My answer is usually some version of:

• Stop enabling the addiction.

• Maintain healthy boundaries.

• Take care of yourself too.

I also make it clear that I’m not a counsellor or addiction professional, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers. What I can do is point people toward resources that have helped me better understand addiction and the difficult role families often find themselves in.

This morning I was catching up on a course I’ve been picking away at, and needed a break. I turned to a YouTube channel I’ve come to value in the work I do. While it’s focus is family relationships, the same principals being taught are applicable to staff and volunteers who are on the front lines of homelessness.

Put the Shovel Down, created by Master Addiction Counselor Amber Hollingsworth, is built around a simple but powerful idea that well-intentioned family members often end up unintentionally making addiction worse by “digging the hole deeper.” Instead, families can learn practical ways to stop enabling, set healthy boundaries, and influence positive change without trying to control their loved one.

As someone who has embraced their ADHD superpower, this particular video spoke to me:

I didn’t discover this channel on my own. It was shared with me by a man whose son had struggled with both addiction and homelessness. He told me it had helped him better understand what was happening and how he could support his son without losing himself in the process. After watching the videos, I understood why he recommended it.

What I appreciate most about Put the Shovel Down is that it speaks honestly to both sides of addiction. The videos don’t sugarcoat the reality of addiction, but they also don’t shame people who are struggling. They focus on understanding the patterns of addiction, recognizing enabling behaviours, improving communication, and helping families respond in healthier, more effective ways.

If someone reaches out to me asking where to start, Put the Shovel Down is one of the first resources I recommend.

No YouTube channel can replace professional treatment or individualized care, but education can make an enormous difference. If someone you love is struggling with addiction, know that you’re not alone. There are people who understand what you’re going through, and there are resources available that can help you navigate one of life’s most difficult challenges.

Kevin is resilient. He’s persistent, he knows how to advocate for himself and find what he needs. Kevin has a good heart. His intentions are genuine, and he cares deeply about improving the system for people experiencing homelessness and making our community better for everyone.

I’ve watched Kevin use his lived experience not just to survive, but to help others understand what life without a home is really like. Kevin isn’t perfect, none of us are, but he’s trying to be independent, stand on his own and contribute positively to our community.

Kevin tries to pick up both paid and volunteer jobs when he can, he likes being busy and exploring new opportunities. One of my previous articles - Fighting Off the Cold - shared Kevin’s acting and song writing talents.

What many people don’t see is the relentless bullying. Kevin has given me permission to share this part of his story.

It’s easy to hide behind a keyboard, making cruel comments from the safety of anonymity. Thankfully, Kevin has learned to put much of that online abuse aside.

But then it followed him home.

A few months ago, people he believed were friends at his new home began repeating serious accusations that, from everything I’ve seen, had no factual basis. Rumours spread. Neighbours accepted the accusations, and even enhanced them into a cruel game akin to broken telephone, without asking questions. One individual, who is not a tenant in the building and has since been issued a trespass order, was the catalyst for those accusations, and others simply followed along bleating like sheep.

It reached a point where I became genuinely concerned for Kevin’s safety.

I insisted he take a practical steps, that no one should ever feel compelled to take, simply because of rumours. One of those steps was to apply for a Vulnerable Sector Check so he would have official documentation demonstrating that the allegations being circulated were not supported.

Think about that for a moment.

A man who has already overcome homelessness multiple times needed to prove himself because of gossip and bullying. No one should have to live like that.

What impresses me most is that Kevin hasn’t let bitterness define him. Instead, he’s continuing to speak up, advocate for people experiencing homelessness, and share his story to educate the rest of us.

That takes courage.

Whether you agree with him or not, I hope you’ll give him the respect of hearing his story before forming an opinion based on rumours or social media commentary.

Please take the time to listen to this conversation. It’s honest, thoughtful, and an important reminder that every person experiencing homelessness has a story that deserves to be heard.

Listen to Kevin’s story here:

Creating Kingston

Kevin Smith: From living on the streets, to running for city council

My guest today is Kevin Smith. He has been in and out of homelessness too many times over the past five years. But now he has a stable apartment, he is on the Kingston Housing and Homelessness Advisory Committee, and he’s running for city council…

Listen now

a month ago · Paul Barton

There were a few too many dogs in the park one morning, so we zigged and zagged to avoid them. My two dogs weigh about 260 pounds combined. I don’t let them “say hi” to unfamiliar dogs because they’re strong bundles of friendly excitement, if they decide they’d like a new best friend, my shoulders pay the price.

As we wound our way through the park, I noticed bylaw officers speaking with people staying in tents. Having spent considerable time learning the City’s encampment policies, I assumed the conversations were following the process the City describes on its website. I didn’t interrupt, I simply observed from afar.

Eventually we wandered into a parking lot closer to the tents, the bylaw officers departed. A woman standing outside a camper called out and asked if I knew one of the men. It struck me as an odd question.

She gestured towards a man who was loudly expressing his frustration, I did know him. As we talked, I learned she was a retired police officer visiting from Quebec, and that they had slept in the parking lot overnight. What puzzled her wasn’t the man, as much as other park users’ reactions to the man. Or rather, the lack of reaction.

Older women walking small dogs, a mother pushed a stroller with three little ones, and a jogger passed by. Nobody seemed frightened, nobody changed their course, nobody called 911.

She thought the man should be taken to the hospital. I asked her what she thought the hospital would do, she shrugged. I let her know that in my experience, the hospital would just release him without a housing prescription.

I offered another possibility, that the night’s rain storm probably soaked his belongings, and he probably didn’t get much sleep. I’d be grumpy too.

I told her I’d wander over to see what had happened.

By the time I reached the tents, the man had already left on his bicycle. Another tent owner told me bylaw officers had been by and given them half an hour to pack up and leave. I asked if he needed assistance, he shrugged and said he’d try to figure out how to move his sopping wet belongings. He seemed defeated.

I stopped back at the parking lot to let the retired officer know what I’d learned, she had gathered a little crowd of observers by then. They seemed satisfied with my report. The dogs and I continued on our walk. After feeding the dogs, I drove back to the park to see if I could help.

The man I’d spoken with was still there, his partner was having a rough morning and needed her medications. I offered to stay with their belongings while they walked to the pharmacy. They thanked me and headed off - him pulling her in a garden wagon.

Not long after they left, the bylaw officers returned.

I walked over and explained that the couple would be right back. Both they and the man with the bicycle had complied with the City’s daytime sheltering rules by taking down their tents.

The lead bylaw officer told me the tents were abandoned. Not just abandoned, he said they had been abandoned for days. I explained where the couple had gone, told him which pharmacy they were at, and encouraged him verify the information himself.

He asked whether I knew the couple. I explained the work I do supporting people in need of housing, but that I’d only just met the couple that morning. He kept challenging on whether I knew them, it seemed an odd thing to challenge. The bylaw officer indicated public works was on the way to clean up the ‘abandoned’ belongings.

I offered to pack up the couple’s belongings so nothing would be lost. The other man’s belongings were another matter. I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t be thrilled with anyone touching his belongings, so I focused on helping the couple.

The bylaw officer gave me permission to pull my car closer to make removing the items easier. Normally I drive a truck, but it was in the shop, so I was borrowing a friend’s hatchback. If it came to it, I was prepared to load the car with soaking wet tents, sleeping bags, blankets and whatever else needed saving, then beg forgiveness from my friend later.

I found the bags for the tent, pole and pegs, and reusable grocery bags, emptied the tent, packed it as neatly as I could under the circumstances, and sorted their belongings into a careful pile beside the car.

While I was packing, I called the pharmacy and asked them to let the couple know that bylaw had returned, and then relayed to the bylaw officer that the couple had made it to the pharmacy and were on their way back.

A city pick up truck arrived, but got called out to another location. Then another, larger city truck arrived. I’ve always found the public works staff to be compassionate and reasonable. I doubt anyone enjoys throwing away the sparse belongings of people simply trying to survive. I indicated to the driver what I believed to be belongings worth preserving, they started cleaning up a little further away from the tents.

Eventually the bylaw officers left, and the man who went to the pharmacy returned. He started yelling when he saw his belongings weren’t where he left them. I walked over to him and pointed to the pile neatly stacked beside the car. His posture changed immediately, he thanked me, and I reminded him that everything was soaking wet and that he’d need to unpack at his next destination and get everything dried out.

The next problem was transportation. How was he supposed to move everything? Earlier I’d spotted a homemade wagon hidden in the bushes. Public works staff confirmed it had been slated for disposal. Rather than letting it head to the landfill, we gave it a second life.

The man loaded his belongings, told me where he was going to set up next, cleaned up every piece of garbage he believed belonged to them, and pulled away. The couple kept everything they owned. The public works staff got called to another location, and I went home. Later that evening, I drove back to the location, the man with the bicycle was there and had packed up his belongings.

People’s stories don’t always end this way. In August, I filed a complaint with the city about a man’s belongings which had been taken by the city from Mowat Woods. The man had gone to a grocery store to get food and come back to nothing. A housed neighbour let him know that they had seen a city truck, a friend had contacted me to see if I could retrieve the belongings.

When I connected with the man, he was bewildered. He had returned to Kingston after completing a work contract, his housing had fallen through, he was supporting 3 children and making sure he kept a roof over their heads. He didn’t know the encampment protocol, he hadn’t been in contact with the street outreach team, he was in shock that the city took away the tools he needed to earn an income and his only memorabilia of parents who had passed away. We sent the city an itemized accounting of the belongings taken, and unfortunately didn’t manage to get anything back. In their response, a bylaw officer wrote:

”I have been advised that belongings left at an encampment are considered abandoned, and Municipal Enforcement Officers would request cleanup of such materials. While I cannot speak to the exact circumstances of this particular cleanup, or to whether the Encampment Protocol was followed, I will be forwarding your message to our leadership team for their review and consideration.”

