UNHOUSED BUT NOT UNSEEN w/Cathy Bryant

In a world where the unhoused are often unseen, Cathy Bryant makes it her mission to look deeper—and act harder. As one of the founding forces behind Streets of Paradise, Cathy leads with heart, healing, and hands-on leadership, transforming a grassroots dream into a movement of dignity, shelter, and second chances.

ALLIÉ: Cathy, let's go back to the beginning—not the founding of Streets of Paradise, but the moment before that. What was the turning point when you said, we have to do something, and just as important, we have to do it ourselves?

CATHY: Yeah, so my background was in drug and alcohol counseling, domestic violence, sexual assault, crisis work. That’s the story I came from for most of my career. And then my partner, Greg Cruz—who started this with me—his background was in trauma work. He had a life of challenges, as we all do.

My challenges were different. I had a really sick kid and some personal experiences that brought me face to face with homelessness because of that. Greg grew up in foster care, so he had lived experience in that realm as well. Eventually, we both ended up in Florida. He came here in 2000. He’d already been doing grassroots work—giving back in ways that mattered to him, like collecting backpacks for kids so they could go to school, getting suitcases, organizing food drives and Christmas drives. These were the kinds of things he wished he had growing up, and now he was providing them to others.

​I moved here in 2014 and felt very strongly about the need for community—real, purposeful relationships. In psychology, they always say that if you have five people you can call in a time of crisis, that’s the mark of stability and success. And I moved here with my daughter, who had just graduated from high school—she was 19. When she was five, they gave her three years to live.

So I came here with no community, and in that moment, it became clearer than ever how deeply we all need community. That’s when I met Greg. He was out doing protests and activist work, and at first, I thought, Nope, he’s a bit much for me. I can’t do all that. And yet, the work he was doing completely aligned with the work I had always done and wanted to continue doing in my new community.

When I arrived, there was actually a city and county campaign—with yard signs and everything—called Not In My Backyard, because people were fighting over who should or shouldn’t have the homeless shelter. And I’ll tell you, as of this weekend, it’s been 11 years—and they still haven’t come to an agreement. So we still don’t have one. And at that time, it was actually illegal to feed people in public. So we kept getting arrested.

ALLIÉ: Pause a moment. You got arrested for feeding people?
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CATHY: Oh, sure. It was illegal. They called it a ‘toxic charity’, and firmly believed that if you didn’t take care of people, they would just go away. I haven’t seen the most recent reports, but several years ago, Sarasota was actually voted the meanest city in the U.S. because of how it treated the homeless.

So we started feeding people, and to stay out of trouble for that, we called them picnics in the park. We’d hold giant picnics in a public park and advertise them on social media. Both of us had a pretty big local following—city and county—and we just started hosting these picnics. Sometimes there’d be 300 or 400 people.

ALLIÉ: Wow. That is amazing. I’m sorry, my mind is still just blown that it could be a crime to be kind.

So that’s when you figured out you just had to do it yourselves—got in trouble, found a way around it. Let’s switch for a moment to trauma-informed care, because it’s not just a buzzword for you—it’s your blueprint. How do you hold space, Cathy, for others without losing yourself in the weight of what they have to carry? Big question here.

CATHY: It is a big question. And there’s no one answer, I don’t think. It depends on the story, on how close it gets to you, and the setting in which it’s shared. Holding space looks different for so many people, and so does not losing yourself in the process. I did rape crisis work for a long time, and if the story doesn’t hit too close, it’s easier to hold space for it. If you have some breathing room, if you have referral avenues to connect people to, and you believe they’re going to get the help they need—that makes it easier. It’s way easier not to lose yourself when you can see the steps forward. Each person, each group, each collaboration—that’s a step you can take with them, that you can help direct and support. But I think the hardest part is hearing trauma when there’s no good answer. I was just having a conversation this morning about that. Compassion fatigue is really real when you’re constantly saying, I hear you, this is horrible… and yet, I don’t have a shelter. I hear you, this is real… and yet, I don’t have first and last month’s rent or a $10,000 deposit. It’s suffering without a solution.

ALLIÉ: Yeah. Hearing all the stories that we do, and the stories that you do, and creating that space—maybe that’s what’s required in order to recognize: I can’t be the only resource… but I can be a provider of resources. Maybe that’s one way to keep showing up with compassion. You don’t want to shut it off—you don’t want to lose your empathy. You want to stay in that space, because you feel called to it. Yeah?

