On November 5, I visited a drop-in center in Richmond; it is a place that offers warmth, food, and a measure of dignity to those who often go unseen. The visit left me quietly reflective.

Some of the people I spoke with are substance users. Others are simply trying to survive another day. I was grateful to see that food was available and that the winter shelter program had just begun. It means that, at least for now, people don’t have to sleep outside in the cold and wet. That matters.

One conversation has stayed with me. I met a Chinese-speaking man in his sixties who has lived in Canada for twenty years but doesn’t speak English. A few months of unemployment led to missed rent, eviction, and now two years of homelessness. His story is not unusual. Many people are just one or two paychecks away from losing their housing. The line between stability and crisis is thinner than we like to admit.

What I witnessed wasn’t just hardship; it was the resilience of those who endure, and the quiet grace of those who serve. There was food. There was shelter. There was a moment of connection.

But there was also a question: What kind of community do we want to be?

If we believe in dignity, we must build systems that protect it. If we believe in compassion, we must act before crisis hits. And if we believe in belonging, we must make space—not just in shelters, but in our hearts, our policies, and our public imagination.

This visit reminded me that outreach is not about fixing others. It’s about showing up, listening, and letting their stories change us.