Not long after this incident, someone I regularly support found me and told me that all of her belongings had been stolen from Lake Ontario Park when she had left to get food. Upon investigation, a parks staff confirmed that a city truck had taken everything away.

The City’s website explains that bylaw staff begin by working alongside Street Outreach. People staying in parks are supposed to be offered support services, transportation and storage for their belongings. A six-hour notice is supposed to be provided while outreach workers help connect people with alternatives. Once everyone has left, Public Works cleans the site.

The incident I witnessed, I saw people trying to comply with the rules. I saw the couple leave briefly to pick up medication. I saw belongings that were considered abandoned even though I knew exactly where their owners were and that they were coming back. I did not see the street outreach team, a vehicle to help move the belongings, or a six hour window for compliance. Without someone standing there to advocate for them, those belongings would almost certainly have ended up in the landfill.

I keep thinking about the economics of this situation. Every discarded tent will likely be replaced by a donor, a charity or even city funded street outreach teams. Every blanket, sleeping bag, backpack, tarp and change of clothing will have to be replaced, these are vital survival items. Identification, medications, and personal documents may need to be replaced as well. City staff, outreach workers, bylaw officers and public works crews will all be paid to repeat the process.

However, the greatest loss isn’t what’s hauled away in a city truck, it’s the trust that leaves with people’s belongings.

Every time someone’s few remaining possessions disappear while they’re picking up medication, getting food or trying to access services, trust is diminished. Every time trust is diminished, the work of outreach workers, housing case managers and service providers becomes that much more difficult.

If the goal truly is to help people move indoors, then every interaction should leave people believing the system is working with them, not against them. When people lose faith that their belongings, and by extension, their dignity, will be respected, we don’t just lose a tent or a backpack. We lose another opportunity to build the relationship and trust needed to support people in their journey out of homelessness.

He is the man searching for treasures among the things the rest of us have thrown away. The man carrying grief, loss, addiction, illness, and poverty, whose story emerges only in fragments during a brief encounter.

Many of us know such men. We pass them on sidewalks, meet them in shelters, parks, clinics, churches, or parking lots. Sometimes we offer a smile, a conversation, or simply a moment of acknowledgment. From our side of the exchange, these gestures can feel small, even inadequate in the face of such profound hardship.

What strikes me about this poem is that it reminds us that kindness is not measured by its ability to solve someone’s problems. The most meaningful thing we can offer is recognition. Treating another person as a fellow human being, a neighbour, and a member of our community whose life matters. A ride on a bitterly cold day may not change a life, but it may help someone get through the day. Being seen, listened to, and treated with dignity can carry a weight we should not underestimate.

Peter Sims has given me permission to share this poem with readers. I am grateful for the opportunity.

Paltry

I keep thinking of him – bundled
against the cold – work boots,
leather and cracked, with bright,
gay yellow laces out of place there.
We were dumping off some metal
at the Kimco site, and he was picking
through what others had left there,
his bike askew against grey cinder blocks.

-17C, bloody cold to be biking
even bundled, I thought.
No treasures in his basket yet,
but he didn’t look like he had a knife,
so, we offered him a lift, as it
turned out to the methadone site.

I see a younger, haggard face – a cut
healing, framed by his upturned wheel
in my rear-view mirror, telling us
he was seeing out the winter in a tent
behind the lumber yard next door.
He didn’t think he had it in him
to make it through another winter.

He’d had work, hard losses, bitter
separations, a dead son, and said,
his big toe was turning black – he
might lose it soon. I helped him pry
his bike loose when we arrived
at the pharmacy and he said thank you.

I keep seeing his face in the mirror,
and sometimes hear a voice, not his,
rebuking us – our paltry help.

-Peter Sims

Lynn Miles - one of Canada’s most respected folk artists, known for her introspective songwriting, emotional clarity, and a career spanning decades of award-winning music - will be performing at the Hotel Wolfe Island in a fundraising concert for Crossroads Village. We’re told it’s already sold out!

This evening didn’t come together by accident. It exists because of the thoughtfulness of Lisa Webb, who reached out and asked if OLS would be open to being the focus of the fundraiser. Of course we were! What followed, at least for me, was a bit of discovery. I spent time listening to Lynn Miles’ music, getting to know her voice, her storytelling, and the emotional honesty she brings to her songs.

One song in particular stayed with me: We’ll Look for Stars.

At first listen, it has an almost fairytale quality, even Disney-like in its tone. Underneath that softness, the lyrics speak to uncertainty, resilience, and the persistent effort it takes to keep going when things feel unsteady.

It made me think about the people I work with every day, supporting them on their journey out of homelessness.

In this work, we hear difficult stories. Stories of loss and trauma, from people navigating their way out of homelessness and trying to rebuild their lives. When you spend your days holding space for others in this way, something begins to shift internally.

Vicarious trauma isn’t always dramatic or immediate, it’s often cumulative. It comes from listening to story after story of hardship, and allowing yourself to care. Over time, those stories don’t just stay at work, they linger. They shape how you see the world, how safe it feels, and how hopeful it seems. The weight of what others have lived through can quietly become something you carry too.

For frontline workers, that can show up in different ways. It can be emotional exhaustion that doesn’t quite go away. It can be a sense of heaviness, or moments of feeling overwhelmed by how much there is to hold. It can also create a tension between the need to remain open and compassionate, while also protecting your own sense of self. The work asks for presence, for steadiness and for people to show up, again and again, as someone others can lean on.

Looking for stars is what this work feels like to me.

It’s not about pretending everything is okay, or about ignoring the darkness. It’s about acknowledging it, and still choosing to look for something that can guide you through. A person. A moment. A safe place. A second chance. Sometimes even just a conversation.

For some OLS alumni and some residents of the Spark of Life House, this concert will be more than just a night out. It will be an experience of beautiful music, connection, and even excitement for the ferry ride over to Wolfe Island (fingers crossed it runs on time). These moments matter and remind people that they are part of something, are valued neighbours, and most importantly, that they belong.

To me, the song isn’t about certainty or perfection, but companionship through the unknown. Holding space for each other as best we can, finding the wisdom to pause before we drift too far, and when the darkness inevitably comes, choosing, together, to look for stars.

What will be will be, as the song says. Life moves in ways we can’t always predict. We win and lose, we build ourselves up and let our guard down, we discover that we’re not made of steel after all. But we keep going, and if we’re lucky, we find a light to follow.

On April 17th, in a small venue on Wolfe Island, there will be music, community, and a room full of people who believe in that light.

That feels like something worth holding on to.

That is why conflict of interest rules exist.

The Municipal Conflict of Interest Act does not just cover situations where a councillor directly profits from a decision. It also addresses indirect pecuniary interest, including situations where a member is a director, officer, member, employee, or partner of a body that has a financial interest in a matter before council.

These rules are not there to punish people. They are there to protect the public, and they are there to protect councillors themselves. Declaring a conflict of interest is not an admission of wrongdoing. In fact, it is a public acknowledgment that a situation could reasonably be seen as a conflict, and that the councillor is stepping aside to protect the integrity of the decision-making process.

When elected officials are making decisions about hard-earned taxpayer dollars, optics matter just as much as intentions.

I am not alleging any illegal conduct. But when an elected official votes in favour of funding for an organization they have close ties to, and refuses to declare a conflict of interest, it creates optics that are, at best, troubling. At worst, it erodes the public’s trust that decisions are being made in the best interest of taxpayers rather than connected organizations.

I watched the most recent Kingston City Council meeting with a great deal of frustration, from a very specific perspective; the perspective of someone whose job is to help protect vulnerable people from bad actors, poor systems, and gaps in accountability. The work I do is focused on helping people exit homelessness safely, which directly exposes me to the damage caused when there are no standards, no oversight, and no independent avenue for complaints.

Before that meeting, two city councillors both asked me a simple question: What results do you want to see from this meeting? My answer to both of them was clear and consistent:

Shelter standards.
External auditing to ensure adherence to shelter standards.
An ombudsman for people in need of housing.

In other words, what I asked for was accountability. Both for the clients who need safe, professional, and ethical services as they try to exit homelessness, and accountability for taxpayers who are funding these services and deserve to know that their money is being used properly and effectively.

In any system that spends public money, there ‘should’ be a few principles that are not controversial. Organizations receiving public funds ‘should’ be subject to clear standards, and those standards ‘should’ be independently audited. The people using those services, especially vulnerable people, ‘should’ have a safe, independent place to bring complaints. And, the people voting on where public money goes ‘should’ be fully transparent about any personal or organizational connections they have. None of this is radical. This is basic accountability, and it is the minimum that both taxpayers and vulnerable residents ‘should’ expect.

Accountability protects everyone. It protects the people using the services, it protects the taxpayers paying for the services, and it protects the good organizations doing the work properly. Oversight and transparency ‘should’ not be controversial. External auditing ‘should’ not be controversial. Basic standards of care for shelters ‘should’ not be controversial. An ombudsman so vulnerable people have somewhere safe to bring complaints ‘should’ not be controversial.

‘Should’. I repeat on a daily basis, to people frustrated with ‘the system’, that unmet expectations are the biggest source of disappointment. Even though I know better, this accountability expectation of mine is a hard one to give up. Especially as I’ve come to realize in the work I do that the lack of accountability across the board is the number one reason homelessness is increasing.

Unfortunately, watching the meeting, it was hard not to come away feeling that protecting organizations was being treated as more important than protecting vulnerable people or protecting the public interest.

This is where trust starts to erode. Not all at once, but slowly, decision by decision, meeting by meeting, until one day you realize you’re not sure how much trust you have left.

Not necessarily because a law has been broken; that is for the appropriate authorities to determine, but because the public starts to see decisions being made that don’t seem to prioritize accountability. They see elected officials voting on matters connected to organizations they are involved with. They see concerns about oversight dismissed or minimized. They see reporting and complaints about serious issues brushed aside instead of taken seriously.

They start to lose faith that the system is working the way it is supposed to.

