From Surviving to Thriving: Jessica's Story

There was a time when she didn’t know where to go, who to trust, or what the next day would bring. After surviving sexual abuse in foster care, being kidnapped, and enduring verbal attacks that never quite faded, the idea of stability felt like a fantasy. When she landed her first job at Jamba Juice, full of excitement and pride, she came home to find her belongings on the porch—unwanted, unwelcomed, unseen.

The streets offered no map, and no one taught her how to navigate them. She made mistakes—many—and dropped out of high school the day before her last class. All around her, people said she didn’t belong. And eventually, she started to believe them.

“I didn’t understand my trauma, or why I reacted the way I did,” she says now. “I was living in fear, not knowing where to go for help. What I needed more than anything was someone to care.”

Then, she found South County Community Services—and someone who did care: Veronica. “She felt like a mother,” she recalls, voice filled with gratitude. “She didn’t judge me. She listened. She went to my graduation. She cried with me.” For someone who had never known unconditional support, this connection was life-changing.

Over three years, SCCS became more than a resource—it became a foundation. A place to breathe, to heal, to stop surviving and start building. She kept a job. She kept an address. She had a mailbox. “It’s a good feeling not to worry all the time. It’s a safe haven.”

For the first time, she was able to pay for her own babysitter, come off CalFresh and cash aid, open a bank account, buy a car. “I’m learning how to function, how to heal. I don’t have to be in survival mode anymore.”

And now, she gives back. Every Thanksgiving, she cooks meals and delivers them to people living on the streets, just like she once did. With help from her church, she gathers blankets, socks, and clothing—not to give handouts, but to give dignity. “I used to be the one digging through donated clothes. Now I get to be the one passing them out.”

She fears running out of food more than anything. That someone might go hungry when she could have helped. So, there’s always food in her trunk, and always room in her heart. She keeps phone numbers of unhoused neighbors in her contacts, offering them guidance, warmth, and connection to SCCS resources.

“What would I tell a donor? This is your neighbor. We’re supposed to take care of each other.”

Without this support, she knows she could have lost everything. Her child. Her life. Her future.

“But now,” she says, holding back tears, “I get to dream again. I get to be the mom I always wanted to be.”