yet another traumatic event caused by the hands of another. I was surrounded by others grappling with their own demons, each of us tethered to our traumas in ways we couldn’t always articulate.
It was within this place, though, that I encountered remarkable people—individuals who took the time to care, to listen, to help. I remember the staff who painted my nails, baked cookies to share, and even bought me a ticket to prom. They understood that small acts of kindness could make the unbearable a little more bearable. With their support, I managed to walk across that graduation stage, my heart full of gratitude for those who believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself.
Fast forward ten years, and I find myself standing on the other side of the journey—now a case manager at Freedom House. I see reflections of my past in the families that walk through our doors. Each day, I have the privilege of helping them navigate their own paths out of homelessness. It’s an honor to be a cheerleader for the children, the same way those adults had cheered for me.
Just recently, I brought a teenager from Freedom House to a school meeting at the same high school I graduated from a decade earlier. As we walked the familiar halls, I felt the weight of what it meant to be back in that space, knowing the struggles this young adult is facing reflect a bit of mine years ago. I could see the potential, and I was determined to help this kid tap into it.
Homelessness is layered; it’s not just about the absence of a roof over one’s head. It’s about the unseen battles, the trauma that lingers, and the hope that sometimes feels just out of reach. I’m honored to be here today to bridge that gap, to be the trusted adult who listens, who supports, and who believes.
I often reflect on my journey and the adults who shaped my life during those turbulent years. They showed me that even in the depths of despair, kindness exists. And now, I strive to offer that same kindness to the families I work with at Freedom House, hoping to light the way for them just as others once did for me. Sometimes, we endure hardship not just for ourselves but to pave a smoother path for those who come after us. And in that realization, I find purpose—a mission to ensure that no one has to face their darkest days alone.