Before I housed anyone, before I trained anyone, before I became a national advocate — I was a homeless female veteran the system didn’t know how to see.

My Beginning — and the Silence That Followed 

I entered the Army searching for direction and purpose. Instead, I was met with MST — trauma I didn’t have the language for, and the military didn’t have the courage to confront. The result was a discharge that felt more like being thrown away than being transitioned. I didn’t understand then that this was the first domino that would topple years of instability, abuse, and homelessness. 

After the Army, I married a Marine. I thought I was building a new life. Instead, I stepped into a nightmare. He was abusive — mentally, physically, and violently. I lost my first pregnancy because of one of his beatings. Between 1987 and 1993, I ran for my life more than once. And every time I ran, I ran straight into homelessness. 

What hurt just as much was the indifference: “We don’t have anything for women like you.” Not from the shelters. Not from the VA. Not from anyone. 

I survived by piecing myself together each time the world tore me apart.

Rebuilding — One Bathroom, One Shift, One Degree at a Time 

I eventually understood education was my only escape hatch. I took out student loans, pushed through the chaos, and earned my B.A. from Columbia College Chicago.

But leaving him meant survival on my own terms — even if those terms were brutal. When I finally walked away for good, I slept in my car for three weeks. 

I cleaned up in gas station bathrooms, switching locations so no one would catch on. But my favorite place — the one that kept me going — was McDonald’s. I’d wash up, do my hair, grab breakfast, and go straight to my new job at the City of Chicago Department of Revenue like nothing was wrong.

And strangely… even in that car, even exhausted and alone, I could feel my life returning. Piece by piece. Day by day. 

It wasn’t comfort. But it was freedom. And that mattered more.

The First Apartment — and the First Spark of My Mission 

I eventually scraped together enough to rent a tiny studio over a laundromat in Rogers Park. It was small, but it was safe, and it was mine. The building’s owner introduced me to real estate and a world that felt as foreign to me as starting over. But something about it clicked. I earned my real estate license in 1996 from the Chicago Association of Realtors and built a career completely from scratch with zero guidance. No mentor. No shortcuts. Just me, hunger, and the belief that I could rebuild a life worth living.

I grew quickly in the field, leasing hundreds of units, managing 633 apartments across 14 buildings, leading teams, and building systems no one had taught me. But my life changed the day I met a homeless veteran in a wheelchair during a housing workshop I was conducting at Access Living in Chicago. 

The moment I looked at him, I saw her — the young woman I once was, homeless, invisible, scared, trying to figure out why the system didn’t care.

I remember asking myself: “If he’s here… how many more are out there?” I soon found out. Through Hines VA and Jesse Brown VAMC homeless walk-ins, veterans began pouring in, telling stories that sounded too much like mine. And that’s when my mission stopped being accidental. 

It became personal.

For the past 22 years, I’ve done one thing relentlessly: I filled the gaps that almost swallowed me. I trained leasing agents. I trained VA social workers. I trained investors on how to serve veterans and remain profitable. I conducted workshops at Volunteers of America Illinois, the Cook County Department of Corrections, the Federal Bureau of Prisons, and for 13 straight years at the Forest Park Vet Center.

Everywhere I went, I said it plainly: “We will not end veteran homelessness until realtors, investors, social workers, and agencies speak the same language and work the same mission.” Because that’s where veterans fall — in the gap between systems that should work together but don’t.

Why I Still Fight 

Women veterans remain one of the most invisible populations in America. We are often overlooked, misunderstood, and underserved. And homeless veterans, especially women, are still being turned away, dismissed, or pushed into systems never designed for them. 

We don’t end veteran homelessness with committees or promises. We end it with systems that see homeless veterans, understand their lived realities, and respond with urgency and coordination. Realtors, investors, social workers, agencies — you all matter. You are all part of this mission. 

I survived what the system missed. Now I’m here making sure no veteran has to survive it alone. The system failed me once — and I will not let it fail anyone else. 

And to Mission Roll Call — thank you for giving me the space to tell these stories to the nation. People deserve to know what’s really happening, and more importantly, how they can help. This is more than my story. It’s the truth about what our veterans face, and the mission we must finish together. 

Yvette Jones Swanson, M.A., is a writer and Mission Roll Call’s subject-matter expert on veteran homelessness and housing. A U.S. Army veteran and survivor of MST, she brings more than 22 years of frontline experience helping thousands of veterans secure stable housing.