There was a time when I had worn out my welcome at every friend’s house.

I was too embarrassed to ask one more person if I could sleep on their couch. I had nowhere left to go, and no safe place to land.

So I did the only thing I could.

I rented a bed at a halfway house.

I had found an ad on Craigslist—$150 a week for a bed—and that was about all I could afford at the time. So I went.

It wasn’t terrible, at least not on the surface. There were three bunk beds in each room. Men and women were separated. It almost felt like a strange version of boarding school.

Most of the people there were in some kind of transition. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a reason they were there—and a quiet hope that their stay would be temporary.

But underneath that, there was something heavier.

It was a place filled with broken hearts and broken dreams. People walked around with their heads down, carrying a kind of silent shame. It felt like everyone was hoping they wouldn’t be recognized outside of that place.

Or at least, that’s how it felt for me.

Every night, I cried myself to sleep as quietly as I could. I kept asking myself the same question over and over again:

How did I end up here?

What choices had I made that led me to this point?

That week, my daughter stayed with her dad. I missed her deeply, but I was also relieved. I didn’t want her to see me like that.

One day, after spending hours applying for jobs, I was driving back when a song came on the radio.

“Temporary Home” by Carrie Underwood.

It felt like it had been written just for me.

I had to pull over because I was crying so hard. Not just from sadness, but from something else too—desperation, yes, but also relief. And underneath it all, a small flicker of hope.

The words reminded me of something I had almost forgotten:

Where I was… wasn’t where I was going to stay.

That moment shifted something in me.

It pulled me out of despair and back into a place of choice. Of power. Of possibility.

And I got back up one more time.

I tried again.

Today, when I look around at my home—the comfort, the stability, the life I’ve built—I don’t take any of it for granted.

I won’t ever forget that week.

Because it taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way.

There is a depth of gratitude that only comes from having nothing.

There is a kind of appreciation that only exists when you’ve seen how low things can go.

And I am living proof of that.

So if you are anywhere close to where I was back then, hear this:

This is not the end of your story.

It may feel like it. It may look like it. But it’s not.

You are not stuck here forever.

This moment—no matter how painful, how humbling, how heavy—is temporary.

Just a stop on the way to where you’re going.

And one day, you’ll look back and see it for what it really was:

Not the end.

But the turning point. 💜