How One Homeless Man Revealed What Poverty Really Is—and What It’ll Take to Solve It
Brad is homeless. Most people just walk past him. I don’t blame them. He mumbles to himself, sometimes loudly. Sometimes violently. He gestures at the air, at invisible people, debating things no one else can see. But I see him. I feed him when I can. At the very least, I give him a cup of coffee most mornings I work. That’s our rhythm.
They say he used to be a golf course executive—high stress, high profile, high collapse. One day, something inside him broke, and he never came back. Now he lives out here, locked in an endless loop, defending imaginary fairways and arguing with shadows about the condition of the greens. Every once in a while, he lines up a perfect phantom swing.
When I talk to Brad—really talk to him—he’s quiet. Polite. Present in a strange way. But he won’t accept help. Not the way we offer it. I’ve tried. Food, sure. Time, conversation—he’ll take that. But anything that even hints at “fixing” him? He shuts it down with a soft no and a grateful smile.
I’ve come to realize Brad doesn’t want to be saved.
We tell ourselves stories about the poor. That they’re lazy. That they’re takers. That they game the system, drive nice cars on food stamps, live better than they should. And sure, some of those stories are true. But they’re not the truth.
The truth is more complicated, and far more human. Most of the people I’ve met living rough are working harder to survive than anyone I know with a 9 to 5. They hustle. They manage invisible wounds. They navigate a system that forgets them until it wants to blame them. Brad isn’t a cautionary tale. He’s a man. And he’s stuck.
Not just in poverty—but in something deeper. What I’ve come to call a poverty of spirit.
It’s easy to throw money at people and call it help. It’s easy to blame them when that doesn’t work. But money doesn’t reach the kind of fracture Brad lives with. He doesn’t need a job fair. He needs a path. Something slow, patient, and unassuming. Something that doesn’t demand he be “ready” on our terms.
And that’s the problem: everything we’ve built assumes that readiness. Rehab programs, job placements, even housing solutions—they all hinge on the idea that the person on the receiving end wants back in. That they’re just waiting for the chance. But what if they aren’t? What if they’re too broken, too tired, too disconnected to say yes?
What if they just need time?
I don’t think Brad will take a handout. But I do believe he might take a way through. Not today, maybe not ever. But if he does reach that moment—if the voices quiet for a second and he sees a crack of light—I want something to be there.
Not a lecture. Not a clipboard. A path.
A place to sit and be heard without being labeled. A place to learn without shame. Somewhere he could say, “I think I’m ready,” and be met with, “Good. Let’s begin.”
We should be building those places. We should be building an education system that doesn’t stop at 18 or 22. One that says, “Come back when you’re ready, no matter how long it’s been.” We should be normalizing counseling like we normalize coffee shops—places to go when you’re stuck, or scared, or lost in a loop. And we should be creating ways for people to give back even if they never fully re-enter the system. Let them mentor. Let them create. Let them sit with others who are stuck and just say, “Yeah, I’ve been there too.”
The point isn’t to rescue Brad. It’s to build a world where Brad doesn’t disappear. Where people like him have a place to land, or at least a door they can knock on if they ever want to come back.
So what do we do about Brad?
We see him. We speak to him. We give him coffee. We wait.
And we build the path.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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