Camp Haven Sanctuary

10/08/2026

When A Shelter Says No It Might Be Life Or Death

The Human Cost of Rules, Evictions, and Leadership

By Josiah James Ingalls

Founder and Executive Director, Camp Haven Sanctuary

Over the past five years of operating Camp Haven Sanctuary, I have learned that one of the hardest responsibilities of running a homeless shelter is knowing when to say no. Sometimes that means denying an application from someone desperately seeking shelter. Sometimes it means telling someone they cannot return. Other times, it means making the decision to remove someone already participating in our program.

These decisions are never easy because I understand something I believe every homeless shelter should take seriously: when we deny someone shelter or remove them from our program, we may be making a decision with life-or-death consequences. That does not mean we are responsible for everything that happens afterward. But it does mean we should recognize the seriousness of our decisions.

A homeless shelter is not an ordinary business. We are dealing with human beings experiencing some of the most vulnerable circumstances of their lives. Our policies and decisions can affect not only their immediate circumstances but also their opportunities to recover, rebuild their lives, and survive. I believe that responsibility should fundamentally influence how shelters design their programs, enforce their rules, and decide when someone must leave.

I also believe many shelter programs fail to adequately account for one of the most basic realities of human behavior: people do not change overnight. They do not automatically acquire new skills because someone hands them a list of expectations. They do not necessarily stop struggling because someone threatens to take away their shelter if they make another mistake.

If the purpose of a homeless shelter is to help people rebuild their lives, its policies should be designed around how human beings actually learn, develop, struggle, and change. That has been one of the guiding principles behind Camp Haven Sanctuary since its beginning.

But compassion alone cannot operate a shelter. There must be rules, accountability, and boundaries. Sometimes those boundaries force us to make decisions whose consequences we cannot predict or control.

I have lived with those consequences. During our shelter's five-year history, four people have died after circumstances in which we had to remove them from our program, deny their return, or acknowledge that their needs were beyond what our facility could safely provide. Their names were Tim, Jess, and Brandy, along with a man whose name I no longer remember.

I remember their lives, their circumstances, and the decisions I had to make. I have never forgotten their deaths.

This paper is about what those experiences have taught me concerning homelessness, human behavior, compassion, accountability, and leadership. It is also about something more personal: what happens when you must make a decision you believe is necessary and then spend the rest of your life wondering whether you made the right one.

A Shelter Is Asking People to Learn a Different Way of Living

One of the things I fundamentally disagree with in many traditional shelter programs is how easily people can be removed for violating rules. Someone makes a mistake, violates a policy, fails a drug test, or behaves in a way the shelter considers unacceptable, and suddenly that person is back on the streets.

I understand why shelters have rules. I operate one myself. Rules are necessary to maintain order, protect participants, preserve the stability of the program, and create an environment where people feel physically and emotionally safe. Without rules, a shelter can become chaotic, unsafe, and incapable of fulfilling its purpose.

But there is something equally important that often gets overlooked. When someone enters a homeless shelter, we are not simply asking them to follow rules. We are frequently asking them to learn an entirely different way of existing.

Think about what that means. Someone who has experienced prolonged homelessness may have developed routines, habits, and survival strategies that helped them endure life on the streets. Those behaviors may not be appropriate within a structured residential program.

Someone who has spent years without a predictable schedule may suddenly be expected to follow one. Someone accustomed to relying primarily on themselves may be expected to cooperate with others, accept supervision, and follow community expectations. Someone who has survived by avoiding authority may now be expected to trust people in authority.

Someone who has relied on drugs or alcohol to cope with difficult circumstances may be expected to begin changing those behaviors while simultaneously adjusting to an entirely new living environment. These are substantial behavioral changes. They require more than understanding a written policy. They require learning, practice, repetition, correction, and sometimes the development of abilities a person may never have been taught.

People also arrive at homeless shelters with different histories and capacities. Some have experienced trauma, some have mental health conditions, some have developmental or cognitive disabilities, and others struggle with addiction. Some have spent years in circumstances where simply surviving another day took priority over nearly everything else.

We cannot reasonably assume that everyone entering a shelter begins with the same abilities, experiences, or capacity to adjust. Yet many shelter policies seem to operate as though understanding a rule and consistently following it are the same thing. They are not. A person can understand what is expected and still struggle to carry it out.

We recognize this throughout ordinary human life. Someone learning a new job does not become proficient simply because an employer explains the procedures. A child learning a new responsibility does not automatically perform it correctly every time. Someone trying to control their temper may understand that yelling is inappropriate while still struggling to regulate their emotions.

