By Bruce Hensel
Why I Joined the Task Forces
I sometimes volunteered for what are called Homeless Task Forces.
The name can be misleading. Often, these teams exist simply to count the homeless — or as I prefer to say, the houseless — so that authorities can study the issue and perhaps fund support programs.
But for me, volunteering was also a way of exploring whether I could contribute to broader solutions down the line. I went in with curiosity and hope. What I found instead was something far more sobering.
Real Help Takes More Than Good Intentions
I quickly learned that helping someone off the street isn’t a single act. It’s not a moment of rescue, or a clean turn of fortune. It’s a long, complicated process built on paperwork, patience, multiple agencies, and the individual’s willingness to participate.
It doesn’t happen overnight.
And it most definitely doesn’t start with handing someone a set of keys.
One of the first lessons was simple: our primary task was to show up.
Meeting People Where They Are
We went out on foot because cars couldn’t reach the places people slept — deep in the brush, behind buildings, under overpasses, tucked into hillside canyons. We documented where they lived, checked in regularly, offered food, counseling, basic supplies, and something even rarer: presence.
We listened.
The team I worked with was extraordinary — tireless men and women walking miles each day through streets, beach paths, and hills. They knew the names, the stories, the triggers, the vulnerabilities of the people they served. They knew when to speak and when to stay silent. Some had been threatened. All kept showing up. Their courage and compassion moved me more than I can express.
Faces and Stories of the Streets
The people we met defied stereotypes.
Some were calm and grounded. Some were ragged. Most fell somewhere in between — lucid one moment, unreachable the next.
Very few were “crazy.”
Even fewer were hostile.
Almost all were hurting.
If you could get someone to look at you — really see you — something shifted. A connection formed. A small crack in the shell. And sometimes, through that crack, you could glimpse their story.
There was the man who lived at the beach and shaved every morning in the public bathroom. Each afternoon he planted flowers wherever he found a handful of soil, creating pockets of beauty around him — as if preserving dignity through ritual.
There was the woman on a bench in the center of town. She insisted she wasn’t homeless, just “houseless.” Her sister and mother still lived in her childhood home a mile away, but she said she couldn’t go back. The reasons hung heavy and unspoken.
Another young woman drifted through our days like a ghost — tall, blonde, always barefoot, often wearing nothing but a slip. We offered her rides, bus passes, opportunities. She said yes, then disappeared. Again and again. Her disconnection wasn’t laziness. It was deeper: trauma, addiction, something that pulled her away every time she tried to steer toward stability.
A Crisis Hidden in Plain Sight
I kept thinking: There are so many of them.
And this was one of the wealthiest zip codes in the country.
I entered this work hoping to glimpse the roots of the homeless crisis — hoping to understand how to help fix it.
But if I’m honest, I didn’t walk away with answers.
What I Learned Instead
What I came away with was a deeper understanding of just how complex, layered, and painfully personal the crisis truly is. There is no single cause. No single solution. It isn’t simply about beds or buildings.
It’s about reaching people before they fall through the cracks — and having enough hands, and hearts, waiting on the other side to catch them.
