They Say It’s About Us. But They Don’t Know Us.

About judgment, harshness, and the strength it takes to remain visible when all you really want is to disappear.
Over the past few days, I have shared our story in dozens of Facebook groups. Not because I enjoyed doing it. But because we are looking for somewhere. And someone. Someone who feels what we feel. But the moment you become visible, you also become vulnerable.
And I knew that.
But I was not prepared for how intense it would be. For how many people react primarily with judgment. And how quickly that judgment gets believed. This is what I want to say about that.
We are visible now. More visible than we have ever been. Our call for help is now spread across dozens of groups. Not because we wanted that, but because we had no other choice. And suddenly everyone has an opinion. About who we are. About what we are looking for. About what we do or do not deserve.
And so I spend my entire day correcting what has been twisted out of shape. Refuting assumptions, disproving prejudices, explaining why we do what we do to people who do not listen, do not want to listen. People who know nothing about us, yet somehow seem convinced they know exactly how we should live. As if they have slept beside our bed for years, know our thoughts, feel our pain, understand our routines and have witnessed our grief.
One quarter responds kindly. Three quarters respond cruelly. They say we are begging. That we should just get jobs. That life is hard for everyone. That they also had to build everything themselves, without help. That everyone has to carry their own weight. As if we started asking for help three weeks ago. As if we chose this life. As if we never tried anything. As if we are taking something away from them.
They do not want to believe that we have been doing this for years. That we are not asking for help casually, but only after trying so many things ourselves that we are exhausted. They do not see that our situation is not mainly about work, but about having no place. No foundation. No rest. No light.
And still, all it takes is one negative reaction, one cruel remark, and suddenly the entire group shifts. Then we instantly become the opportunists, the manipulators, the “modern beggars.” The rest of the conversation quickly follows. And I immediately feel the need to respond, to straighten the story back out again. Because what if there was one person in that group who actually could have helped us? That chance is gone then.
“It does not affect me,” I say. Because I know who we are. But that is not entirely true. It affects me deeply. Not because I doubt what we are saying, but because I see how little empathy is left. How quickly people judge others, how hardened they have become. How afraid they are of seeing someone receive something they themselves perhaps never received, without first sacrificing thirty years of labor for it. As if our existence somehow invalidates their own choices and sacrifices.
Maybe that is what it is: fear. Fear that we might still end up in nature someday without permanent jobs, without children and without a mortgage. In a place they would call a dream, but which for us is pure necessity. Maybe they are afraid their sacrifices were for nothing. That they did not truly choose, but merely complied. And that while they may never stand in that so-called “dream” place, we eventually might.
We do not want much. No house. No career. No luxury. Just a small piece of peace. Time. Ground beneath our feet. So we no longer have to stay locked inside waiting for the crowds outside to disappear, waiting for my mother to leave so we can finally have the house to ourselves for a while. So we no longer have to sleep at night beneath the exhaust fumes of three highways. So we no longer have to flee from noise, smoke, negativity and misunderstanding.
We are not asking for pity. Only for the possibility to live.
I doubt whether I should even publish this post. But I also feel that if I stay silent, the noise of people twisting our story wins. And if that happens, not only our story loses its value, but also the stories of others in similar situations. So this is for them too. For everyone living in that no man’s land between hope and distrust.
You are not alone.