This First Person column is the experience of Terri Singer, who lives in Halifax. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
There was a time not so very long ago when we were just your average Canadian family. A mom, a dad, three children. We rented a four-bedroom house in the cozy little town of Truro, N.S. We lived in that home for over four years and had a wonderful community of family and friends living nearby.
I worked as a sales and events co-ordinator at a hotel. It was a job I loved and I looked forward to seeing my clients and colleagues every day. My husband had been a cook, but was let go from his job and was seeking mental health support with endless waitlists. We had been trying to save for a down payment on a home, but that became impossible on my single income.
When we received our eviction notice in August 2023, my blood ran cold. I couldn’t breathe. Our landlord had sold the property and the new owner intended to live in the space. As a result, in two short months, our home would no longer be ours.
Two months is not nearly long enough to find a home during a housing crisis. Rental prices for listings often exceeded my income by at least $300 each month and many landlords were hesitant to rent to us, given that we had children and pets.
Eviction day felt like a cruel joke
Eventually, our time ran out. Our eviction day felt like a cruel joke. As we packed up our home, the cold finality washed over us as we remembered the years of memories we were leaving behind: our children’s first words, first days of school, excited Christmas mornings and Easter egg hunts and so much more, never to be enjoyed in this space again. The laughter and joy that once filled each room were now replaced with the uncertainty of the future looming over us like a shadow. None of us could believe we were now homeless.
We moved into a hotel that October. Imagine a family of five living out of one bedroom with two queen-sized beds, a 55-inch smart TV, a microwave, a mini fridge and a coffeemaker. We kept telling our children we would find something “soon,” but each day it felt more and more like a lie.
Two weeks after we became homeless, my five-year-old son broke down crying.
“I just want a real home again,” he told me with tears flooding his face. It broke my heart. We were doing absolutely everything in our power to give him and his siblings just that — a basic human right — and it felt impossible to do.
Our grocery bill nearly tripled instantly. Without a kitchen, we couldn’t make food easily and had to buy more expensive ready-made meals. There comes a point when even the most basic of meals, like salad or ramen noodles, lose their appeal.
After four months of living in a hotel room, we made the difficult decision to relocate to Halifax, where we hoped we would find more resources, and moved in temporarily with extended family who offered to help. I had to make the heartbreaking decision to leave the job and colleagues I loved because I could not commute from Halifax to Truro.
Living with family wasn’t a long-term solution, and we often felt we were in the way of another’s family space. So my husband and I frantically continued searching for a home. Twenty unanswered emails quickly become 200. There were so few rentals available and prices were far above what they had been before the pandemic.
We called shelters daily until finally, we were provided a hotel room through a contract held by a shelter diversion program — truly a saving grace. We had a single room again, and some semblance of privacy, if not dignity and respect.
A hotel room is not a home
Even though we were grateful for the stability, a hotel room is not a home. It felt like a gilded prison of sorts, where we could see others come and go, knowing they had a home to return to. Eventually, the stress took a severe toll on my mental health, leading to a breakdown that required me to go on disability.
The loss of our home, then my job and the compounded stress of our situation became too much to bear. There were many nights we would soothe the tears of our children, who felt shame and embarrassment about our situation, and we felt helpless to protect them from the stigma and judgment we all faced, simply from being homeless through no fault of our own.
Facing homelessness also meant confronting societal stigma. We felt judged and looked down upon as if our homelessness was a result of personal failure rather than a systemic issue.
Luckily for us, there was hope. After nearly a year in the hotel, we were offered the opportunity to move into supportive housing in January 2025. We have a four-bedroom apartment, allowing each of my three children privacy and stability, without feeling boxed in. They have space to roam, to play, to be kids.
When we moved in, I let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The difference in my children since we moved in has been night and day. They have begun to thrive with the freedom, free from the shame and embarrassment of true homelessness. They no longer have to hide that they live in a hotel and all the questions that come with having a hotel for a home address. They have a place that feels like home.
Reflecting on our journey, I’ve come to realize the importance of empathy and understanding. Housing is a human right, yet many are still without it. Homelessness is not a choice. You could do everything right and still have the rug pulled out from under you.
While I still see and feel the effects of the trauma we all faced, I know that each day we will regain some of the hope we had lost. We are lucky; we never had to sleep outside and brave the sub-zero temperatures of a Canadian winter. We have the space to breathe again.
In Halifax’s tight housing market some landlords have implemented ‘no kids’ policies, leaving parents struggling to find a place to live and no recourse to get the rule overturned.
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