Learning requires practice. Yet when we place someone in a homeless shelter, we sometimes expect behavioral change to happen immediately. We explain the rules, obtain their agreement, and treat violations as proof that they are unwilling to comply.

But agreement does not establish proficiency. Understanding a rule does not establish the ability to consistently follow it. Making a mistake does not automatically establish that someone is refusing to learn.

Homelessness itself can interfere with the conditions necessary for learning. Chronic stress, sleep deprivation, anxiety, instability, and uncertainty can make it difficult to maintain attention, control impulses, remember responsibilities, and establish new habits. Those difficulties do not excuse every violation, but they help explain why meaningful behavioral change can take time.

A shelter should not be designed around the assumption that people must already possess all the skills the program intends to help them develop. That defeats the purpose of having a program.

There Is a Difference Between Refusing to Change and Struggling to Change

One of the most important lessons I have learned is that not every failure to comply with a rule means the same thing. I believe shelters should distinguish between three fundamentally different situations.

The first is someone who understands what is expected, has a reasonable ability to comply, and repeatedly chooses not to. The second is someone who genuinely wants to comply but is struggling to develop the necessary behaviors or skills. The third is someone who wants to comply but has a disability, medical condition, or other limitation that interferes with their ability to meet the expectation as it is currently structured.

Administratively, all three situations may look alike. In each case, someone has violated a rule. But the underlying reasons are different, and the appropriate response may need to be different.

The person refusing to participate may need accountability and consequences. The person learning may need more instruction, reminders, practice, or time. The person who cannot meet the expectation may need a reasonable adjustment, a different responsibility, or assistance that addresses the actual limitation.

A person struggling to follow a schedule is not automatically lazy. Someone missing an appointment is not automatically irresponsible. Someone experiencing a relapse is not automatically unwilling to recover.

At the same time, we cannot assume every violation results from circumstances beyond someone's control. Sometimes people knowingly disregard the rules. Sometimes they repeatedly refuse to participate. Sometimes their behavior negatively affects everyone around them. Recognizing those situations is also necessary.

The challenge is understanding why someone is struggling before deciding what that struggle means. That requires judgment, listening, and considering patterns of behavior rather than relying exclusively on isolated incidents.

A humane shelter does not eliminate accountability. It tries to make accountability responsive to the actual human being.

Sometimes People Have to Learn How to Quit

Substance abuse is one example that illustrates this problem. I fundamentally disagree with automatically removing someone from a homeless shelter simply because they tested positive for drugs once.

That does not mean substance abuse should be ignored or that drug-related behavior cannot create serious safety concerns. But there is a difference between someone struggling with addiction and someone creating an unacceptable danger to others.

A positive drug test may tell us something about recent substance use. By itself, it does not tell us everything about someone's intentions, progress, recovery efforts, or willingness to change.

Recovery is not always a straight line. Sometimes people have to learn how to quit.

That may sound like an unusual way of describing recovery, but I believe it captures something important. We teach people how to read, write, solve problems, perform jobs, and develop professional skills. But our educational system does not generally teach people how to become good at quitting something they have become dependent on.

Quitting can require learning to recognize triggers, cope with cravings, manage stress, regulate emotions, change social routines, and recover from setbacks. Addiction may also involve physiological dependence and circumstances that cannot be overcome through willpower alone. Sometimes professional treatment, medical care, counseling, and substantial support are necessary.

Sometimes people make progress and relapse. Sometimes they have to try repeatedly before they develop the skills and stability necessary to maintain recovery. That does not make relapse harmless. But relapse alone should not automatically be treated as proof that someone has abandoned the effort.

Imagine someone who has struggled with addiction for ten years. They enter a shelter, begin following a schedule, start attending appointments, develop better relationships, and begin making progress toward recovery. Then they relapse.

If the shelter immediately removes them, what have we accomplished? We may have taken someone beginning to establish stability and returned them to the very circumstances that made recovery more difficult.

That does not guarantee they would have succeeded if we allowed them to remain. But removing their shelter may eliminate an important source of stability when they need it most.

I believe we should ask whether the person is genuinely trying, whether they are responding to assistance, whether their behavior threatens others, and whether the situation can reasonably be addressed without eviction.

If the goal is recovery, our policies should support recovery rather than confuse punishment with treatment.