What makes this particularly difficult is that many of the people involved are, by all accounts, people who see themselves as the ‘good guys’. People who believe they are helping, and doing the right thing. But rules about conflict of interest, transparency, and accountability are not written for the bad guys. They are written for everyone, especially the good guys. The rules are what protect the ‘good guys’ and public trust.

Transparency is not a punishment. Recusal is not an accusation. Oversight is not an attack. These are the mechanisms that allow the public to continue believing that decisions are being made fairly, ethically, and in the best interest of the community.

The people who use shelter services deserve safety, standards, and a place to turn if something goes wrong. Taxpayers deserve to know that their money is being spent responsibly, with oversight and transparency.

Public trust is not lost in one big scandal. It’s lost slowly, in small moments, when the people we trust to follow the rules start to look like they are finding ways around them.

That should concern all of us.

With snowbanks narrowing the lanes, there wasn’t much room left for traffic, or for him. Along the way, a large pick up truck came up behind him and leaned on the horn. Apparently the driver had somewhere important to be, and couldn’t recognize the difficulty the man was facing just trying to get home. As he tried to move out of the way, the truck brushed his shoulder, and his chair struck the curb. The impact snapped the front wheel and threw him out of the chair.

The driver didn’t stop.

My friend tried to maneuver the chair forward despite the broken wheel, it just wouldn’t cooperate. He called me for help. I’ve pushed this chair before, electric chairs are incredibly heavy. I’m strong, but not that strong. We talked through options, tried everything we could do on our own. My friend was shivering, and his portable oxygen wasn’t keeping up, so we called Pat’s Towing and agreed to pay the hefty tow charge to get my friend home. They sent a 20 foot float trailer, and an incredibly helpful driver, who helped me get the chair right into my friend’s place.

The chair now sits broken while an occupational therapist through Ontario Health AtHome works to find funding and parts to repair it. In the meantime he’s using a manual wheelchair, but because he relies on oxygen, it’s extremely difficult for him to propel himself any distance.

A few days after this incident, while helping my friend at the hospital, we ran into another wheelchair user we know. When we asked what had brought him to the hospital, he gave a bewildered response. He had been trying to navigate icy sidewalks, moved into the street, and “the next thing I knew, I woke up under a car.”

Stories like these are difficult to hear. Winter accessibility challenges have unfortunately become as inevitable as the arrival of winter, but they shouldn’t be in a city with plenty of resources.

On Tuesday, Kingston’s City Council will be considering a motion related to reviewing options to clear windrows; that dense ridge of snow left behind when the plow passes the end of your driveway.

The motion requests a high-level review of driveway windrow clearing programs in comparable municipalities and an assessment of potential service delivery options for Kingston, including associated costs, operational implications, benefits, limitations, funding considerations, and impacts on the City’s ability to meet Minimum Maintenance Standards.

I think this is a good motion.

I’ve lived in cities where windrow clearing services are provided, there is something relieving about not having to hack away at the frozen ridge of snow at the end of your driveway after the plow goes by. Those windrows can become compacted and heavy, especially after multiple passes from the plow, and clearing them is difficult work.

For seniors, for people living with disabilities, or for residents who simply don’t have the strength, equipment, or funds to pay someone else to move heavy snow and ice, that windrow can effectively trap someone in their home. However, if we can’t figure out how to keep the sidewalks clear and safe, people without cars will still be stuck. When sidewalks aren’t cleared, for many residents, it means missed appointments, missed trips to the grocery store, missed opportunities to see friends or simply get outside for fresh air.

Sidewalk clearing this winter has been especially abhorrent. Even as someone who is physically mobile and reasonably capable, it has been hard to take my dogs for proper walks. Snowbanks narrow the path, ice builds up underfoot, and sometimes entire stretches of sidewalk simply aren’t passable. I have slipped and landed on my knees and behind more than a few times this winter.

If it’s frustrating for me, I keep wondering what it must feel like for someone whose mobility is already limited.

Accessibility is often discussed in terms of buildings - ramps, elevators, accessible doors - all physical structures which matter. However, the spaces between those structures - the sidewalks - need to be accessible too. If we want a city where everyone who lives here can move through it safely, then winter sidewalk maintenance has to be part of that conversation.

It’s important to acknowledge the impact inaccessible sidewalks have on people who are also struggling with housing stability. For our neighbours without homes, navigating snow and ice impacts their ability to survive, and creates opportunities for cold based injuries. If you rely on a wheelchair or other mobility devices, and don’t have stable housing, winter barriers multiply quickly. A broken chair, an impassable sidewalk, or a forced detour into traffic isn’t just a bad day; it can mean losing access to shelters and services, or spending time in the emergency department.

To the driver of the blue pick up truck, you owe me $140. More importantly, you owe my friend an apology. A small moment of compassion and patience would have prevented the enormous impact your poor decision made on someone already struggling to navigate life’s challenges.

Twenty minutes was all it took.

Standing in my kitchen trying to warm my hands back up, I couldn’t stop thinking about how minor that experience was compared to what people living outside endure every single night in this weather. Frostbite, hypothermia, nerve damage, amputations - these are not rare events during Canadian winters. They are predictable outcomes when human beings are forced to survive outside in sub-zero temperatures.

It is difficult to fully grasp the physical and psychological toll of prolonged exposure to cold. The injuries alone can be devastating. The fear, and the constant awareness that your body is slowly losing heat, that you may not wake up if you fall asleep, is something no one in Canada should have to experience.

Unfortunately, I recently came close to witnessing the worst possible outcome of our broken system.

Someone came to my house, pounded on the door in panic, and asked me to assist with an emergency. A man had been found lying in a snowbank, his skin blue and purple, begging for someone to call an ambulance. On top of freezing, it turns out he was experiencing seizures, he had lost his medications a few days earlier.

When I arrived at the location, there were people nearby - security guards, staff and clients from a shelter - but the person who actually recognized the emergency was someone I wrote about in my previous article An Angel Among Us, a man I call The Admiral.

The Admiral has no phone. When he saw the man in the snowbank, he checked the man, confirmed the emergency, gave his mittens and immediately came to find me so we could get help. He called out to the nearby security guards, but they showed no interest in the situation. There are other legitimate reasons why he chose to find me instead of people nearby.

Together we were able to get the man to Hotel Dieu Urgent Care, where he was treated by phenomenal medical staff. They moved quickly, professionally, and with compassion. Thanks to them, and especially thanks to The Admiral, a life was saved that day.

The situation was horrifying, this man could easily have died right there, within sight of a shelter. Had The Admiral not found him when he did, he likely would have. How is this acceptable in a country as wealthy as Canada?

We are not talking about an unsolvable mystery. People freezing to death outdoors is not an inevitable feature of modern society. It is the result of policy choices - choices about housing supply, shelter capacity, mental health support, and how governments allocate resources.

In the work I have done, in the terrible things I have witnessed firsthand, and in the reports I have reviewed, I have come to a conclusion that may surprise some people.

The problem isn’t that homelessness is “too complex.” That word gets used a lot, mostly as a way of avoiding responsibility. The real issue is a lack of political will, a lack of transparency and a lack of accountability.

We know what works. Warm spaces prevent cold-weather injuries. Stable housing reduces emergency service use. Coordinated support services help people remain housed. Transparent data helps communities understand what is working and what is not.

One of the most effective tools ordinary citizens have is simply asking questions, especially of institutions responsible for evaluating government spending and outcomes. Accountability only happens when people are paying attention.

Here’s an example of how easy it is for every day citizens to ask questions, and get results.

In 2024, I sent a simple email to the Financial Accountability Office of Ontario:

“I am wondering if there are plans to provide an update of the Housing & Homelessness Programs in Ontario Report (https://fao-on.org/en/report/affordable-housing-2021/), which was previously published March 4, 2021. I found the report very informative, however I think the climate around homelessness has changed significantly over the past couple of years.”

The FAO’s staff responded quickly and professionally and explained that requests for new reports must come from a Member of Provincial Parliament. So, of course, I forwarded the email to MPP Ted Hsu.

What followed was a series of emails, a meeting between MPP Hsu and the FAO’s office, and additional research by the FAO. As a result of that process, the FAO released a new report this morning titled “An Update on Subsidized Housing Programs in Ontario.”

Another report specifically focused on homelessness is expected in the coming months.

The new report provides an important snapshot of Ontario’s subsidized housing system and the role it plays in preventing homelessness.

Ontario’s subsidized housing programs - including rent-geared-to-income housing and rent supplements - provide essential support for low-income households struggling to afford housing. However, the FAO’s 2026 analysis shows that demand for these supports far exceeds the available supply.

Waitlists for community housing remain extremely long, with hundreds of thousands of households waiting years for assistance. While the province plans to expand housing programs and increase the number of supported households by 2027–28, rapid population growth and rising housing costs mean that many low-income households will continue to face severe affordability challenges.

From a homelessness policy perspective, the report highlights a structural gap between housing need and the supports currently available. Even with planned program expansions, the number of households in core housing need is projected to increase. In other words, the system is not keeping pace with the scale of the housing crisis.

The report implicitly shows that homelessness is a housing system capacity problem.

When there are simply not enough affordable homes or rent supports available, more people inevitably fall into housing instability. The report suggests that policymakers may need to consider accelerating the development of subsidized and supportive housing, expanding rent supplements, and improving coordination between provincial and municipal homelessness prevention strategies if Ontario hopes to reduce long-term housing insecurity.

A simple request turned into an informative report might seem like a small thing, but it’s how we, ordinary citizens, can hold levels of government accountable.

When independent offices publish transparent data about housing programs - how many units exist, how long waitlists are, how funding is being used - it becomes much harder for governments to hide behind vague promises or incomplete narratives.

The man in the snowbank should never have been there in the first place. Neither should the thousands of Canadians sleeping outside every night.

There is another uncomfortable truth that must also be acknowledged - accountability cannot stop with governments. It must also apply to organizations receiving public funding to operate shelters and support services.

