Yesterday, I sat across from Richmond City Councilor Carol Day at a local coffee shop, just two people, two cups of coffee, and a shared concern for our community. What unfolded was not a political transaction, but a human exchange.

Carol has been accused by some of selling drugs to those struggling with addiction, a claim as inflammatory as it is dehumanizing. These portrayals reduce complex realities to caricature and cast people as villains in a narrative that thrives on fear. But in our conversation, I encountered someone quite different: a woman who listens, who reaches out, and who genuinely cares. We spoke not in slogans, but in stories. Not in abstractions, but in the gritty, complex realities of homelessness, addiction, and public fear.

We both care deeply about those living on the margins—those without homes, those caught in cycles of substance use. They are not problems to be solved or threats to be contained. They are human beings. And yet, we also recognize that the fears many residents carry, about safety, stability, and cultural continuity, are not imaginary. They are real, and they deserve to be acknowledged with honesty, not dismissed with shame.

What struck me most was our shared conviction: that it is possible to hold space for both compassion and caution. We can advocate for housing initiatives that are well-managed, transparent, and rooted in safety and support. We can reject stigma and fear without ignoring the legitimate concerns of families and elders. We can speak truthfully about trauma, both the trauma of those unhoused and addicted, and the trauma felt by communities unsure of how to respond.

Homelessness and addiction are not moral failures or civic threats. They are human challenges that call for collective care. And collective care begins with listening. It begins with conversations like the one I had with Carol—conversations that refuse to flatten people into caricatures, and instead invite us to see each other more fully.

In a time of polarization, I’m grateful for moments of nuance. For leaders who show up not just in council chambers, but in coffee shops. For the possibility that we can move beyond fear and toward healing, together.