Not a Number: Daniel’s Story of Belonging
Daniel shows up in a gray t-shirt decorated with three neon Pokémon—blue, yellow, green. The colors are bright against the muted fabric, a burst of joy that matches his bright personality. He speaks with a slight stutter, though even that seems to bend to his relentless determination. Daniel may be many things, but he is not a victim.
After years of family dysfunction, conflict, and abuse, he was kicked out after high school and suddenly found himself experiencing homelessness. He now stays at a shelter near Wildflyer, waiting on the Coordinated Entry list—the county’s process for matching people to housing resources.
On paper, the system is efficient: those with the greatest needs, the highest vulnerability, the longest time unhoused, are prioritized for housing. In practice, I remember how clinical it felt. As a case manager when the system first rolled out, I was one of the first trained to administer its assessment. I can still remember sitting in libraries and street corners, asking youth the same, scripted questions and taking notes on crinkled paper forms.
Have you experienced physical or sexual abuse?
How many times have you been homeless in the last three years?
List the places you’ve stayed and for how long.
This last one was always the hardest. Who can recall the exact dates of couch-hopping, or the night they slept outside behind the gas station? My least favorite part came at the end—adding up their answers and assigning them a number to determine how “eligible” they were for help. I hated the moment when I had to deliver the news: either I’m sorry things have been so bad, you’ve maxed out and are at the top of the list or I’m sorry, you haven’t suffered enough—you may have to endure more before you qualify. Reducing a living, breathing human to a score always felt like betrayal.
I wonder, briefly, what Daniel’s number was. I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. He is not a number.
Instead, I ask what stayed with him most from Wildflyer.
“As much as I loved the work,” he says, “what stuck out the most was the community. They actually made me feel human again, after a lifetime of dehumanization.”
I pause, letting his words sink in. I try to keep a neutral face when I interview graduates, but moments like this pierce through. I dreamed of a coffee shop, and somehow it became so much more. A place that gave someone back their dignity.
Daniel goes on. Before Wildflyer, he tells me, he rarely spoke to anyone. He had grown up in isolation—social and physical. But here, he began talking with coworkers, joking with friends, learning how he wanted to interact with others. For the first time, he felt confident being “out in the world again.”
Daniel graduated this spring and became the very first member of our new Alumni program. And he didn’t just join—he dove in headfirst. Near perfect attendance, always showing up to workshops, meeting one-on-one with our program leads. He credits Juliette, one of our staff, with keeping him motivated in the job search. After months of burnout from fruitless Indeed applications, the two of them met weekly. “She was always encouraging,” Daniel says, “and validated that I wasn’t the only one struggling in this messed-up job market.” He laughs as he remembers the day they slogged through a chatbot-led job application for hours: “It drained both of our souls.”
That persistence paid off—Daniel is now working at Seward Café, proud to have landed stable employment. He continues to engage in the Alumni program, eager for more support in workplace skills, stipends, and, as he puts it, “growing the connections I’ve made and the ideas I get from Wildflyer.”
These days, Daniel is a fixture at the Minneapolis shop. After shifts at Seward Café, he often drops by to tease me about the giant water bottle I carry around and sit at the bar interacting with staff as they pull shots and steam milk. It’s hard to imagine this confident young man was once the shy, isolated youth who nervously walked into our program last winter.
When I ask him about a moment he’s proud of, he grins. He recalls the time he thought the café was empty and started dancing on the floor—only to realize a customer was watching. Instead of embarrassment, the customer cheered him on.
At Wildflyer, we track many metrics: housing, wages, socio-emotional well-being. But maybe the truest measure of growth is something simpler: dancing when you think no one is watching, and smiling when you’re caught.