In the case of the shelter where this man was found, publicly available financial information raises serious questions. According to the federal government’s Charity List database, the shelter operator has spent $245,508 on Advertising and Promotion during the period the shelter has been open. During that same period, the organization reported zero dollars spent on staff and volunteer training. These numbers are not speculation, they are publicly available for anyone to review.

While a man lay in a snowbank nearby, staff from the shelter walked past him without intervening. There was no visible concern for a fellow human being in obvious medical distress. It was The Admiral, a man with no phone, no institutional authority, and no formal responsibility, who recognized the emergency and took action.

Solving homelessness will require investment, coordination, and serious policy work. But it will also require something simpler - citizens who care enough to ask questions and demand honest answers.

When people read reports, challenge questionable claims, and keep pressure on decision-makers, change becomes possible. As The Admiral reminded me once again, even small actions can mean the difference between life and death.

If more of us were engaged in requesting information, reading reports, and asking difficult questions, it would significantly strengthen accountability across all levels of government and within the organizations that receive public funding to address homelessness.

Transparency rarely happens automatically, tt usually happens because someone asked for it. When citizens request updated information, push for independent analysis, and follow how public funds are being used, it becomes far more difficult for problems to remain hidden or ignored. The more people doing this kind of work, the better chance we have of ensuring resources are being directed where they are actually needed.

Ultimately, solving the housing and homelessness crisis will require political will, which often begins with informed citizens who refuse to look away.

Watch the video here:

For a long time, housing was uncertain for him. Like many people across Canada, he grappled with homelessness, navigating days where stability felt out of reach and winters felt especially unforgiving. Recently, he reached an important milestone, he became housed. After a long period of instability, he finally had a place to call home and begin rebuilding his life.

Then, unexpectedly, a fire in a neighbouring unit forced him into the cold again. Just as stability had begun to take hold, circumstances beyond his control left him unhoused once more.

Thankfully, this is not where the story ends.

Today, he is settling into a great new apartment, a place that truly feels like home, alongside his two loyal, super sweet puppies. Together, they have begun another fresh start, a well-earned sense of stability, and are moving forward step by step.

His story is a reminder that homelessness is not an identity, but a circumstance, one that many people work tirelessly to overcome. Progress can be fragile, and setbacks can arrive without warning, but hope has a way of returning, often through the support and kindness of others.

We often imagine heroes as people who stand at podiums, who wear uniforms, who are introduced with titles and applause. We expect them to look a certain way, to speak a certain way, to live a certain kind of life. But sometimes the truest acts of courage come from the quietest corners of our community, from someone you might pass on the street without a second glance, someone whose story has been flattened by assumptions and filtered through the unforgiving lens of social media.

There is a gentleman in our city who has struggled with homelessness, whose makeshift shelters; built simply to stay warm and to keep his hands and mind busy, have been photographed and shared online with criticism and commentary that rarely pauses for understanding. To some, he has become a symbol of inconvenience. To others, a talking point.

To his friends, however, he is affectionately known as “Captain Houseboat” and sometimes, with a loving grin and a bit of mock ceremony, “The Admiral.” The nicknames are playful, but they carry genuine respect for a man whose character runs far deeper than the assumptions made about him.

What I know about him tells a very different story, one not of nuisance, but of instinctive compassion, quiet integrity, and extraordinary courage.

Three years before the events of this story, The Admiral completed Basic Life Saving Certification while staying at the OLS sleeping cabin community - a level of training beyond Standard First Aid and CPR. At the time, there was no dramatic event prompting it, there was only a decision to be ready if someone ever needed help.

He could not have known then how many times that preparation would matter.

During the spring last year, The Admiral was biking along Rideau Street. In front of a retirement home, he came upon a man lying on the ground, his stillness unmistakably wrong. The Admiral noted the man as he biked by, and then recognized that something wasn’t right. He turned back, approached the man and found him blue and unresponsive. Clutched in the man’s hand was something unexpected - a large amount of cash and a stack of scratch tickets.

He did not hesitate.

The Admiral yelled, poked and shook the man urgently, calling him back from wherever he had slipped. Finally, a breath broke through, air filled lungs that had been frighteningly still, and colour slowly began to return. People dressed in scrubs, who had been observing from afar, finally came over to provide assistance.

As the man stabilized and awareness returned, he became overwhelmed with gratitude, and exclaimed disbelief that his wealth, $2200 cash, remained in his possession. The man insisted The Admiral accept $20 for both saving his life and safeguarding what he carried. The Admiral accepted it humbly and then, as he would do many times afterward, continued on with his day as though rescuing someone were simply another stop along his route.

Later in the summer, while biking through Belle Park, he noticed a man lying face down in an open field, The Admiral recognized this person as a friend he had engaged with many times. The stillness again felt wrong. When he approached, he saw the familiar signs of blue skin, and no response.

The Admiral called out, and shook him. Nothing. Drawing on instinct, he acted decisively and slapped the man firmly across the face in a final effort to stimulate a reaction.

A gasp followed.

The Admiral stayed beside him as he regained consciousness, making sure he could sit, then stand, then walk steadily on his own. Only when he was certain the man was stable did The Admiral quietly return to his bicycle and continue along the path, leaving behind no announcement and no need for acknowledgment.

A few weeks later, at a community BBQ we were both attending, while most guests gathered in the backyard enjoying conversation and food, The Admiral was preparing to leave and happened to walk toward the front of the property. There, separated from the crowd, he found a friend collapsed and in cardiac distress.

The Admiral immediately called out for help, the urgency in his voice told me to respond immediately. Our friend was blue and unresponsive. I began chest compressions, The Admiral and others provided support. CPR is physically demanding, when my strength gave out, The Admiral stepped in without hesitation.

Though it was his first time performing CPR in an active emergency, he moved with focus and calm determination, maintaining compressions steadily until emergency services arrived. The rhythm he sustained, the one he had trained for years before, helped keep a life tethered to the present. Our friend survived.

When paramedics took over, The Admiral did what he has consistently done - he slipped quietly away, mounted his bike, and continued on, without seeking praise or recounting what had just happened.

Very recently, while riding along Montreal Street, he saw flames pouring from a residential building. After quickly speaking with the tenant whose apartment was on fire, he entered the building to alert the remaining residents. The smoke detectors were silent - or perhaps never there at all - it was The Admiral who pounded on doors, shouted warnings, and ensured people evacuated safely and quickly.

Later, comments on social media suggested the yelling heard outside meant someone was trapped inside. In truth, the voice people heard was not a cry for help, it was the sound of someone giving it.

Once he confirmed everyone had escaped safely, and emergency services had arrived on scene, The Admiral quietly got his bike and continued on his way, as he always does.

These recent rescues are remarkable, but they are not the first lives The Admiral has saved.

As a teenager, he pulled his friend from the waters of the Petawawa River, intervening in a moment that could easily have ended in tragedy. Years later, as a young father, he again found himself in the right place at the right time, rescuing his best friend’s son from drowning in a quarry.

Taken individually, each story might seem like coincidence, together, they begin to feel like something more. Perhaps The Admiral possesses an extraordinary intuition, an ability to notice what others overlook and a willingness to act without hesitation. Or perhaps, as I’ve come to believe, someone is guiding him, placing him exactly where he is needed when it matters most.

The measure of a person is not where they sleep at night, it is what they do when someone else cannot breathe, when a heart falters, or when flames rise and panic spreads. It is easy to reduce a person to a photograph of a structure built for warmth or to a label casually assigned online. This man, who has navigated homelessness and endured misrepresentation, made the quiet choice years ago to be prepared for someone else’s worst day. When those worst days arrived, again and again, he was ready and chose to act.

There are no medals pinned to his chest, no press conferences, no viral praise. Yet because of him, multiple people are still alive, and families were spared unimaginable grief. Ordinary days continued that might otherwise have ended in tragedy.

Sometimes angels do not descend from the heavens, sometimes they carry invisible burdens of their own, and still step forward when others cannot. If Warm Hearts Day reminds us of anything, it is that compassion often arrives in unexpected forms.

Sometimes, it arrives on two wheels as The Admiral - an angel among us.

Her letter in The Kingston Crow is a powerful example of that growth and potential. I couldn’t be prouder of the work she’s doing and the perspectives she’s bringing to important conversations. I’ve had the privilege of seeing some of her future articles, they’re incredible! Expect to read much more from her soon. ❤️

The Kingston Crow

Let's acknowledge, not stigmatize

We often talk about homelessness in numbers. We talk about bad counts, budget deficits and square footage. But today I would like to talk about the one thing that costs us nothing to fix, yet remains the heaviest burden for those living on our streets: “Stigma…

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7 months ago

Being compassionate can feel overwhelming at times, especially when the need feels so great. When I’m feeling that weight, I try to remind myself that heart warming initiatives are happening, and that good community members are doing their part to make the world a little less cruel for those who have the least.

To warm your chilly Sunday, I’d like to share a few initiatives that are warming hearts in Kingston. These are projects I’m proud to be part of, alongside neighbours, volunteers, and community members who believe care matters most when winter is at its worst.

Palmerston House Neighbours & Supporters

You may have heard some of the public discourse surrounding a new supportive housing initiative on Palmerston Crescent. There was a well-organized, and at times loud, campaign opposing the project and the future residents who hoped to call it home. Something genuinely beautiful emerged from that negative noise - a group of neighbours banded together to support the new tenants and model a different response rooted in care and welcome.

Discussing ideas of care from hearts in windows to shared meals and community gatherings, these neighbours made it clear that the people moving into the Palmerston house were not something to fear, but neighbours to be welcomed. These small, human gestures help build trust, dignity, and belonging - essentials for people transitioning from homelessness into stability.

Kingston’s City Council deserves credit as well. At a tense council meeting, they arrived prepared, meeting hostility not with defensiveness, but with compassion, clarity, and a noticeably more supportive tone than we’ve seen in past similar meetings.

