Dorothy's Story in Her Own Words

When Dorothy was nominated by My Sister's Place, we thought we were furnishing a bedroom.

What we didn't realize was how much that room would come to represent.

After her Rooting Day, Dorothy sent us the reflection below. We were so moved by her words that we wanted to share them exactly as she wrote them.

"I got so used to liminal spaces I forgot what it was like to settle into a place that was just mine, oh mine. It feels surreal. So many things seem smaller when you have them without suffering. Growing up I remember so badly wanting my own room. My own space that wasn’t shared with sisters and cousins. A retreat from the noise of the day, the chaos and the trouble. A place to get lost in novels and write bad poetry and create. The girls in my house already had such a claim on pink that in a rebellious effort to have something for my own, I craved sky blue instead. Or just blue. The most human color. Oceans and skies and water. I wanted my room to be blue and I wanted a desk and a chair and my own bed. I was twelve. I wrote a bad poem about it. I got older. I wanted an apartment or a house. My own space. A couch I could afford. A bed with a mattress capable of soothing deep aches. I wanted it to match my aesthetic. But that was just a dream locked behind a price point that wasn’t feasible and then it was feasible but not reasonable and then it was reasonable but they needed my help and I was making the money and I was sending it “home.” My tastes skewed from blue to pink. Less girlish this time, more lush. Pink and velvets and silk. Plush. Gold because maybe then I could believe that shining isn’t a dangerous thing in my skin. Cheetah and Leopard prints. Wild and free and rich. A splash of white even, reclaiming purity and open space for dreams to flourish in.

I pinned images to my Pinterest board. And then I was laid off. And then my emergency funds ran out. The savings, the months of runway I’d built through endless meetings and stomach churning guilt for not giving it away—-those ran out too. Time. Time ran out. And I had no parachute to land softly. No easy rebuilding when the foundation was already rotted away. No choice but to start from scratch. New years eve, late night, 2026. I sat outside of a library because libraries were always my safe space. A place of joy. Books and more books to get lost in. The last remaining truly free public place to be. I was cold, so cold. Across from me was a cemetery. And to my left, a train track. Every so often a train would chug by. Every so often the wind would pick up speed and settle deep into my bones. Every so often I would hear cheers from the bar down the road and the boom of fireworks. So much of life is seeing, touching, tasting, hearing, smelling. So much of life is feeling. I wasn’t sad I was numb. I thought of soft pillows and rugs. Of warm blankets. Of a bed. But I didn’t let the slow drip of hope that can sometimes torture overtake me. Instead I said a soft prayer of sorts. Whatsoever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well, with my soul.

And it was well.

It is well.

Because strangers out of nowhere helped without being asked. Helped as if they were sent.

Because a nice hotel room was purchased for a night by someone who didn’t even ask my

name. Because someone else made extraneous effort to stop, to ask if they could help, to

persistently look for resources, to drop me off to a shelter with a waiting list a mile long that took me in anyway because I was there in person they said, and because they JUST had someone leave and a free bed that day. I got a job—not like before. But one that let me pour into others in a way that feels like healing. And then I got an apartment, a room. Approved on the last day of a promotional offering for a month free of rent. I got an air mattress. I closed the door. I put a blanket over me. I was warm. Safe. Alright. It was everything.

The shelter, My Sister’s Place, nominated me for Rooted. She said they might be able to help

me get some furniture. The act was more than kind but not something I expected. I planned. In two weeks a bed.

Something simple. No rush. I’d save what I could.

And then Rooted reached out and said I’d been selected. And when the founder, Kristina, asked me to send inspo pics for what I might like, I hesitated. I didn’t need much. A bed would be nice. Maybe a night stand. And what a God send, what a miracle it all was! I wouldn’t have to buy a bed. Wow.

I almost didn’t dare send the pictures from Pinterest. Pink–A reclamation. Cheetah/Leopard

prints—power, survival, richness. Whites and Golds and soft and lush. Because I had survived

airport benches and hotel rooms with no plans for the morning and library benches and nights in the cold. I had survived clocks that felt like lashings and time running out. I had survived being laid off, company closures and getting a job in a market so brutal. I’d survived. I’d take anything. The picture sat and pressed in like someone who loves you insisting that you eat. So yes, eventually, I sent it. And my gut twisted–guilt. I’d take anything! I hope they knew I’d take anythingggg. Anything. I’d be grateful for bed, just a bed. Just somewhere to sleep and be warm. The money saved.

Then Rooted came. I left for a few hours. And when I came back?

Pink

Whites

Cheetah/Leopard

Satin

Soft faux furs

Gold

I still can’t believe it. That I’m here, sitting in here right now, in a room that feels like I’m playing dress up.

My own room again.

My own bed.

Something that looks and feels like abundance.

That day it had been raining. I didn’t have an umbrella when I left for them to decorate the place. Kristina asked and I said no but that it was no matter, I’d be in a car shortly.

I found an umbrella behind the curtains by the window. Maybe she, or one of the other

volunteers had left it. Or maybe it was a gift.

Or maybe, maybe...

Maybe if it ever rains again and I find myself outside, I’ll have an umbrella.

Maybe time won’t run out.

Maybe in here, I’ll write again. I’ll read books. I’ll sleep unburdened. Surrounded by impossible miracles.

Maybe I’ll stay Rooted.

Thank you."

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Dorothy's story reminds us that home is about more than furniture. It's about dignity, safety, healing, and hope. We are incredibly grateful to My Sister's Place for referring Dorothy and to the donors and volunteers who made this transformation possible.

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