đź’” “You Can’t Help People Like That”
But What If You Already Are One?
Note: The story below is based on a real conversation, but some details have been changed to protect privacy. The message is true. The disconnect is real. And the questions matter.
I had a conversation recently with a man who once worked in a high-pressure, well-paid profession. He’d retired early after a buyout, now in his mid-60s, house-sitting and walking dogs to supplement his income.
He told me he used to live in one of Vancouver’s luxury neighbourhoods — but even back then, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay. Vancouver had already become unaffordable for most people, even those with solid careers.
When we talked about housing, I brought up Tiny Homes as a practical, fast solution to homelessness. His reaction was immediate:
“I wouldn’t want to live in one.”
That’s the thing, though — he still has options.
Thousands don’t.
Then he said something I won’t forget:
“You can’t help people like that.”
He was talking about people on the streets. People dealing with addiction, trauma, poverty.
He said it “sounded harsh,” but that he believed it.
He listed past efforts like Indigenous-led healing centres and dismissed them:
“They tried that.”
The implication was: we tried, they failed, we move on.
And yet — just moments earlier — he’d said he feels sorry for the working poor.
Maybe he sees himself in that group now.
Because despite a successful career, he’s not living large.
He’s scraping by. Quietly navigating a retirement that didn’t go as planned.
So I have to wonder:
If you feel sorry for the working poor,
If you once lived in a luxury condo but now house-sit to stay afloat,
If you made six figures but can’t afford the city anymore…
How far are you, really, from becoming “those people”?
Since 2016, over 16,000 people have died in BC from toxic drug overdoses.
That’s more than five times the number of people who died on 9/11.
Yet we don’t have a wall of names.
We don’t have memorials, or national days of mourning.
We have shame.
We have silence.
We have phrases like “those people.”
But they’re not a different species.
They’re not broken beyond repair.
They’re not statistics or shadows.
They were workers, parents, musicians, carpenters, daughters, sons.
Many were prescribed painkillers, anti depressants, all kinds of "legal drugs", then cut off.
Many were survivors of trauma or colonial violence.
Many were just like you — until something broke, and there was no one there to catch them.
People say:
- “We’ve tried everything.”
- “They don’t want help.”
- “It’s enabling.”
But what have we really tried?
Have we truly funded Indigenous-led healing? Have we built enough housing?
Where are gardens, art, community ..
Have we ever treated poverty like the public health emergency it is?
What about food insecurity, you can't think right when you hungry...
Or have we simply criminalized survival?
You said, “You can’t help people like that.”
I say:
“You mean people like us — but further down the road.”
Because this system is failing everyone.
Just not at the same speed.
The man I spoke to had every advantage.
And yet now, he walks dogs to make ends meet.
Not living in a tent — but not living freely either.
What if next year, it’s him?
What if next time, it’s you?
We don’t need pity.
We need compassion.
We need choices.
We need systems that care — no matter what stage someone is in.
We don’t need to ask if someone “deserves” housing or dignity.
We need to ask why they were denied it in the first place.
Build the Tiny Homes.
Fund the healing.
Create the wall of faces.
Say their names.
Stop pretending they’re not part of us.
Because they are.
And so are you.
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