With the ever-helpful editing expertise of The Kingston Crow, I recently wrote about the response on Palmerston Crescent:

The Kingston Crow

Opening New Doors: Kingston's good neighbours

WHAT BEGAN as an introduction letter turned into an uproar. When the City of Kingston announced earlier this year that it had purchased a west end home as supportive housing for men transitioning out of homeless shelters, the reaction was swift…

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7 months ago · Chrystal Wilson

OLS Community House

If you’ve been entertaining yourself with my writing for a while, you may remember an earlier article I wrote called StartUps from the Sidewalk. I’m thrilled that we’ll now be able to focus on nurturing the entrepreneurial spirit of people in need of stable housing at the OLS Community House! The first resident; who has also gained employment with OLS to oversee safety and maintenance at the house, braved the bitter cold yesterday to move in and begin the important work of turning the house into a home.

Click here to learn more about the OLS Community House.

Warm Hearts Day: Collective Care in Action

Warm Hearts Day is inspired from the magic of Rebecca Elliott’s beloved Owl Diaries series. In the story, Twinklewings can only make her way home when the forest animals’ hearts glow warm enough to carry her across the winter sky. Each year in Treetopolis, the animals gather on Warm Hearts Day - a cozy celebration of togetherness - to remember that kindness is not just a feeling, but a force strong enough to light the way home.

With Scholastic’s legal blessing, that storybook magic has fluttered into the real world. What began as a children’s tale has become a heart warming day of random acts of kindness, powered by volunteers, community partners, and generous donors who believe in the ripple effect of compassion. Held on Valentine’s Day, Warm Hearts Day is an invitation to set aside roses and romance for a moment and lean into something just as powerful - community love, especially for people who need warmth, care, and a safe place to call home.

Click here to learn more about Warm Hearts Day

It’s important to name the reality we’re living in. Government safety nets are not meeting the full scale of need. Even with additional emergency warming centres and outreach efforts, people are still being left outside in freezing temperatures. This isn’t because communities don’t care, it’s because the systems meant to protect people are stretched beyond their limits and are sometimes missing the mark on people’s needs.

Some of the initiatives I’ve shared here are examples of what everyday citizens can create and participate in when they refuse to accept that this is “just how it is.” These efforts don’t replace the need for strong public investment or lasting policy change, but they do show what becomes possible when people choose compassion over indifference and action over despair.

With Gratitude

I want to express my heartfelt thanks to the volunteers, neighbours, community members, and socially minded donors who continue to support initiatives that warm people’s hearts, not just in winter, but year-round. You are helping create connection that remind all of us that warmth isn’t only something to seek - it’s something we can choose to give.

Anyone who has spent time supporting people surviving without a home knows the truth is messier and far more alarming. The number of people without homes consistently exceeds the numbers reflected on BNLs, often by a wide margin. It has become routine to hear advocacy groups say, “The By-Name List shows X, but we believe the real number is much higher.” To understand why this chasm exists, we need to look at how the homelessness response system is structured, and specifically at the role of the Service Manager.

A Service Manager is the municipal or regional authority responsible for administering the homelessness response system. This includes funding shelters, outreach programs, supportive housing, and motels used as overflow, producing extreme weather plans, and maintaining the infrastructure of “Coordinated Access.” Service Managers decide how funding flows, which agencies run which services, how people move through the system, and how homelessness is defined and documented locally. They are the stewards of the system, think of them as the architects, the funders, the evaluators, and the ones who must show results. Crucially, they are also the ones tasked with measuring how many people are in need of housing through tools like the By-Name List. That dual role, running the system and measuring its outcomes, is where the trouble starts, and why, in my opinion, taxpayers are spending millions and not receiving convincing value for their money.

By-Name Lists were originally developed under the Built for Zero movement, as a way to help communities create real-time, person-level data to drive housing placements and coordinated access. If you want to see how they were meant to work, Community Solutions has a helpful overview of what “quality By-Name data” is supposed to look like.

The original idea was good, a By-Name List was designed as a service-coordination tool, not a census. It helps agencies keep track of people who are already engaged with their systems - people staying in shelters, using drop-ins, working with housing workers, or connected to outreach teams. It was never meant to be a population-level estimate of everyone who is homeless in a community. To be on the BNL, a person has to be known to the system, meet administrative definitions of homelessness, and consent to being counted. Anyone who falls outside those criteria simply doesn’t appear on the list. The tool has a specific, narrow purpose, but over time its role has drifted. It is increasingly being used, and sold to the public, as if it were a complete count of homelessness.

Capturing those in contact with services, the BNL represents at best a visible slice of homelessness. It leaves out enormous numbers of people whose lives are precarious including people couch-surfing with friends or relatives, families staying temporarily in motels or with acquaintances, newcomers crammed into overcrowded apartments or informal housing, individuals sleeping in vehicles or abandoned buildings, anyone avoiding visibility because they fear police, bylaw officers, or child welfare, and rural homelessness spread across wide, unmonitored areas. It also misses people who avoid shelters altogether because of trauma, past bans, safety concerns, unwillingness to separate from their partners or their pets, people who distrust government systems and refuse consent, and people who move frequently between municipalities and never stay long enough to be “captured”.

If the By-Name List is incomplete, you might hope the Point-in-Time (PIT) count, the other main counting tool, would fill the gap. It doesn’t. A PIT count is a snapshot conducted on a single night every two years, when volunteers fan out to try to tally people staying in shelters, using certain services, or visibly unsheltered outdoors. It is one night, one moment, and requires that people look homeless.

BNLs and PIT counts share the same flaw, they measure the parts of homelessness that are easiest to track, they show you the system, not the parts that are most real. Canada’s “hidden homelessness” is believed to be multiple times larger than official counts.

I’m not alone in questioning homelessness data, researchers are only beginning to study how accurate By-Name Lists and PITs really are. One recent review of homelessness data methods notes that, so far, there has been no rigorous evaluation of how close by-name data comes to capturing the true extent of homelessness in a community. Other work on Built for Zero communities shows that the way local administrators manage their waitlists and by-name lists can bias the numbers that get reported, especially when those numbers are used to signal success to funders and governments. The Ontario Auditor General’s 2021 Value-for-Money Audit on Homelessness acknowledge that By-Name Lists and Point-in-Time counts significantly underestimate homelessness, particularly for women, youth, Indigenous people, and anyone who is “hidden” from the shelter system.

The conflict between data and reality becomes impossible to ignore when municipalities try to clear encampments. In Kingston, for example, the City went to the Ontario Superior Court seeking an order to clear the encampment at Belle Park, relying on a parks by-law that prohibits camping in municipal parks. The City argued that the encampment posed safety and nuisance concerns and suggested there were enough shelter beds and services available to offer residents alternatives. The court rejected the request. The judge found that enforcing the by-law in a way that prevented people experiencing homelessness from sheltering overnight in the park, without adequate and accessible alternatives, would violate their rights to life, liberty, and security under the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

Similar rulings have appeared across the country. In 2023, an Ontario court ruled against Waterloo Region’s attempt to clear a major encampment, concluding that eviction without real alternatives violated residents’ Charter rights. In British Columbia, courts have repeatedly refused municipal attempts to dismantle encampments where shelters are full, unsafe, or otherwise inaccessible. Together, these decisions establish a clear principle that governments cannot force people out of encampments when they have nowhere else to go.

Despite this, many municipalities continue to insist that they do have enough space, and they often justify encampment clearings by pointing to their By-Name List totals and shelter-bed counts. The logic sounds tidy to the uninformed. “We only have X people on our By-Name List, and we have X+ shelter or supportive-housing spaces, so everyone could be accommodated and we’re justified in clearing the encampment.” This argument rests on two flawed assumptions - that the BNL captures everyone who is unhoused, and that shelter beds or short-term placements are acceptable substitutes for real homes.

The BNL only counts people who move through specific, narrow pathways in the system. Cities can clear an encampment, but they cannot clear the need. The tents come back, not because people stubbornly refuse help, but because the help that exists does not exist in a form which reflects the reality of their needs.

All of this points back to one stark structural problem - the system is measuring itself. Service Managers run the homelessness response system and also decide who gets counted, who gets removed, when “inactive” means “no longer our responsibility,” what counts as “housed,” and how definitions are applied and reported. That arrangement creates a powerful, baked-in conflict of interest. The same agency responsible for reducing homelessness is also responsible for counting homelessness. Whether it is intentional or not, the incentives shape behaviour.

When a Service Manager must demonstrate progress to secure funding, avoid political scrutiny, or justify policy choices, the temptation to rely on narrow, conservative measurement tools becomes hard to resist. Even well-meaning staff and leaders can find themselves operating inside a system that quietly rewards undercounting and penalizes accuracy. The data can reflect institutional pressures more than human reality. Encampment clearings reduce the visible crisis, and the absence of tents becomes a proxy for “problem solved,” even when people simply scatter into more hidden and dangerous circumstances. A city can make homelessness disappear on paper long before it disappears in real life.

The power, and the limitation, of this measurement framework is painfully reflective in the story of Medicine Hat, Alberta. For years, Medicine Hat was celebrated as the city that “ended chronic homelessness,” after declaring it had reached “functional zero.” Under the Built for Zero framework, a community reaches functional zero when its By-Name List shows that chronic homelessness is consistently lower than its proven ability to house people each month. In other words, the milestone depends entirely on the accuracy and completeness of the BNL. At the time, Medicine Hat’s list reflected a system in which most people experiencing chronic homelessness were engaged with services and could be rapidly housed, and within that administrative framework the success was real.

Functional zero is an administrative threshold, not a permanent cure. Rising rents, and economic pressures pushed more people into housing instability, joining those not measured on the BNL. Encampments re-emerged, shelters reported increased demand, visible homelessness in Medicine Hat grew again. Yet the city is still frequently cited as the place that “solved homelessness,” a neat success story that never matched the day-to-day reality on the ground. Medicine Hat shows how victories defined by internal metrics can be real inside a system while failing to capture the evolving reality outside it.