Why Camp Haven Gives People Chances

At Camp Haven Sanctuary, we have rules, consequences, and circumstances where someone must leave. We even have one-strike rules, but those are limited to the most serious violations.

For most other rules, our disciplinary process begins with a documented warning. After that warning, a participant can receive three documented write-ups for violating the same rule before being removed from the program. We give people opportunities to learn, correct their behavior, and demonstrate improvement.

The purpose of a warning should not simply be to accumulate enough documentation to remove someone. It should identify the problem, explain what is expected, and give the person an opportunity to improve. The objective should be to help someone reach a point where further disciplinary action becomes unnecessary.

But not every violation can receive multiple chances. Some behaviors present such a serious danger that removal becomes necessary to protect others.

A shelter has a responsibility to maintain physical safety and emotional safety. People cannot reasonably be expected to recover or rebuild their lives in an environment where they constantly fear violence, intimidation, exploitation, or serious disruption.

Compassion toward one person cannot justify disregarding the safety of everyone else. The other participants have experienced hardship too. Their lives matter. Their well-being matters. Their opportunities to improve matter.

Sometimes giving someone another chance is the right decision. Other times, another chance would place an unreasonable burden on everyone else. Compassion without accountability can become unfair to others. Accountability without compassion can become unnecessarily punitive. Both are necessary.

Rules should protect the people participating in the program and support the shelter's purpose. They should not become the purpose of the shelter itself.

Our Three-Month Evaluations

Camp Haven Sanctuary is not simply a place for someone to exist indefinitely without responsibilities or expectations. It is a program designed to help people rebuild their lives.

We can provide opportunities, guidance, assistance, support, and a stable environment. But we cannot rebuild someone's life for them. At some point, the individual must participate in that process.

That is why we conduct evaluations every three months. Two fundamental questions we ask are whether someone is genuinely making an effort to improve their circumstances and whether they are following the rules of the program.

If the answer to either question is no, the person cannot successfully pass the evaluation. But making an effort is not the same as achieving immediate success.

Someone may work extremely hard while making relatively little measurable progress. Another may make substantial progress in a short period. People have different starting points, abilities, limitations, and obstacles. Someone with a disability, a serious medical condition, or a history of trauma may require additional time or support.

We have to consider the person. Are they participating? Are they trying? Are they using the assistance available to them? Are they demonstrating a willingness to improve?

Effort matters. Progress matters. But progress must be understood in context.

Eventually, however, there are circumstances where we must conclude that someone is refusing to make a genuine effort or is unwilling to respect the program. Sometimes that means eviction. And no matter how necessary that decision may be, I never forget what it could mean.

Every Bed Represents Two Human Lives

At Camp Haven Sanctuary, we have more people seeking assistance than we have the capacity to accept. There is a constant stack of applications waiting for consideration. Every bed occupied by one person is a bed that cannot simultaneously be given to someone else.

Suppose someone repeatedly violates the rules, refuses to participate, and demonstrates no genuine effort to improve their circumstances. I may want to give that person another chance because I know what could happen if they return to the streets.

But I also have to consider the person whose application is waiting on my desk. That person may be sleeping outside, experiencing violence, struggling with illness or addiction, or desperately looking for somewhere safe enough to begin rebuilding their life.

If I allow someone to remain indefinitely without participating in the program, I am also deciding not to make that space available to someone else. That is a real consequence of limited resources.

Sometimes people frame the choice as though compassion always means keeping someone in the shelter regardless of their behavior. But what about compassion for the person we cannot accept? Their life matters too. Their safety matters too.

I cannot know whether accepting someone new would produce a better outcome. I cannot know who will succeed, who will struggle, or who will survive. But I cannot ignore the needs of people waiting outside simply because I have developed a relationship with those already participating.

Sometimes leadership means choosing between people who all deserve help when neither available choice offers a guarantee. That is one of the hardest responsibilities of operating a shelter.

Four Deaths I Still Carry With Me

During the five years I have operated Camp Haven Sanctuary, four deaths have affected me in ways I still struggle to put into words.

These were not statistics, case numbers, or files that were closed. They were human beings. They had names, histories, experiences, relationships, struggles, and lives that mattered.

Their deaths cannot be reduced to questions of whether the shelter followed its policies. I do not know whether different decisions would have prevented any of these deaths. I cannot honestly claim they would have. But I also cannot pretend that knowing this eliminates the questions I live with.

Tim

Tim is someone whose death I still struggle with. We reached a point where we had to make the decision to remove him from the shelter.

