In 2022, I was a 22-year-old who lived on my own in West Dundee. I worked full-time at Flender Corporation as a wind turbine technician testing gearboxes. In my eyes, I lived pretty comfortably making $20-21 an hour. 

I rented a two-story townhome and gated community for $1,350 a month. It was in the middle of nowhere, quiet, and safe. This was the kind of environment I wanted to be in. I had been in a rambunctious community before. I wanted to be in a quiet space where I could do my schoolwork because I was taking four classes. 

Life was good. 

During the summer of that year, inflation hit. 

All of my bills went up: phone, ComEd, food. I was the only one paying all of these things, so I noticed this probably before people who had assistance paying. 

I had to conserve.

When food costs increased, I took frozen dinners to work because it was cheaper than cooking. I used to give my dog, Korona, soft, healthy food, but I had to switch her to Kibble, a dry dog food, because it was a lot cheaper.

For me, that’s when I started to feel inadequate or that something was wrong with me. I was still spending money and saving money the same, but my costs were increasing exponentially. 

The management company for my townhome changed, and my rent increased to $1550, during this time. I frantically looked for a new and cheaper place to live before my lease ended in October.

I felt landlords had unrealistic expectations. They wanted perfect work history, a perfect credit score, two to three months worth of rent before the lease started. And many were not pet-friendly for a therapy dog, which I possessed.

I probably called every rental place in Elgin and surrounding areas. I called them all; I even called places for the elderly. But, they all had a reason to deny me.

Me, being a veteran, didn’t help at all. They didn’t care. If I didn’t meet their qualifications, I was disqualified and never received a call back. 

Around this time, I was having issues at my job. My knee pain was increasing, so I started looking for other work. I felt like I was being taken advantage of. A few weeks before I quit, I picked up a delivery job so that I at least had something in the meantime. 

October came, and I had nowhere to live, and my income had dried up.

In desperation, I moved into the storage unit beneath my mother’s apartment. My mother has Section 8, so she couldn’t have additional people sleep in her home. I didn’t want to jeopardize her livelihood, so I lived in the storage unit.

I was grateful to have a place.

The storage unit was next to the laundry room, so I constantly heard people coming up and down the stairs. I was afraid that I was going to get caught, so I always turned the light off while people were down there.  The unit was drafty, and the cement floor was cold. 

I slept in the beige armchair and I did my homework at a tiny ‘desk’ that my mother had in the storage unit.

Before the pandemic, I felt I was making great money and living just fine, and to see that quickly change within two years was discombobulating. Despite finding the storage space, this was in fact, not considered housing in the eyes of the state or government. 

The federal government defines homelessness as lacking “a fixed, regular, and adequate nighttime residence” or losing one’s nighttime residence within 14 days and having nowhere else to go.

Last year, the National Center for Education Statistics (NCES) released the National Postsecondary Student Aid Study (NPSAS) with data about undergraduate students. 

Nearly 10% of undergraduate students reported being homeless in the past 30 days. And nearly 25% indicated they were food insecure.

Luckily by the end of the year, I secured an apartment, but many just aren’t as fortunate.