We have already learned that the people being evaluated should not be the ones doing the evaluating. That is why Canada has Auditors General and Statistics Canada. Governments depend on these institutions precisely because they produce data and analysis that are insulated, at least in principle, from political pressure. The Auditor General audits government programs so the public can trust the findings. Statistics Canada collects population and economic data using transparent, standardized methods that are separate from the policies those numbers will later influence. Sometimes we instinctively understand that a government cannot responsibly set fiscal policy based on numbers it quietly massages itself. When it comes to homelessness though, we rely on the very agencies overseeing services, the ones under pressure to show progress and “manage” encampments, to tell us how big the crisis is.

If independent data is essential in budgeting, employment, inflation, and public health, it should be no less essential when we are counting how many people in Canada lack a safe place to live.

What would it look like if we measured homelessness independently? Imagine if homelessness were tracked by an arms-length body whose mandate is truth, not optics, the way we measure inflation or unemployment. An independent homelessness data agency, perhaps a non-profit coalition, or a human-rights or research institution, could count beyond shelters in a trauma informed and systematic way. It could enable self-reporting and design methods to capture hidden and rural homelessness rather than treating them as statistical noise. Applying consistent definitions across regions, while upholding ethical standards around consent and privacy, an arms-length agency could publish regular reports which finally resemble what we see out our windows and on our streets. Policy would have to respond to reality, not to carefully managed lists.

All of this matters because policy built on incomplete data is policy built on illusion. When we measure homelessness only through what our systems see, and ignore what they don’t, we create responses that leave tens of thousands of people invisible and unserved. Courts can sometimes step in to defend rights, as they have in Kingston, Waterloo, and British Columbia, but sustainable change depends on transparent, independent, and honest data. Until Canada separates measurement from service delivery, homelessness will remain undercounted and misunderstood. Real solutions require real numbers, that means insisting on independence, transparency, and measurements that reflect people’s lives.

This isn’t just a technical issue for policy specialists. It is a democratic question, and that means you have a role to play. You can write to your MPP and your MP and ask them directly whether they believe the same agency responsible for solving homelessness should also be responsible for measuring it. You can ask what they are doing to support independent homelessness data and to recognize hidden homelessness in funding and policy. You can ask your municipality how it counts homelessness and whether it relies solely on the By-Name List and Point-in-Time counts, or whether it has any other way of accounting for people in encampments, cars, motels, and overcrowded housing. You can support organizations led by people with lived experience of homelessness, who know better than anyone where the gaps are. And when you hear comforting success stories that don’t match what you see around you, like functional zero claims, or assurances of “sufficient beds,” ask what data those claims are based on and who controls that data.

They surprised me with my own tray of beautiful, homemade goodies, and another tray of scrumptious cookies for a casual Christmas dinner with people I’ve met on this journey. While waiting for the turkey to roast, a small group of us entertained ourselves playing Bananagrams (the kind of game where the real win is laughter). After dinner came a surprise I didn’t anticipate at all, a visit from someone I hadn’t seen in far too long.

It was the best possible Christmas gift to see him well, housed, and nurturing a new family. Moments like this remind me that progress rarely moves in straight lines. It was a powerful affirmation that healing is possible, resilience is real, and joy still finds its way into the world.

Christmas has crept up to the top of my least favourite holidays. Too much pressure, too much noise, too much trauma tangled in its tinsel. The cultural demand to perform joy, to buy things, and to meet expectations, can hollow out the spirit.

What I do love is the part that can’t be packaged - being with family, community, and the warmth of shared humanity. Heading into Christmas this year, my energy was running low. I found myself surviving vicariously through the excitement of others, hoping some spark might catch.

For inspiration, I turned to Martin Luther King Jr.’s final Christmas sermon from 1967, a message that feels almost uncannily written for this moment. In it, King makes a plea for what he calls a “worldwide fellowship” rooted in justice, compassion, and the conviction that every person carries dignity. He reminds us that love is not sentimentality; it is a commitment to ensuring people have the basic conditions that allow them to flourish.

As I listened to his words, I kept thinking about the work I do supporting those without stable housing, the ones climbing life’s mountains with frostbitten toes and heavy packs, often carrying burdens we cannot see. King spoke directly to the “conditions of social evil” that leave people hungry, exhausted, displaced, and forgotten. He insisted that our moral responsibility extends beyond charity to changing the systems that produce such hardship in the first place.

King urged listeners to imagine the world not as it is, but as it could be, if we honoured our interconnected destiny. In my own small way, through each conversation, each crisis moment, each successful housing application, and each person who finds solid ground, this is the world I am trying to build. This is the world you help me build by reading, engaging, and supporting this work.

If you haven’t read or listened to King’s sermon, I encourage you to do so. His call to broaden our circle of concern feels just as revolutionary now as it did then.

Read it here: https://onbeing.org/blog/martin-luther-kings-last-christmas-sermon/

Onwards and Upwards

As 2026 begins, I hope our world leaders gain the kind of perspective astronauts describe in the Overview Effect; one that makes division feel small and cooperation feel not just possible, but necessary. Astronauts tell us that from space, borders vanish and humanity appears as one fragile, interconnected organism. The view of Earth inspires awe and instills a profound responsibility to care for one another.

This sweeping planetary awareness echoes what Martin Luther King Jr. preached in his final Christmas sermon, that we are “caught in an inescapable network of mutuality,” and that our destinies are bound together whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. King called for a moral revolution of values, one that centres justice, compassion, and the unwavering belief that no one is expendable. The Overview Effect is a cosmic affirmation of the same truth - we belong to each other.

In many respects, the Overview Effect reveals what I’m reminded of every day here on Earth. The individuals I support; those navigating homelessness, recovery, trauma, and the relentless uncertainty of survival, remind me constantly that none of us exist in isolation. Every decision we make, every system we build or neglect, every resource we share or withhold, shapes the conditions of someone else’s life.

Astronaut Ron Garan speaks beautifully about this in his TED Talk. He says that from space, you see Earth as a “delicate oasis,” one crisis away from imbalance, one act of compassion away from healing.

When I think about the people I walk alongside; people who are often treated as invisible, it becomes clear that the real Overview Effect isn’t just something astronauts experience. It’s something we can cultivate here on the ground when we pull back far enough to see:

• how poverty is not personal failure but structural failure,

• how addiction is not moral weakness but a response to pain,

• how homelessness is not an identity but a temporary and solvable crisis,

• how each act of support creates ripples far beyond what we can measure.

The Overview Effect asks us to zoom out until compassion becomes the only reasonable response. King asked us to zoom in, to recognize the humanity in every person standing right in front of us. Together, these two perspectives remind us that when one person rises - into housing, into sobriety, into safety - we all rise. When we create systems or communities where people fall through the cracks, we diminish something in ourselves.

That expanded perspective is what I’m carrying into 2026, a commitment to see more widely, act more boldly, and hold onto the truth that we share one small world, and therefore share responsibility for making it livable for everyone.

To those of you who read these reflections, thank you. Every comment, every shared story, every quiet moment where our paths cross through words creates a community that sustains me.

To those who support this work with paid subscriptions, you make it possible for me to continue helping those who are climbing life’s mountains. Your generosity helps me keep showing up for the people who need encouragement, advocacy, and a reminder that they are not alone on the trail.

I am truly grateful.

The skyrocketing cost of living is pushing our elders, the people who raised us and built the communities we cherish, toward the streets. Let me be painfully clear: the system as it stands today is not designed for them. It is not ready for them, and it does not know what to do with them. As a result, they are being pushed into situations that are unsafe, undignified, and completely avoidable.

Shelters are already strained, but even the ones that have space cannot meet the needs of older adults. Picture your grandmother navigating a crowded dorm-style room, where the staff aren’t trained to support mobility challenges or incontinence care. She’ll end up seeking help at the hospital, will be discharged and told she is safe to return “to the community,” when the community available to her is the sidewalk.

A 76-year-old woman I know is living this nightmare in real-time. She cannot shower independently, has difficulty changing her brief, and cannot manage stairs. She should be in long-term care, or at minimum in supportive transitional housing with personal support workers (PSWs). Instead, she has been discouraged from staying at all local shelters, has been discharged from the hospital twice in the last month, and is currently paying $150 a night, money that will not last, to stay in a sleazy motel because it is literally the only place she feels safe.

To get her into long-term care, she needs to be somewhere stable so she can access the services of Ontario Health atHome. This vital lifeline provides nurse case managers, PSWs, emergency home visit nurses, physiotherapists, social workers, and occupational therapists. The organization’s mandate is to prevent avoidable hospital visits. To access their services, and to get the assessments and referrals for long-term care, she needs a home.

I don’t go out looking for new people to help anymore, I don’t need to. Those with lived and living experience know who is struggling, who is slipping through the cracks, and will bring someone to my attention because they trust I’ll try. Today my buddy, Will, reached out to tell me about three more seniors, all good people who simply need a safe place to call home. When I met with the group, they told me the institutional workers they met with indicated it would be a year before they were assigned a housing case manager.

On their own, none of their incomes can support market rent; together, they might be able to keep each other afloat. I’ve gently asked them to consider living together. It’s not ideal, and comes with risks, but they can’t afford to wait for affordable housing to become available, they won’t survive the streets that long.

This is what happens when we fail to build a system that adapts to changing needs. We push our elders into conditions no person should have to endure and then pretend to be shocked by the outcomes. We force them to fend for themselves in environments they cannot safely navigate - overcrowded shelters, inaccessible washrooms, and streets where vulnerability is instantly visible. Their health unravels, their confidence erodes, and their chances of stability shrink with every day they spend in unsafe, unsupported spaces.

There is a ray of sunshine in this awful situation, his name is Dr. Andrew Boozary.

