Hi. I'm Aja (pronounced like the continent, 'Asia', with a Steely Dan origin story), and I'm going to be honest with you — this is one of the hardest things I've ever had to write. Not because I don't know how to ask for help. I've spent my entire career teaching other people how to do exactly that. It's hard because I've always been the one on the other side of this conversation.

For over a decade, I built my life around a single belief: that every person — regardless of ability, background, or circumstance — deserves a real shot at a dignified life. As an Associate Director of Job Development, I helped adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities find meaningful work, with real paychecks and real futures. It wasn't just a career. It was a calling. And on March 27, 2026, without warning, it ended.

What happened next, I need you to know. I have not been sitting still. I've applied to over 162 jobs — with a custom resume and cover letter written for every single one. I'm currently in the interview process for four different positions, including one where I'm in round three and have yet to speak to an actual human being. (The Bay Area job market is... a lot.) I applied to fast food and was told I was overqualified. I've done gig work off Craigslist for $40 at a time. I DoorDashed for eight straight hours and made less than $80. I've been to the food bank. I was recently approved for CalFresh and Medi-Cal — which, given my heart condition and its very real need for consistent medication and monitoring, is genuinely lifesaving.

I have done everything right. I am still in free fall.

Here's where it gets urgent. My rent — $3,150 — was due May 1st. My bank account has $31.48 in it. My building begins a formal pay or quit process on day six of a missed payment, which means I have until this Wednesday before that clock starts. After that, a $150 late fee brings the total to $3,300 — and I'd be racing a deadline I simply cannot outrun. I'm also past due on my electricity and also past due on the internet I need for every one of those 162 job applications, and facing upcoming bills I have no way to cover.

The irony is not lost on me. I once ran a catering company to feed people in need. I have cooked from my own kitchen for unhoused neighbors more times than I can count. I've given my last to someone else's emergency without hesitation. And here I am, writing this, trying to make sure I don't become the person who needs a warm meal and somewhere to sleep.

But here's the other thing I need you to know.

I found Pacifica almost by accident — and I found myself here completely on purpose. After years of feeling untethered, I finally built something that feels like home. Real home. Not just an address. I found my people here. I got back into singing. I walk to the ocean almost every single day. I wake up with a sense of peace I genuinely didn't know I'd been missing, and it has made me healthier — mentally, emotionally, physically. My community here has seen me, celebrated me, and held me. Losing this apartment doesn't just mean losing four walls. It means losing the place where I finally became okay.

I don't have family in the Bay Area. I have no safety net. If I can't pay my rent, I'm looking at a shelter or the back seat of my rental car. That's not dramatic. That's just the math.

What I'm asking for is a bridge — not a bailout, not a handout — just a bridge to carry me the few weeks I need until one of these jobs comes through. I am so close. I just need to not lose everything in the meantime.

If you can give $5, I am so grateful. If you can give $500, I will absolutely cry — in a good way. And if you can share this with even one person who might help, you've already done something that matters. Every single dollar gets me closer to keeping the lights on, the internet connected, and the place I call home still mine.

I have spent my whole life showing up for other people. Thank you, from the bottom of my very humbled, very grateful heart, for showing up for me.

— Aja

WHERE DOES THE MONEY GO?

Simply put — it goes toward keeping my life intact while I finish the job search that's already in motion.

Every dollar that comes in goes directly to the bills that are standing between me and stability right now: rent, electricity, internet, my phone, and transportation. These aren't luxuries. They're the things that let me keep applying, keep interviewing, keep showing up — and keep calling Pacifica home while I do it.

What your donation actually does is buy me time. Time to not panic. Time to sleep at night. Time to walk to the ocean in the morning and come back ready to fight for the next opportunity instead of the next meal. It means the lights stay on. It means the internet stays connected — the same internet I use to research companies, submit applications, and show up to video interviews looking like someone who has it together, even on the days that feel hardest.

It means I don't lose the apartment where I finally found myself. Where I fostered Apple. Where I have cooked for my people, laughed until I cried, and built something that finally feels like real life.

Your contribution — whatever size — is a direct investment in someone who is *this* close to landing on her feet. You're not funding a wish. You're funding the runway.

One More Ask: Share This

If you're reading this and you genuinely cannot give right now — first of all, I see you, and no explanation needed. But if you can take thirty seconds to share this with your network, that is not a small thing. That is actually a very big thing.

Here's why: campaigns like this live or die in the first 48 hours. Not because of one big donor, but because of the ripple effect of many people sharing at once. When someone in your network who has never met me sees that you — someone they trust — cared enough to share this, they're far more likely to stop scrolling. A single share can reach people I will never know, in places I've never been, who might be moved to give $10 that makes all the difference.

You sharing this is showing up for me. Please don't underestimate it.

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