CATHY: Yes, probably always. But especially for people in crisis—crisis is hard to sit with. It’s hard to be present for, and it’s hard to hear, especially when you might not have all the answers. But the thing about most people in crisis is that they really just need to be heard. I’m sure you’ve been in crisis multiple times in your life, and just having somebody sit with you and say, I hear you, I get it—or even just validate it by saying, You know what, I’d be mad too. That’s wrong. That’s horrible. Sometimes, just having someone feel the emotion for you—when you don’t have any emotion left or you can’t express it—is everything.

That doesn’t exist all the time. Sometimes you need someone to say, I’m mad for you. I’m sad for you, and to validate those feelings—to give people the room to speak them. Because there’s always a question lingering in crisis: Was this my fault? Should I be in this space? Are you judging me? Are others going to judge me? How does this look? There are so many questions. I was reading a study the other day—I wish I could cite it, but I can’t—that talked about how in crisis, our IQs drop an average of 10 to 20 points. And I’ve seen that. I’ve felt it. I’ve lived it in myself.

Just having somebody who can maybe give you back those 10 points… Maybe make a list for you while you talk, and then hand it back and say, Okay, these are the things you identified. I’m not telling you what to do—these are your words, your struggles. I just wrote them down. Hold this, and let’s keep working through it together. That kind of support—being heard and having someone hold that in a tangible way—can be incredibly helpful.

ALLIÉ: I love that. it’s not, here’s the answer you need, but rather, here’s how I’ll help you find your way to the answer.

CATHY: Or even, Here’s just a record so you don’t forget how far you’ve come. So the next week when we talk, I can say, Look how far you’ve come. Or tomorrow. Or at midnight. Whenever. Because sometimes, it really is those short intervals that matter most. You need a drink of water. You need to take a shower. You need to get some protein. Sometimes that’s the list.

ALLIÉ: Yeah, we all have our different lists, for sure.

So there’s the work that you do—and then there’s the way that you do it. Let’s talk specifically about Streets of Paradise, because it’s not just about furniture. It’s about dignity. It’s about this fierce sense of family. Why is it so important to not just give people housing—but to give them a home? Because housing and a home are very different. I’d love to hear your thoughts here.

CATHY: So just really fast—Streets of Paradise became a 501(c)(3) in March, after our Thanksgiving picnic in the park. What we found during that picnic was really eye-opening. We had between 300 and 400 people there, and about a third of them were homeless—living on the streets. About a third were volunteers, many of whom had been doing similar work already, like with Food Not Bombs, which is where we originated. And then about a third were just people who were lonely. They didn’t have anywhere else to go on Thanksgiving. They were looking for family, for connection, for something purposeful to do on what can be a really painful day if you're alone.

From the very beginning, it was clear to us that one of the most important things we could offer was purposeful relationships and community—a way for people to come together. So for the first year, that’s what we did. We focused on street outreach. We've always done food share, and we've never missed a week since 2014—not even during the pandemic. During those months, we served 15,000 meals in 79 days, because no one else was out there serving food. People would’ve died—literally—if we hadn’t kept going. Then in March of 2019, the federal government passed a law saying you couldn’t move into a home funded by federal dollars unless it was furnished. The reason was that the failure rate was 87%. So when someone came to us and said, “Would you start furnishing homes?”—it was kind of a funny moment. Between all of us, we had one Jeep, one truck, and one small trailer—the kind you hitch to the back of a Jeep. And we had $1,200 in the bank. That’s it. Nothing more.

So when they asked us if we’d do it, we were like, Why? How? But then they said people were failing at a rate of 87% because they didn’t have furniture. And from my background—working in drug and alcohol recovery, rape crisis, and domestic violence—I thought: I just want to know what an 87% success rate looks like. If all I have to do is furnish your house, and you are 87% more likely to succeed? Sign me up. Let’s do this.

​So we rented what we called a "warehouse" at the time—but really, it was just a 600-square-foot storage unit. We had big plans—an office and all sorts of ideas for that tiny space. Every Saturday, we’d empty the entire thing into the parking lot because, of course, you couldn’t move around in there otherwise. We’d pick up gently used household items from across the two counties we serve—Sarasota and Manatee. From the very beginning, we made a rule: If we wouldn’t put it in our own homes, we won’t put it in someone else’s. People tend to hold on to a life worth living, and we didn’t want to create anything less than that. We’re very fortunate to be in wealthy counties, so we get amazing donations and can build truly beautiful homes. We also created a form that asks: What’s your favorite color? What’s your style? What do you need? What are the ages of everyone in the home? What are their favorite colors? We do our best to tailor everything we can, because people rarely have transportation to come get these items. So we pick up the furniture, bring it back to the warehouse, build a home out of it—complete with kitchen boxes, can openers, silverware, dishes, bedding, wall art—everything. And then we go and deliver it.