There were circumstances that led to that decision and responsibilities to the program, its participants, and the organization itself. But there were also choices.

I could have argued harder for him. I could have gone to the board and tried to persuade them to give him another opportunity. I could have said perhaps we should try one more time. We did not give him that additional opportunity.

Tim eventually died by su***de after jumping from a parking garage. He was unable to get the help he needed.

When I think about Tim, I remember the person who was standing in front of me before all of that happened. I remember the decision we made. I remember that he was alive when we had to decide whether he could remain. And now he is not.

I understand that allowing Tim to remain at Camp Haven would not have guaranteed his survival. Su***de is complicated, and it would be wrong to reduce his death to one decision made by a shelter.

But knowing that does not eliminate my questions. Would continued stability have helped him? Would another chance have made a difference? Could I have advocated more effectively? Could we have found another solution?

I will never know. I cannot return to that moment. I cannot ask Tim what would have helped him. I cannot offer him another opportunity.

To this day, I still feel guilty. Not because I can establish that my decision caused his death, but because I know there was a moment when I might have made a different choice, and I will never know whether that choice could have changed the outcome.

Jess

Then there was Jess. Jess returned to the streets and later died.

I still wonder whether I could have done something differently. Could I have advocated for another chance? Could I have found another way to keep Jess sheltered? Could I have made a different decision without compromising my responsibilities to everyone else?

Again, I do not know. There is something especially difficult about learning that someone who once had a place within our shelter has died after returning to homelessness.

When someone leaves the program, they do not stop being a human being whose life matters. They do not suddenly become irrelevant simply because they are no longer our responsibility.

I may no longer have the resources to continue helping them, but I still care what happens to them. Jess was a person. Jess had a life. And that life ended.

I cannot reduce that reality to an explanation that the rules were followed or that the shelter had legitimate reasons for its decisions. Those explanations may be important. They may even justify the decision. But they do not make the death any less real. And they do not make my guilt disappear.

Brandy

Brandy's death is another I will never forget. Brandy had been part of our program before. She left Camp Haven Sanctuary and returned approximately two years later.

During her second stay, we eventually reached a point where we had to evict her. She repeatedly refused to follow the shelter's rules. She was openly bragging about violating policies and creating problems that affected other participants.

Her behavior was undermining the environment we were trying to maintain. I had to consider the other people living at the shelter, the impact on the program, and what would happen if we allowed the behavior to continue.

At some point, I had to recognize that giving Brandy another chance was not simply a decision about Brandy. It was also a decision about everyone else.

The other participants needed somewhere safe. They needed stability. They needed the opportunity to work on their own lives. I had a responsibility to protect those opportunities.

So Brandy had to leave. A few months later, someone shot and killed her.

When I learned what had happened, that familiar guilt returned. I wondered whether she would still be alive if we had allowed her to remain at Camp Haven.

Would she have been somewhere safe when the shooting happened? Would her circumstances have been different? Could I have argued harder for another chance?

I do not know. I recognize that the person who shot Brandy was responsible for that violence. Our decision to remove her does not establish responsibility for someone else's decision to kill her.

But understanding that distinction does not erase what I feel. Brandy had been part of our shelter. She had returned to us. And eventually, I had to tell her she could no longer remain. Now she is dead.

When I think about her, I remember why we made the decision. I remember the problems that were occurring and my responsibility to the other participants. But I also remember Brandy. And I wish the outcome of her life had been different.

Sometimes you must protect the people who depend on you, even when doing so means you cannot continue protecting someone else in the same way. That is a painful reality of leadership.

The Man With Cancer

The fourth person was a man whose name I no longer remember. He came to us during the early period of operating Camp Haven Sanctuary. He had cancer and was bedridden.

Eventually, he left to receive care at a rehabilitation facility. Approximately four months later, the facility contacted me and asked whether he could return to our shelter.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to help him. But I had to recognize the limitations of what Camp Haven could provide.

We are a homeless shelter. We are not a nursing home. We are not a hospice facility. We do not have the medical staff, specialized equipment, training, or resources necessary to provide that level of care.

Accepting him would have meant taking responsibility for medical needs that our organization was not capable of safely meeting.

Good intentions do not automatically create the ability to provide appropriate care. Accepting someone whose medical needs exceed the shelter's capabilities could actually place that person in danger.

So I had to say no. About a month later, he died on the streets of downtown Austin. And once again, I felt guilty.

