The following night, my phone rang. Marcy’s voice shook as she told me Jennie had run away. Again, my heart sank. Again, after everything, Jennie was alone, at risk, and running.
It’s easy to feel defeated in these moments. But then I remembered Jennie’s words from the night before: “Please don’t give up on me.”
After a deep sigh, I silently promised Jennie that I—that we—wouldn’t.
Emergency Shelter Care isn’t about some textbook definition of “success.” It’s about being there—even for just one night and even when it’s hard. Because for a youth, that one night of safety, food, warmth, and compassion makes a difference every time. One night tells them that they are important, that people care, and that they are worth being cared for, of living safely, of not being alone.
Two nights after Jennie ran, Regina called me again. She told me that Jennie had reached out, and that she was ready to try again. I sent up a silent word of thanks, and assured Regina that Pete, Marcy and I would be ready and waiting for Jennie, just like we promised.
This is the core of Emergency Shelter Care: unpredictable, exhausting, sometimes heartbreaking, and yet profoundly important. For youth like Jennie, who’ve endured unthinkable trauma, shelter homes are often the only place where true safety and comfort can be found; their only island of stability in a sea of chaos.
We can’t erase Jennie’s past. We can’t force her to stay in a home and embrace the opportunity to heal that we’re offering her. But we can show up—again and again and again—until Jennie trusts us enough to stop running.
Because it is worth it, even if we only get one night. Because eventually, that one night of safety will change everything.
All names and details changed for confidentiality.
