I started CPR on the client, but it was another client who took over, and who told me to call 911. In that moment, there was no distinction between staff and guests — we were all just people in a crisis, doing our best. It was painful. It was real. But what stood out most was the wave of empathy that swept through the building like a storm. People here care about each other deeply, and take care of each other in a way I’d never seen before.

JStreet has always lived in that strange space: casual, but high-stakes. The emotions are raw. The honesty is radical. Relationships here are real. Trust runs deep because it has to. This building didn’t just offer beds; it gave people dignity, relationships, consistency, and a real chance to move forward. And for many, this was the first time they experienced that.

This place completely shifted my understanding of what success looks like. I know every person here by name. I know their habits, their stories, their fights, their quiet victories. When someone stays sober for five days, that’s a win. You won’t see it on a spreadsheet, but it’s real. And believe me, you remember everything — the good and the bad.

We’ve done big things. On a small scale, we tweak schedules so folks who need stability can hold onto that stability. On a bigger scale, we’ve reshaped how this community understands the journey out of homelessness. We’ve built a community space: Shelter Court sets up in our building so people can sort out legal issues, the Street Dog Coalition comes once a month to provide free veterinary care for the dozens of beloved animals in shelter, and organizations like Food Not Bombs use the space to feed our guests and many more. JStreet worked because a bunch of willing people made this building work. There’s no other place like it.

And now, it’s closing — and quickly. September 1 is an incredibly difficult time to close a warming shelter. As we begin preparing for winter, 170 people could be left without a safe place to go. With no other options available many will end up in parks and on sidewalks. Some may even find themselves in jail, not for being dangerous, but simply for surviving in public spaces. We’re watching as unhoused people become increasingly vulnerable, not because we don’t care, but because we haven’t yet created the alternatives they need.

These alternatives are possible and this is a problem we can solve. Prevention is far more affordable than crisis response. It’s harder and more costly to rebuild safety after it has been lost.

Missoula is known for its open-minded, progressive spirit: a place where people value independence, community, and compassion. But this spirit only shines when we make room for everyone to live with dignity. Right now, we aren’t there. But we can be – if we choose to act.

The closure of the JStreet shelter isn’t just impacting the people who’ve found safety there, it’s affecting all of us. The funding that made JStreet possible went largely toward staffing, which means the most immediate consequence will be painful layoffs for our dedicated team at the Poverello Center. These are people who have poured their hearts into this work, who have shown up every day with courage, compassion, and a commitment to human dignity.

We’re not doing this because we’re heroes — I know that I certainly am not. We’re doing it because we care deeply, because we believe that no one should be left out in the cold. We see our guests’ survival as something worth standing by, right until the last possible moment. And that’s what we’ll do. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s right.

I believe there’s still time to figure out as many solutions as possible. And Missoula has the heart and the brains to make that happen. Every time the city extended JStreet’s contract, it was an acknowledgment: this model works. This place matters. 

JStreet wasn’t perfect, but it was powerful. It was human. And it worked because people showed up for each other, even when they had almost nothing left to give. That kind of connection can’t be replicated easily, and it shouldn’t be taken for granted.

As we face the reality of this closure, I keep thinking about what it means to build a community that truly takes care of its people. Not just in theory, but in action — in policies, in funding, in how we choose to respond when the need is great. The guests at JStreet deserve better. The staff who stood by them deserve better. And the Missoula community is capable of doing better.

We still have time to listen, to act, and to imagine something beyond crisis management — something rooted in compassion, dignity, and real solutions. The blueprint is already here. JStreet showed us what’s possible.

Now, it’s up to all of us to decide what comes next.