I think about the fact that he was sick. I think about the fact that he needed care. I think about the fact that someone contacted me because they were looking for somewhere he could go. And I think about the fact that I could not say yes.

His situation was different from someone refusing to follow the rules. He needed medical care that our shelter could not provide.

I understand why we could not accept him. I understand that attempting to provide care we were not qualified to deliver would have been irresponsible. I also understand that the failure to secure appropriate care for him cannot reasonably be attributed to one small homeless shelter.

His situation reflected a much larger problem. There was a seriously ill human being who needed care, and he ultimately died without stable shelter.

I still wish there had been somewhere appropriate for him to go. I still wish I could have done more. And I still remember him, even though I cannot remember his name.

Because forgetting someone's name is not the same as forgetting that they were a human being whose life had value.

The Difference Between Responsibility and Guilt

These four deaths have forced me to confront something about leadership that I do not believe people discuss enough. There is a difference between making a decision that influences someone's circumstances and being responsible for everything that happens afterward.

I understand that distinction intellectually. In each of these cases, there were circumstances beyond my control, decisions made by other people, limitations on what our shelter could provide, and responsibilities to other participants and the organization.

I cannot establish that any of these four people would still be alive if I had chosen differently. Their deaths do not prove our decisions were wrong. But I also cannot prove those decisions made no difference. That uncertainty is what I struggle with.

I have come to recognize three different kinds of responsibility.

The first is responsibility for making the decision. As the leader of Camp Haven Sanctuary, I must make decisions concerning applications, discipline, evaluations, safety, resources, and the organization's survival. I am responsible for how carefully I approach those decisions, what information I consider, and whether I act fairly.

The second is responsibility for causing an outcome. Denying someone shelter does not automatically mean I caused their later death. Establishing that would require understanding much more about what happened and what would likely have occurred under different circumstances.

The third is the moral and emotional burden of the decision. This is where my experience becomes much harder to explain.

A person can make a decision for legitimate reasons and still experience profound regret about what happened afterward. A person can understand that an outcome was not entirely within their control and still feel responsible. A person can recognize that protecting others required a difficult decision and still grieve for the person who lost access to that protection.

When someone dies after I have had to tell them no, I feel guilty. I feel as though their blood is on my hands.

Not because I believe I deliberately harmed them. Not because I wanted them to suffer. And not because I can demonstrate that my decision caused their death.

I feel guilty because I was in a position where I had some ability to influence their circumstances. I had authority. I had choices. I participated in decisions that affected whether they could remain somewhere safe. And afterward, they died.

People sometimes tell me I should not feel guilty because the individuals made their own choices or because the circumstances were beyond my control. I understand their reasoning. But emotions do not always respond to logical explanations.

What if I had argued harder? What if I had given them another chance? What if I had found another solution?

I recognize that those questions may never have answers. I recognize that my responsibilities were broader than any single individual. I recognize that I cannot save everyone. But the emotional burden remains.

I do not want to become indifferent. I do not want denying shelter to become so routine that I stop thinking about the consequences. I do not want someone's eviction to become merely another completed piece of paperwork.

At the same time, guilt alone cannot determine policy. If my fear of another death prevented me from ever removing anyone, I could create an unsafe or dysfunctional environment for everyone else. That would also be irresponsible.

The solution is not to eliminate difficult decisions. It is to make them as carefully, fairly, and humanely as possible.

What Humane Enforcement Should Look Like

My experience has led me to believe that shelters should approach disciplinary decisions through a more deliberate process.

The seriousness of a violation should matter. A minor failure to follow a routine should not receive the same response as behavior that places someone else's physical safety in danger.

The reasons behind a violation should matter. Was the person deliberately disregarding the rule? Did they misunderstand it? Were they attempting to comply but struggling? Was there a disability or other limitation affecting their ability to meet the expectation?

The person's overall pattern of behavior should matter. A single setback should not automatically outweigh months of genuine effort and progress.

Opportunities for correction should matter. If a problem can reasonably be addressed through explanation, additional guidance, warnings, or support, those options should be considered before removing someone's shelter.

The other participants must matter. Their safety, emotional well-being, and opportunities to rebuild their lives deserve protection.

The limitations of the organization must matter. Shelters should consider accommodations, referrals, and appropriate alternatives where possible, but they must also recognize genuine limits on the services they can safely provide.

Finally, the consequences of removal should matter. Before removing someone, I believe leadership should seriously consider what is likely to happen next.

