Update: I had five shifts locked in. Confirmed.

That was it—my clean way out. Work them, get paid, settle rent, fuel the RV, drive off into the sunset. No drama, no favors. No rental of car to drive Uber sounded great to me at first but is an unpredictable financial black hole.

Then today? All five shifts—canceled. No reason. Just gone.

So now I’m sitting here, same spot, same hole, same silence.

I don’t want to list numbers. You know what it costs to breathe.

All I need is enough so I can leave owing nothing, rolling straight, no stops.

That’s the finish line.

I’m not ungrateful.

Every dollar I got kept me from sinking.

I needed that.

But floating isn’t flying.

I hate this. You know I do.

But staying? That’s worse.

If you’ve ever wondered “how much longer?”—this is it.

Help me end the loop.

Just… help finally be able to close this chapter.

Thomas

Original Post / Current Situation

Hi everyone—first, thank you.

Coming here and asking for help is incredibly difficult, but I’ve reached a point where I have no choice. I’m not in crisis because of bad decisions. I’m here because life hit hard, and I’m still trying to find steady ground again.

I want to be clear about something, especially for those of you who’ve known me a long time:

Before I got sick, I wasn’t drifting—I was ready. I had saved money, mapped my route, stocked my RV, and even quit my job because I was finally positioned to leave Phoenix and start a new chapter. I had earned my way to that moment. I was proud of it.

But not long after I quit, I started dealing with medical issues. I was going to doctor’s appointments, paying out-of-pocket, trying to handle things before they got worse. That’s where my savings went—before I ever landed in the hospital.

Then came the hit I couldn’t manage on my own. I was hospitalized two weeks before Thanksgiving with what I thought was a hernia issue. It turned out to be far more serious: pneumonia, a blood infection, and a mass on my kidney. I was in for 14 days. Everything I had worked toward came to a halt.

Since then, it’s been one blow after another—medically, financially, logistically. I’ve now had the hernia surgery and I’m nearly fully healed. Other issues are still being monitored. I’ve been doing what I can, but the momentum I had is gone, and I’ve had to completely shift into survival mode just to keep a roof over my head.

What’s been especially hard this time is knowing that I didn’t sabotage myself. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t using. This isn’t that chapter. This was just…life. Hitting hard. And after everything I’ve carried over the past seven years—especially after losing someone who was a huge part of my life. That loss changed me deeply, and I spent years not realizing how much of my life was shaped by that grief. I never really fully got back up.

Some of you know what I’m referring to, and some of you were there for me in ways I’ll never forget. But there were others who should’ve shown up and didn’t. That kind of thing sticks with you. It reshapes how you ask for help… or if you do at all.

To those who’ve already donated, shared, or sent kind words: thank you. That support helped cover my rent and bought me time when I had no margin left. I’m incredibly grateful for that.

I live in my RV, which has been parked on privately owned land for almost three years. Rent is modest, but this unexpected situation has completely drained me. I’ve explored every form of assistance, and the only true support that’s come through is insurance, which covered my hospital stay and ongoing care.

Because of my current physical limitations, I can’t go back to heavy physical work just yet. What I can do is drive. I’m already approved for Lyft and Uber, and rideshare was my original plan to stay afloat while I prepared to leave town. But in order to do that, I need a rental vehicle, and I’ve fallen short of the deposit needed.

The rent that remains is $605, and the deposit for the car is $300. The donations I received earlier were meant to cover the vehicle—but I had to use them for rent to keep from losing my place. I’m working with the property owner to hold off eviction, but it’s a tight window. I need to clear that balance before the end of the month, or I’m out.

What makes this feel so heavy is that every day I stay stuck here, it costs me.

Not just in money—but in time, in hope, in momentum. I don’t want to rebuild in Phoenix. I want to go home. I want to go back east. But I’m in limbo—trapped in a cycle where everything I bring in goes toward the past, and nothing lets me move forward.

This campaign isn’t about starting over. It’s about finishing what I started.

If you can help—thank you.

If you can share—thank you.

And if all you can do is understand—thank you.

I don’t want pity. I just need a path out.

And I still believe there’s a way through.

With love,

Thomas