A primary care physician, a policy expert, and the founding Executive Director of the Gattuso Centre for Social Medicine at University Health Network (UHN) in Toronto, Dr Boozary was raised in a household deeply attuned to social justice. His father immigrated to Canada as an Iranian refugee and his mother was a human-rights lawyer. Dr. Boozary brings both lived values and data-driven clarity to his work. His efforts centre on linking healthcare with housing and social supports for marginalized populations, especially people experiencing homelessness. He recently helped launch Canada’s first hospital-led supportive housing initiative, Dunn House in Toronto, combining health services and housing.

In the interview I’ve posted below, Dr. Boozary makes the case that to properly address homelessness, especially for seniors, we need systems that place dignity, stability and multidisciplinary care at the heart of the model. Dr. Boozary also makes suggestions on what you can do to help in the interview. It’s worth watching.

We need an adaptive housing system, one that recognizes the changing demographics of homelessness and responds with speed, compassion, and creativity. No grandmother should spend her final years fighting for survival in a motel room she can’t afford, no senior should be discharged from a hospital to the street, and no elder should ever have to navigate homelessness alone.

If a society is judged by how it treats its most vulnerable, then our elders are issuing us a warning, one we can’t afford to ignore.

All she needed to get out of the situation she found herself in was access to a phone and a list of hotels which accepted clients without a credit card. I helped her with both, she got herself into a hotel that day, and then 2 days later got herself into a more permanent room. Her new home wasn’t appropriate for her mobility, but it was a way out of the street’s predator–prey cycle.

Another person I worked with, also a wheelchair user, faced a similar cycle. Every time he slept, his bags were stolen, people would cut them off his chair. It didn’t matter how carefully he secured the bags, they were always gone when he woke up.

His solution was tragic but rational, he turned to crystal meth. Not because he wanted the high, but because staying awake was the only way to keep his belongings safe. Say what you will, and to be clear, I didn’t condone this decision, but I understood it. Crystal meth is the perfect survival tool for someone without a home, it gives the person an energy boost and helps keep them awake for days. For many people, substance use on the streets begins this way. Not as recreation, but as survival.

These stories reflect individuals, but they also reveal a systemic truth, everyone on the streets knows they are prey, not just to each other, but to the system itself. I hear the frustration constantly:

• “If we all had homes, these organizations wouldn’t exist.”

• “Workers are only in it for the paycheque.”

• “The system isn’t designed to help us actually exit homelessness.”

The suspicion that support workers are “just in it for a paycheque” is understandable. Trust is fragile. The reality is that those doing the hard work on the front lines are teetering on the edge of homelessness themselves, emotionally exhausted, expected to pour from empty cups. They’re prey to the system too.

Game theory, in the study of mathematics, is an attempt to formalize how decisions are made when outcomes depend not only on your own choices, but on the choices of others. Through the work of brilliant minds like John von Neumann, Oskar Morgenstern, and John Nash, mathematical frameworks and models have been produced which influence fields such as economics, politics, biology, project management, and computer science.

Models like the Prisoner’s Dilemma show how “rational” individuals can make choices that trap everyone in worse outcomes. The Hawk-Dove model indicates how populations balance aggression and submission. Biology uses these models to explain why predator and prey populations stabilize instead of collapsing. At its heart, game theory is about survival in systems of competition and cooperation.

The mathematics behind game theory models are clean, you can calculate equilibria, simulate strategies, and predict stable outcomes. As a mathematician who has studied game theory models, I can see the theories play out in the world of homelessness where others may see chaos. On the streets, survival is a relentless game of calculation where the roles of predator and prey twist and shift unpredictably. Every choice carries a cost, every move signals strategy, resources are contested and vulnerability invites exploitation. Beneath their instincts, logic is guiding the choices people make to navigate and endure each day.

Programs that should create exits from homelessness often manage crisis instead. Shelters, emergency aid, and charity may preserve life, but rarely provide stability. My previous article The Addiction to Free resonates this challenge. Volunteers provide meals, blankets, phones, and tools, but can inadvertently feed the system, keeping prey alive but trapped. And, volunteers themselves can become prey to institutional expectations.

The same dynamics exist across society. Corporations hoard wealth while people live paycheque to paycheque, gig workers hustle for scraps while platforms profit. Predation and survival are written into economic models. At every level, equilibrium is sustained not by compassion, but by exploitation.

In Ontario, we’ve seen how political strategy plays into this equilibrium too. When policies prioritize developers’ profits over affordable housing, homelessness becomes part of the “accepted cost” of the system. In game theory terms, those in power have little incentive to change the rules when their current payoffs are so high, and their developer friends are winning the game exactly as designed.

How do we build trust in a system that has evolved with such skepticism? How do we redesign the system without contributing to the exploitation of the people we aim to help? These are questions I don’t pretend to have fully answered, but I think about often.

If we want different outcomes, we need different rules. Fortunately, unlike deer and wolves, humans can rewrite the rules and choose new equilibriums. This isn’t a theoretical exercise. It’s a decision about the kind of system we’re willing to build, fund, and stand behind.

We could build a system that restores agency rather than strips it. One that treats people as neighbours, not numbers, one that cares without trapping. To get there, we need transparency about what helps and what harms, accountability that values people over optics, and systems that measure whether people are actually exiting homelessness, not cycling through it. At the centre of it all, attainable housing. Without a home, everything else is triage.

I’ve shared my perspective, now I’d like to hear yours:
What do you believe a system rooted in dignity, agency, and actual exits from homelessness should look like?

Something new and exciting has taken flight here in Kingston. The Kingston Crow is a locally-rooted, independent media platform devoted to exploring the stories, ideas, and civic life of Kingston with depth, reflection, and community spirit. It’s the kind of space where stories can breathe, and where Kingston’s complexities can be discussed with honesty and care.

And…. I’m honoured (and, truth be told, a little thrilled) to have been invited to contribute to its inaugural edition with my piece, ‘Acts of Mercy are Alive in Kingston’.

This piece marks a small personal milestone, my first time writing to an editor’s invitation, rather than simply sitting down to write whatever happens to be on my mind. It’s been both grounding and energizing to write within a shared editorial vision, to know the work will sit alongside others thinking about local life, civic change, and community care.

Building on a previous article ‘Power and Mercy’, my newest piece explores what mercy looks like in our own backyards, not as an abstract virtue, but as a living practice. The article highlights local efforts which remind us that compassion is not passive or sentimental, it’s an active force which builds community resilience.

An Invitation

I hope you’ll read Acts of Mercy are Alive in Kingston and consider subscribing to The Kingston Crow as it begins its journey.

Thank you for reading, for caring, and for being part of a Kingston that continues to wrestle with what it means to live together with compassion and conviction.

Cheers!

Chrystal Wilson
Housing Explorer

The advocacy discussions were about a change to tenant’s rights, an end to automatic lease renewals. I read through Bill 60 carefully, and was left confused. There was all sorts of other nefarious shenanigans, but nothing specific about the end to automatic lease renewals. There was however, a little phrase which made me uncomfortable:

“The following are some of the highlights:”

I didn’t want the highlight real, I wanted the full meal deal. So I kept digging.

In a promotional glossy brochure produced by the Ford government, I found the thing which created headlines.

“The government would consult on alternative options on lease agreement expiry
that could allow landlords to control who occupies their units and for how long,
allowing them to adjust tenancy arrangements based on market conditions,
personal needs, or business strategies. This could add flexibility for some landlords
in the approach to leases, potentially unlocking additional rental unit stock.”

I looked through Bill 60 again, phoned a friend to ask them to look as well. We both came up empty handed. So I wrote my MPP, Ted Hsu, to see if there’s a publicly available fuller version of Bill 60 which I could dig into. Of course, this happened on the weekend, so I thought I would have to wait a few days to sort through this conundrum.

But, hold the presses, just after I wrote that paragraph, I took a break for some doom scrolling on social media. It appears Ted Hsu does work on weekends. He released a statement about Bill 60:

”Bill 60, the Fighting Delays, Building Faster Act, was introduced last Thursday. Since then, social media posts have circulated quoting a government document suggesting the bill would end rent control and remove tenants’ ability to move to a month-to-month lease after a fixed-term lease ends. While this is a very serious threat to housing stability, the government is just in the consultation phase. There is no legislative change to tenancy duration as of yet.”

I’m glad I took the time to read before reacting to the headlines.

While I was digging, I looked at the Hansard transcripts for October 23, 2025, the day Bill 60 was tabled, and realized there was other newsworthy activities.

That same day, the Ontario Legislature voted down Bill 28, the Homelessness Ends with Housing Act. This bill attempted to mandate:

• a commitment from the Government of Ontario to eliminate homelessness within 10 years,

• the creation of a transparent province wide strategy rooted in housing-first and deeply affordable units (where rent is no more than 30% of gross income),

• the establishment of an advisory committee that includes people who have experienced homelessness, and,

• the publishing of annual public reports on progress including how many people are homeless, housed, or rehoused.

Every vote in favour of Bill 28 came from the opposition benches - New Democrats, Liberals, Greens, and a handful of Independents. The governing Conservatives stood alone in voting it down, rejecting a transparent and accountable path towards ending homelessness.

A few other honourable mentions occurred…

During Question Period, Catherine McKenney (Ottawa Centre) asked what too few do:

“They work long hours in underfunded programs for wages that don’t reflect the critical nature of their work. Will the Premier commit today to ensuring that workers in the housing and homelessness sector across Ontario are paid fairly for the work they do?”

And

“Again, Speaker, these workers are not asking for special treatment. They’re asking for fairness. They’re asking for respect. Ontario’s housing support workers serve some of the most marginalized people in our communities, and they are burning out.

Will the Premier finally recognize that the people delivering critical social services and supports to people who are experiencing homelessness are worth fighting for?”

The Minister’s reply cited a 40% increase in homelessness prevention funding, $700 million in total. But that money hasn’t reached frontline workers or the people they serve. Without fair wages, the people staffing programs meant to end homelessness are at risk of homelessness themselves.

MPPs presented a petition that spoke louder than any press release:

“People with disabilities are making so little money they cannot put food on the table. We have legislated poverty.”

