Line By Line: Jane’s Story of Hope
Jane looks like they could be an artist. Their curly bangs fall over red, cat-eyed glasses, and when I first sat across from them at our Minneapolis shop, I caught myself thinking how easily they could be a character in one of their own sketches. Black headphones rested around their neck, an almost casual detail, but one that felt like part of their quiet armor.
I’d already written about Jane before I knew them. Featuring their story in a previous blog post about graduation, struck by the speech given about them by their program lead, Juliette, who also emphasized their artist streak, the doodles they left around the shop, and the courage they showed just by showing up every day and putting their faith in a “bunch of strangers at a midwest coffee shop.” It’s a joy to get to know the subject I wrote about in person, and I find they match the description I was handed.
Jane tells me about leaving California. The way family tensions tipped into housing instability, as they so often do for youth experiencing homelessness. The way it became clear that what they needed most was not just a new place, but a community where they could exist fully as themselves. So on their very first day in Minnesota, they walked into Queermunity. I love that about Jane—they didn’t waste time. They went straight toward possibility. Someone there handed them a list of job opportunities for young people without much work history looking to find transferable skills. Wildflyer Coffee was on that list.
When Jane joined our Spring Cohort, they slipped in like they’d always belonged. Fitting time to doodle between slinging drinks and greeting customers. But what struck me more was what they were learning under the surface. “Listening to everybody,” they said once, “considering everybody’s possible perspectives.” I remember pausing when they said it—it felt so simple, and yet so profound. That’s the kind of wisdom you can’t teach in a training manual.
Jane told me that being at Wildflyer showed them something they didn’t quite believe existed: systems that are actually healthy. “Wildflyer talks the talk, walks the walk,” they said. And I felt a lump rise in my throat because I knew exactly what they meant. So many of the young people I meet have been through systems—schools, jobs, families—that made promises they never intended to keep. No wonder Jane used to fear employment. Rejection had become so routine it almost felt inevitable. But here, I watched them soften. Trust peeked through. “Sometimes that can be rewarded,” they said, and it felt like hearing hope put into words.
In August, Jane graduated. They didn’t hesitate when we invited them into the Alumni Program. “Continued support makes me feel secure,” they told me. “It gives me confidence to put myself out there more. To have faith in my independence and abilities.” I’ve seen that growth firsthand. They speak differently now—steadier, clearer. They talk about being a better listener, about conflict, about accountability. And then, with a grin, they tell me what really makes them happiest: watching their cohort succeed. “Seeing how well everyone is doing brings a smile to my face.”
There’s something beautiful about that—how someone who once doubted they’d ever have lasting, healthy relationships now lights up when they talk about community. “I thought I had no purpose,” Jane admitted, their voice soft. “That I was just a shell of a human being. But here… I think I’m getting to the nugget. Maybe part of my purpose is in the connections I have with other people, and hopefully helping others. That’s given me a sense of identity and self-actualization.”
I still think about that conversation. About Jane’s doodles tucked into the corners of our shop, and about the deeper roots they’re planting here in Minnesota. Roots of trust, belonging, and purpose. Watching Jane grow reminds me why we do this work. The art they leave behind isn’t just on scraps of paper—it’s in the community they’re building, in the hope they’re sketching out for themselves, line by line.