Does the person have somewhere else to go? Is another program available? Can a referral or transition be arranged? Would immediate removal create a serious danger? Are there reasonable steps the shelter can take to reduce that danger?

Sometimes there will be no satisfactory alternative. Sometimes the situation will require immediate removal. Sometimes the shelter will lack the resources necessary to provide continued assistance. But those limitations should be considered, not used as reasons to avoid asking the questions.

Eviction should be a decision made with full awareness of the human consequences, not simply the automatic result of reaching a predetermined number of violations.

When Rules Become More Important Than People

One of the greatest risks in operating any human services organization is allowing administrative procedures to become disconnected from the people those procedures were created to serve.

Rules begin as tools. They are created to solve problems, establish expectations, and maintain order. Over time, organizations can begin treating those rules as though compliance itself is the ultimate measure of success.

A shelter can become very effective at documenting violations, issuing disciplinary notices, and removing participants without necessarily becoming effective at helping people overcome homelessness.

A program can enforce every policy consistently while failing to consider whether those policies are reasonable, effective, or humane.

That is why shelter leadership should continually examine its policies. Are the rules protecting people? Are they supporting progress? Are they helping participants develop useful skills? Are they responding to genuine risks? Or are they creating unnecessary barriers for people who are already struggling?

I do not believe the solution is to eliminate structure. Structure is often one of the most valuable things a shelter provides. But structure should help people develop stability rather than becoming another obstacle they must overcome simply to remain sheltered.

Not every mistake represents defiance. Not every inconvenience requires discipline. And not every participant who struggles is refusing to make an effort.

We should not confuse successful enforcement of a policy with successful rehabilitation of a human being. Those are different outcomes.

Sometimes a Shelter Cannot Be the Solution

The man with cancer taught me that there is a difference between refusing to help someone and recognizing that your organization cannot provide the particular assistance they need.

A shelter without medical staff or nursing capabilities may place a seriously ill person in danger by accepting responsibility for care it cannot provide. Compassion must be accompanied by an honest assessment of capability.

But this creates a much larger problem. What happens to people whose needs fall between different systems? What happens when someone is too medically vulnerable to survive safely on the streets but cannot obtain an appropriate placement? What happens when a rehabilitation facility is preparing to discharge someone who still requires substantial assistance?

These are problems involving medical systems, social services, housing resources, public institutions, and the availability of appropriate care. One small shelter cannot solve them by itself.

Yet when those systems fail to provide a workable solution, a homeless shelter may become the last organization someone asks for help. And sometimes we have to say no.

That does not mean the person no longer needs help. It means the help they need is beyond what we can safely provide.

I believe society should take that distinction seriously. The inability of one organization to provide a service should not mean that a human being is simply left without appropriate care.

But I also recognize the limits of my authority. I cannot create a nursing home. I cannot create a hospice facility. I cannot provide medical services for which we lack the necessary staff and training. And I cannot responsibly promise care we cannot deliver.

Sometimes the problem is larger than the organization. And sometimes the organization is still the one that must deliver the painful answer.

The Difference Between Moving Forward and Being Removed

At Camp Haven Sanctuary, we have a continuum of care for people who successfully move out of the shelter and into housing. Our relationship with them does not automatically end when they leave the property.

We continue offering assistance because we understand that becoming housed does not mean someone's struggles immediately disappear. Maintaining housing and stability can require continued support.

Someone does not become completely independent simply because they receive the keys to an apartment.

But there is a difficult distinction between someone who successfully transitions into housing and someone who is removed because they refuse to participate or repeatedly violate the program's requirements.

When someone is evicted, our formal responsibility to provide them with shelter through the program ends. That does not mean I stop caring about them. It means our limited resources must go toward the people currently participating and those still waiting for an opportunity.

I cannot personally follow every former participant or guarantee their safety. That boundary is necessary for the shelter to continue operating. But ending someone's participation should not mean becoming indifferent.

When reasonable and safe, shelters should consider referrals, communication with other providers, or other steps that may reduce the dangers of returning to homelessness. Those options will not always be possible. But the end of a program relationship does not erase the humanity of the person leaving.

The Evaluations That Still Weigh on Me

Recently, I had to tell several people that they had not passed their three-month evaluations and would have to leave Camp Haven Sanctuary. These are some of the hardest conversations I have as a shelter director.

I know the reasons behind the decisions. I know the shelter must maintain standards. I know we cannot allow people to remain indefinitely if they are unwilling to participate. I know our organization has limited resources, and I know there are other people waiting for an opportunity.