The petition demand seems simple, double Ontario Works and ODSP rates. Will the government respond accordingly?

Lucille Collard (Ottawa Vanier) submitted a written question about HART Hubs (Homelessness and Addiction Response Team Hubs):

“Would the Minister of Health please provide the key performance indicators being measured to evaluate the HART Hubs’ success?”

If HART Hubs are meant to be a lifeline, Ontario taxpayers deserve to know whether they work. We’ll have to wait up to 24 sessional days for a response from the government to this question.

A Call to Pay Attention

Keeping track of what’s actually happening at Queen’s Park is almost a full-time job.
One I wish I had more time for. If there’s one lesson from October 23, 2025, it’s that the most important decisions for people living in poverty and homelessness rarely make the headlines. Unless we’re watching closely, it’s easy to miss the details that change people’s lives.

If you’re one of those people who already tracks Queen’s Park, could you give the rest of us a heads-up when we should pay more attention? Send me a note, leave a comment, or tag me if you see new bills, discussions, or funding announcements that affect housing, social supports, or tenant rights. There’s too much happening for one person to catch it all, but collectively, we can.

And for everyone else:

• Pay attention to Queen’s Park, understand when the Ford government is saying one thing, and doing another.

• Write your MPP about issues which matter to you. A quick, personal email carries more weight than you think.

• Share updates about legislation that affects renters, people without homes, and the workers trying to help them.

I’m not done with Bill 60 yet, in my next piece, I’ll discuss what’s buried in there, and what it means for all of us.

Kristine spoke from the heart as a woman with lived experience, a community leader, and a proud grandmother who wants all children to grow up in a city built on compassion, not punishment. Her story is a moving reminder that real change begins when we see the humanity in one another.

In her address, Kristine shared how organizations like the Elizabeth Fry Society and Our Livable Solutions saw past her struggles and helped her build a new path forward, one rooted in dignity, recovery, and purpose. Today, she is not only thriving, but using her experience to lift others up.

I am so proud of Krissy, and deeply honoured to walk alongside her on this journey. Her courage, compassion, and honesty continue to inspire our community and challenge us all to imagine, and build, a kinder Kingston for everyone.

Watch her delegation here, and scroll down to read her full speech.

“Good evening, Your Worship and Council members,

Thank you for allowing me to speak with you this evening about the “Child Safety Zone” motion on the agenda tonight.

I’d like you to indulge me for a moment and imagine my grandchildren running across a park, laughing as they chase each other, climbing on playground equipment, or skipping along a trail. I watch them closely, because I want them to be safe, but I also know that sometimes, even when we’re careful, children stumble or fall. When that happens, I want them to be met with care and support, not punishment. That same compassion should extend to everyone in our city.

My name is Kristine Bedard, and I know what it’s like to fall, and to feel like no one would help you back up. I was a troubled youth, and I faced traumas that no child should endure. I made mistakes that led me into cycles of homelessness, substance use, and incarceration. When I was last released from jail, I could have become just another statistic on the city’s By Name List, forgotten and written off.

But instead, the Elizabeth Fry Society and Our Livable Solutions saw past my struggles, they saw my strengths. They gave me support, structure, and hope. I became a full-time staff member at the cabin community. When it closed, I could have slipped back into old habits, but I had built the confidence to choose differently. I graduated high school, I’m attending college, I lead a weekly Women in Recovery group at Elizabeth Fry, and I serve on the Board of Directors at Our Livable Solutions, helping others find their way forward.

What helped me was compassion, not fines or exclusion zones. What helped me was people who saw my worth and lifted me up. Criminalizing homelessness doesn’t create safety, it drives people further into isolation and despair.

I want to live in a city where compassion, support, and inclusion guide our actions. Where every person is given the chance to rise, even after they’ve fallen.

Some ways we can make this vision real include:

• Creating positive dialogue between people in need and those who make decisions.

• Seeking feedback from people staying in shelters to create indoor spaces people want to stay at.

• Developing dignified shelter standards that are safe for everyone.

• Including people with lived experience on street outreach teams.

• Creating places where people in need of housing are welcome, rather than continually telling them where they can’t be.

• And supporting the reopening of the cabin community at Crossroads Village—a place I helped design when I was living in Belle Park, and now contribute to as a Board Member, bringing hope and dignity to others.

Together, I hope we can build a city that treats everyone, children, grandchildren, and those struggling on the streets, with the same compassion I would show my own family.

Thank you for listening, and for considering the lived experiences that can help shape a kinder, safer Kingston for everyone.” - Kristine Bedard

On the surface, this sounds harmless, and who wouldn’t want children to be safe where they play? In reality, like other motions passed in cities across Ontario such as St. Catharines, Sarnia, and Greater Napanee, the motion doesn’t make anyone safer. What it really does is push people without homes even further into the margins of our community.

As a parent, I understand the instinct to protect children, we all want our kids to feel safe where they play and grow. Many of the people without homes I support are parents too, they love and worry for their children just like anyone else. I can say with absolute confidence that most people living in encampments would be heartbroken if harm came to a child. Yet this motion tells parents that homelessness itself is the threat, that people without homes are something to fear. That narrative is not only false, it’s dangerous. Homelessness isn’t a public safety issue, it’s a public health and affordable housing issue.

When we treat poverty as something to be policed instead of something to be solved, we don’t make our communities safer, we make them smaller, colder, and crueler. If one of our own children struggled, if they lost their footing, their job, their health, or their home, is this the environment we’d want for them? Would we want them met with fines, suspicion, and exclusion zones, or with compassion, care, and a real chance to rebuild? Let’s not forget that every person living without a home was once somebody’s child. Many still are somebody’s parent, sibling, or friend. When we create policies that punish people for their poverty, we’re teaching our children that empathy has limits, that safety is reserved only for those who can afford it.

Kingston’s housing and homelessness system is already dysfunctional, a revolving door that traps people, destroys trust and erodes dignity. We don’t need more laws that push people around, we need real options for safe, indoor spaces to rest, regroup and feel at home.

In my earlier piece, Shelters Are a Part of Our Neighbourhood, I talked about the urgent need for shelter standards. Imagine being told to “go to a shelter”, only to find no showers, no laundry, and unsafe conditions. Imagine having to sleep in the same filthy clothes night after night because the only place you’re allowed to go doesn’t even have basic hygiene facilities. That’s not care, it’s cruelty. This is the stuff the city should be focused on fixing.

If the city is serious about this “Child Safety Zone” proposal, then it should have the courage to show us exactly what it means. In Napanee, a map was produced to show what the exclusion zones look like around parks and playgrounds. Kingston should do the same, because once you draw those circles, it becomes painfully clear - there will be nowhere left for people to go.

Kingston’s own Open Data map of playgrounds shows they’re spread across nearly every neighbourhood. Add the buffers, and you effectively banish people without homes from almost all public spaces. So where should they try to survive? The motion doesn’t say, because as usual, that part hasn’t been thought through.

Napanee’s exclusion zones add an extra layer of ridiculousness with 5m, 20m, 30m, 50m, 85m, and 100m buffer zones, depending on the thing designated as ‘sensitive’. Are they also handing out measuring tapes to the people affected by these exclusion zones? I really have to wonder about the competency of the people who drum up these kinds of rules. Do they have any idea what it’s like to be without a home?

Let’s not forget that the City of Kingston:

• recently approved ‘Special Constables’, giving By-Law Officers additional policing powers,

• has been enforcing the ‘Community Engagement Substance Use Support Initiative – Open Air Drug Use’ with apparent success, and

• funds dedicated Police and By-Law Officers to provide foot patrols downtown.

With bylaw officers already stretched thin and policing resources maxed out, who exactly will patrol these buffer zones? How many officers will we divert to chase people from one park to another? If we have money to police poverty, we have money to end it. Why not invest those funds into supportive housing, or dignified shelters that people would actually choose to stay in?

This kind of motion doesn’t just hurt people without homes, it also punishes landowners. The city has already been fining property owners around the Montreal and Railway Street areas for encampments on their land, even as existing city policy pushes people there. If these buffer zones are approved, those pressures will only increase, forcing more people onto private property and creating conflict where compassion should be.

For people with housing, there are problems. Some playgrounds sit within 50 metres of residential buildings, does that mean increased police presence near their homes? Could this allow search and seizure on private property? If your yard is within 50 metres of a playground, will you be able to stand on your own property to smoke a legal joint?

The motion suggests the concept aligns with trauma-informed and housing-first principles, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Trauma-informed care means meeting people where they are, not pushing them away. It means creating stability, safety, and dignity as the foundation for recovery. You can’t tell people to heal while taking away the few places where they feel safe. When we create exclusion zones, we aren’t being trauma-informed, we’re retraumatizing people who have already experienced more loss than most of us can imagine.

Beyond compassion, there are also serious ethical and human rights concerns. Any policy that targets people based on their housing status is discriminatory and risks violating both Charter and human rights protections. More than a legal issue, this is a moral one. This motion isn’t about protecting children; it’s about protecting comfort. It’s easier to move vulnerable people out of sight than to fix the systems that failed them. If Council passes this, Kingston will become yet another city where survival itself is criminalized, where people are told they have no place to go, and where our collective humanity grows smaller as a result.

Take Action

If this motion concerns you, and it should, please take a few minutes to make your voice heard:

1. Write or call your City Councillor before Tuesday’s meeting.

   • You can find their contact information here.

   • Tell them you oppose exclusion zones and support investments in housing, shelter standards, and trauma-informed care.

   • Challenge them to work with their constituents to find safe space in their district where people without homes can go.

2. Share this article. Let others know what’s happening and why it matters.

3. Attend the Council meeting on Tuesday if you can. Your presence, in person or virtually, matters.

When a city tells its most vulnerable people they have no place to go, it’s up to the rest of us to stand up and say: That’s not who we are. If we want children to grow up in a safe city, then we need to build one that values every life, housed or unhoused.