One of the greatest gifts we were given was our very first home in March 2019. It was for a 19-year-old young man who had just aged out of foster care. And I think that was such a gift because it immediately shattered all the stereotypes about homelessness. It blew those assumptions right out of the water. Since then, it’s shaped how we do everything. We ask: What do you need? What makes you happy? What’s your style? Then we build a relationship around that. How can we keep you in this safety net? How can we become one of your “five” if you don’t already have them? Or your third, or even all five, if that’s what you need. But let’s build a relationship—so that we know.

Since then, I think we’ve furnished about 3,700 homes—all with donated furniture—for people affected by all kinds of crises: natural disasters, fires, medical emergencies. The number one cause of homelessness is medical issues. So we’ve done a lot of homes for those reasons.

Another agreement we made from the beginning was: no screening. We wouldn’t ask people to qualify. Because we’ve all been in situations where—on paper—we wouldn’t have qualified, but in reality, that help was what kept us from slipping further into trauma or becoming homeless. So we still don’t screen. And it’s perfectly fine. We’re going to show up, bring you a whole home, and then welcome you in.

Right now, we’ve expanded into a larger space, and we’re under construction in partnership with the Red Cross to build a Resiliency Hub. Their reasoning is for disaster response—we’ll be able to provide temporary shelter, food, power, and stay operational during a crisis. We have Starlink, solar power, all of it—so we can keep going no matter what. And then, the rest of the year, it’s a community center. We have yoga classes, workshops, produce giveaways—all the things that bring people together. Game nights, open mic nights, a café. It’s a space for community, in every shape, size, and socioeconomic status. Kind of like what you’re doing… It’s about telling stories. That’s where the change happens. That’s where relationships are built. That’s where things become real. That’s where we become a community.

ALLIÉ: I love every single thing about what you just said. Because it’s not just things—not just a couch, a chair, a picture, or a coffee maker—that make a house a home. It’s the relationships, it’s the community, it’s everyone who’s part of the becoming of that space. It truly is a dynamic space—not just a place. It’s not just an address. It’s so much more than that. And for you to see that and to support that part of it—I think that’s what makes it sustainable. Because it’s not enough to just say, Here’s something. It’s not enough to just say, Here’s the fish. It’s the teaching of the fishing. It’s the community that shows up to support. And the fact that you’re doing that in such a beautiful way—I love that.

One more question I have for you today, Cathy. In the quiet moments—and it sounds like there aren’t many—with how busy you are doing this incredible work… after a move is done, or a crisis response is over, what is it that keeps you going? What do you whisper to yourself when the work feels heavy, when you feel fatigued, when hope feels far away?

CATHY: That’s a great question… I think in those moments—when it’s really heavy and you have to keep going—my mantra is this: The next right thing from a place of love is still the next right thing from a place of love. And when it feels really hopeless, I go back to this moment in my life: I had just gotten a new job. My daughter had been sick, I’d been at home for a long time, I’d lost my best friend in a tragedy, and I was in a really dark place. That job was going to be great—in a month. But not then. Not that day. And I remember one of my friends didn’t ask, didn’t make a big thing—she just said, Hey, you’re going to need $50 for gas. You’re going to need gas for a while. And I go back to that moment often. Because there was no shame, no big gesture. She didn’t need a thank you. She wasn’t trying to make it a thing. She just saw me in that moment—and it changed everything. It changed the trajectory of my entire life, probably. Because it met an actual need, with kindness and no strings attached. So when it gets like this, I go back to that. Conversations like that. Moments like this. Just the tiniest thing can change a life forever. And I might not always get to know if it made a difference. I do get to know a lot, which I’m super grateful for—we really try to hold our community close. I get to see these kiddos grow up. Some of them are aging out of high school now—kids we furnished homes for years ago. So I do get to see it. But even when I don’t—even when it feels like something has failed again—those bits and pieces of growth keep it going. Just knowing that when we show up well for each other, it’s never wasted. When we have a real conversation, when we tell a real story, when there’s real transparency—my humanity and your humanity come together—it’s never wasted. Even if we both just sit here and cry… it’s fine.

ALLIÉ: Yeah. Isn’t that interesting? Sometimes, you don’t have to fix anything. You just need to cry with someone. You just need to be with someone.

Thank you so much, truly, Cathy—for the work you’ve done, for the work you continue to do with Greg and everyone who’s part of Streets of Paradise. What you’re doing is so important and so needed. And this model that you’ve developed—I hope more people see it, embrace it, and recreate it in their own communities.

CATHY: Me too. ∎

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