But none of that makes those conversations easy.

When I tell someone they have to leave, I do not know what is going to happen to them. They may find another shelter, reconnect with family, receive assistance elsewhere, or eventually succeed.

But they may also return to the streets. They may experience violence. They may relapse. They may become seriously ill. They may die.

Once they leave, my ability to protect them becomes severely limited. I cannot make sure they are safe every night. I cannot guarantee they will receive the help they need.

My responsibility must shift toward the people who are still depending on Camp Haven Sanctuary. That is what makes these decisions so painful.

I remember Tim. I remember Jess. I remember Brandy. I remember the man with cancer.

And I wonder whether someone I have just told to leave will eventually become another person whose death I learn about. I wonder whether they will still be alive tomorrow. Or next month. Or next year.

And I have to live with the fact that I cannot know.

Leadership Is Not Simply Having Authority

Before operating Camp Haven Sanctuary, I understood that leadership involved responsibility. But I did not fully understand what it would feel like to make decisions where another person's safety or survival might be affected.

People sometimes describe leadership as though it is primarily about authority, making decisions, establishing rules, directing an organization, managing resources, and holding people accountable.

Those responsibilities are certainly part of leadership. But leadership also means accepting that your decisions affect people in ways you cannot always predict.

It means recognizing that you may not have enough information to know which decision will produce the best outcome. It means understanding that doing what is necessary for an organization may still cause hardship for an individual. It means acknowledging that your responsibility to one person may conflict with your responsibility to another.

And sometimes it means carrying the memory of a decision long after everyone else has moved on.

I do not have the luxury of making every decision solely according to what I emotionally want to do. If I did, I would probably give everyone another chance. I would accept every application. I would allow everyone who asked to return to come back. I would try to help everyone who came to us, regardless of their circumstances.

But that would not be responsible leadership.

We do not have unlimited space, money, staff, or resources. We cannot provide every service that every person might require.

If I ignore those limitations, I risk damaging the organization and the people who depend on it. Camp Haven Sanctuary itself must survive if it is going to continue helping people.

Sometimes I must make decisions that preserve the shelter's ability to help people tomorrow. And sometimes those decisions mean I cannot continue helping someone today.

That is a reality I wish were different. But wishing does not change it.

What Five Years Have Taught Me

After five years of running Camp Haven Sanctuary, I believe the quality of a shelter should not be measured simply by how consistently it enforces its rules. It should also be measured by how well those rules serve the people the shelter exists to help.

A shelter should be safe, orderly, and accountable. But it should also recognize the realities of human learning and behavioral change.

People need time, opportunities, instruction, repetition, correction, and support. They need to feel physically and emotionally safe enough to begin addressing the problems in their lives. They need consequences that are fair, understandable, and proportionate to their behavior.

Sometimes they need another chance. Sometimes they need a different kind of assistance. Sometimes they need more time than we expected. And sometimes they need services a particular shelter cannot provide.

There will always be situations where someone refuses to participate, repeatedly disrupts the environment, or creates unacceptable risks for others. We cannot eliminate those realities through compassion alone.

There will still be times when we must say no. There will still be times when someone must leave. And there will still be situations where no available decision feels entirely right.

But I believe there is a profound moral difference between removing someone because a policy makes it administratively convenient and removing someone after carefully considering their circumstances, efforts, needs, behavior, and the consequences for everyone involved.

The outcome may sometimes be the same. The person may still have to leave. But the process reflects a different understanding of our responsibility.

It acknowledges that the person is a human being rather than simply a rule violation. It recognizes that behavior has causes, learning takes time, and people do not always change in predictable ways.

It also recognizes that other participants have needs and vulnerabilities that must be respected. Humane shelter management requires all those considerations, not one at the expense of the others.

The Lives Behind the Decisions

When I think about the people who have died after leaving or being unable to return to Camp Haven Sanctuary, I do not think first about the policies involved. I think about them as people.

Tim was a human being whose life mattered. Jess was a human being whose life mattered. Brandy was a human being whose life mattered. And the man with cancer, whose name I cannot remember, was a human being whose life mattered.

I refuse to reduce them to examples of failed program participation. I refuse to treat their deaths as administrative outcomes.

They were people. They existed. They experienced life. They struggled. They needed help. And now they are gone.

I cannot bring them back. I cannot return to the moments when I had to make decisions concerning their circumstances. And I cannot know with certainty whether doing something differently would have changed what happened.

But I can remember them. I can allow their experiences to influence how I approach future decisions. I can continue asking whether our policies are genuinely serving the people we intend to help.

I can continue distinguishing between someone who refuses to participate and someone who is struggling to learn. I can continue giving people opportunities to correct their behavior when doing so is reasonable and safe. And I can continue recognizing that everyone who comes to our shelter deserves to be treated as a human being.

That is what their stories mean to me. They remind me that behind every application, disciplinary warning, evaluation, and eviction is a person whose life extends far beyond the shelter.

We may only be responsible for one part of that life. But the decisions we make during that part can matter.

When I Have to Say No

I still believe in the program we have built at Camp Haven Sanctuary. I believe in giving people opportunities. I believe in allowing people to make mistakes and learn from them. I believe meaningful change takes time. I believe people who are genuinely trying deserve patience, guidance, and reasonable opportunities to improve.

I believe in accountability, boundaries, and protecting the physical and emotional safety of everyone at the shelter. And I believe the organization must remain stable enough to continue serving those who depend on it.

Those beliefs are not contradictory. They are the foundation of how I believe a homeless shelter should operate.

But holding those beliefs does not make every decision easy.

Four people have died after circumstances in which our shelter could no longer provide them with a place to stay or could not take them back. I remember all four.

I still think about the decisions I made. I still wonder whether I could have done something differently. And I still experience guilt, even when I understand the reasons those decisions were made.

There are times when people tell me I should not feel guilty. They remind me that I cannot save everyone. They remind me that people make their own choices. They remind me that I have responsibilities to the organization and everyone who depends on it. They remind me that I cannot control what happens after someone leaves.

And logically, I understand those arguments. I understand them completely. But emotionally, knowing those things does not always help.

Because I remember the people. I remember that they were alive when I had to decide whether we could continue helping them. And I remember learning that they were dead. That stays with me.

When I have to tell someone today that they cannot remain at Camp Haven Sanctuary, I do not simply see another person who has failed to meet the program's expectations. I see another human being whose future I cannot predict.

I see someone whose life may become more difficult after leaving. I see someone who may find another opportunity. And I see someone who may not.

I remember Tim. I remember Jess. I remember Brandy. And I remember the man with cancer.

Then I look at the people who are still depending on the shelter. I think about their safety, their opportunity to rebuild their lives, the people waiting for an opening, and the survival of the organization.

And I have to make a decision. That is my responsibility.

Sometimes leadership means making a decision you believe is necessary while knowing you may never feel at peace with it. Sometimes it means choosing between people who all deserve help when you do not have the resources to help everyone.

Sometimes it means accepting that your best judgment may still produce an outcome you desperately wish had been different. And sometimes it means living with questions that will never have answers.

I cannot promise that everyone who comes through Camp Haven Sanctuary will succeed. I cannot promise that everyone we deny will find another opportunity. I cannot promise that every person we remove will survive. And I cannot promise that every decision I make will turn out to be the right one.

What I can do is refuse to treat those decisions casually. I can refuse to forget that every rule is being applied to a human being. I can insist that our program recognize how people actually learn, struggle, recover, and change.

I can insist that compassion be accompanied by accountability and that accountability be exercised with compassion. I can continue trying to create an environment where people are physically safe, emotionally supported, and given a meaningful opportunity to rebuild their lives.

And when the time comes that I must tell someone they can no longer stay, I can make sure that decision receives the consideration its potential consequences deserve.

I do not believe we should measure a shelter's compassion by whether it has rules. I believe we should measure it, in part, by why those rules exist, how they are enforced, whether they help people change, and how the organization treats those who struggle to follow them.

Because a homeless shelter should be more than a place where people are temporarily allowed to exist. It should be a place where human beings are given a genuine opportunity to rebuild their lives.

That requires patience. It requires understanding. It requires forgiveness. It requires accountability. And sometimes it requires making decisions that are extraordinarily difficult.

I have learned that being responsible for a homeless shelter does not mean I can protect everyone. It means I must do my best to protect the people entrusted to our care while recognizing that every person we cannot help is still a human being whose life matters.

When a homeless shelter says no, it is not simply enforcing a policy. It is making a decision that may affect the course of a human life.

And I believe we have a responsibility to never forget that.

Because even when we cannot save someone, their life still matters.

And even when we must say no, we should never forget the human being who had to hear it.

© By Josiah James Ingalls 2026