The last time Julie Crossman saw her little sister, Nanie Crossman, it was 2019 and Nanie was moving out of Julie鈥檚 San Francisco apartment, destination unknown.
For the next six years, Julie worried 鈥� especially every time it rained. She assumed Nanie was homeless, but she had no idea where she was or how to find her.
鈥淚 just couldn鈥檛 sleep at night because I was so scared,鈥� Julie said, her voice breaking. 鈥淚 was really scared that she was just, like, cold and alone.鈥�
Then, in January, Julie got a text from her half-brother. It was a link to a about unhoused people voting. And it quoted Nanie.
That article launched Julie on a quest to find her long-lost sister, rekindle their relationship and 鈥� maybe 鈥� help her get off the street.
It鈥檚 estimated more than are homeless. But no one counts the number of people like Julie, who stay up late worrying, compulsively Googling their sister, father or child鈥檚 name for a clue to their whereabouts. The people who scan every face each time they pass a homeless encampment.
Their numbers are likely far greater.
Some nonprofits that work in the homeless services sector say reconnecting with family is a crucial, and often overlooked, step in getting clients off the street. Even if a family member can鈥檛 offer up their guest room or couch, they might help their loved one find housing, access addiction treatment, sign up for benefits, or simply provide emotional support 鈥� reminding them that they are important and worthy of love. But the process of finding and reconnecting with someone living outside can be difficult, both logistically and emotionally, for everyone involved.
Once the person is found, it opens up a new question: What, if anything, can be done to help? The answer is almost never simple. Despite a by homeless service providers to reunite clients with their families, there鈥檚 little data to show how often those reunifications end someone鈥檚 homelessness.
And, as Julie found when she searched for guidance, few resources exist to help families navigate this terrain.
鈥淚 haven鈥檛 found anything,鈥� Julie said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 frustrating because this whole thing is happenstance and coincidence and lucky breaks but there鈥檚 not really a road map that I can find of other people鈥檚 methods, or things they鈥檝e done that have been helpful.鈥�
Two sisters reunite
From the CalMatters article, Julie gleaned one important fact: Nanie was living in an RV parked on a West Oakland street. It felt like a lucky break 鈥� Julie had since moved to Oakland as well. She emailed the CalMatters reporter to find out more.
Three weeks later, on a sunny Tuesday morning, she and the reporter stood outside a row of RVs on a trash-strewn side street next to a graffiti-covered warehouse wall. It had taken a few tries to get there. Police had forced Nanie to move from her prior parking spot a week and a half earlier, so Julie and the reporter walked up and down the nearby streets, asking other RV-dwellers if they knew her.
Eventually, they found an RV that had Nanie鈥檚 name sketched near the door. Julie was scared. She worried Nanie wouldn鈥檛 want to talk to her after all these years.
They knocked 鈥� no answer. Nanie wasn鈥檛 in her RV. But they soon found her in the RV next door.
鈥淛ulie!鈥� Nanie exclaimed, stepping outside. The sisters threw their arms around each other in a tight hug.
鈥淲hat鈥檚 up, dude?鈥� Nanie asked when they separated, as if it hadn鈥檛 been six years.
鈥淣othing is up,鈥� Julie replied, beaming. The resemblance between the two sisters, now both in their 40s, was obvious: Matching dark hair, pale complexions and smiles.
Julie and Nanie immediately launched into a remarkably ordinary conversation, updating each other on their lives. They discovered they both have cats. Neither has a driver鈥檚 license. Nanie described what it was like being homeless in San Francisco during the COVID-19 pandemic (she liked having the streets to herself) and talked about the time she spent living in Sacramento. Julie wanted to know about the logistical details of her sister鈥檚 life: How do you get clothes? What about food?
They kept it light. They didn鈥檛 unpack old traumas or air past grievances. Julie didn鈥檛 ask Nanie if she was using drugs or badger her about getting a job and moving inside.
Later, Julie said it took some willpower to tamp down her protective, older-sister instincts.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to judge her life where it鈥檚 just a fact of life. I just don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 a good way to approach it,鈥� Julie said. 鈥淚f it were me, I would just shut down. I would not want to talk to someone like that, who was asking me that kind of question.鈥�
Julie presented Nanie with the offerings she brought: A few cans of sparkling water, wet wipes, socks and a fancy pen. She offered to do Nanie鈥檚 laundry.
鈥淣anie, I鈥檓 so glad to see you,鈥� Julie said with a squeal, giving her sister another hug. 鈥淚 feel like we鈥檙e just chit-chatting.鈥�
鈥業t鈥檚 tougher than I even imagined鈥�
Julie and Nanie were close as kids growing up in Boston鈥檚 Beacon Hill neighborhood. They invented games, such as using to record themselves reading children鈥檚 books in funny voices. As they got older, their conversations were so full of inside references that outsiders, including one of Julie鈥檚 former boyfriends, were left in the dark.
Nanie told a CalMatters reporter that after she became homeless, she avoided trying to find Julie. She was afraid her sister would be mad at her or judgmental 鈥� or worse, that she鈥檇 died in an accident and Nanie hadn鈥檛 known. Seeing her again was a big relief.
鈥淚 feel a lot less all alone out here,鈥� Nanie said.
Julie walked away from their meeting with mixed emotions. She was relieved that overall, Nanie seemed OK. The fears she had 鈥� that Nanie might have physically or mentally deteriorated due to drugs, or been forced to do sex work to survive 鈥� seemed unfounded. Nanie was safe from the elements in her RV and had a community of friends.
But the meeting also raised a big question: What could Julie do to help her sister?
Nanie says she wants a relationship, not help. In the past, after moving indoors, she became depressed. In her RV, within her street community, she feels like herself.
鈥淔or now,鈥� Nanie said, 鈥淚鈥檓 content out here. And I guess what I want from her is to understand that.鈥�
Julie understands that as well as someone who hasn鈥檛 lived on the streets can 鈥� which is to say, not completely. She still wants to help, but she鈥檚 struggling with how. Part of her wants to open up her home so Nanie can shower, do laundry and hang out, while another part of her thinks she should instead set boundaries.
And then she feels guilty for even considering keeping her sister at a distance.
鈥淚t鈥檚 tougher than I even imagined it would be,鈥� Julie said.
Does reconnecting with family help?
Programs throughout the state out of town to unhoused people trying to reunite with family or friends. That can result in people simply becoming homeless again in a new location. But proponents say that if done with the proper support, sending someone back into the arms of loved ones can be a lifesaver.
鈥淲e heal in community,鈥� said Gabby Cordell, who runs the reunification program at the San Francisco-based nonprofit . 鈥淲e鈥檙e not meant to go through life alone. And everyone matters. Everyone is someone鈥檚 somebody.鈥�
Using Google, social media and anything else they can think of, Miracle Messages helps unhoused clients find their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, or anyone else they are looking for.
The organization receives about 50 referrals a month 鈥� mostly for cases within California, Cordell said. She and her team are able to find and get a hold of the person they鈥檙e looking for about half of the time. Sometimes, the family member is thrilled.
鈥淚t鈥檚 astounding how often we get an, 鈥極h my gosh, I鈥檝e been looking for him,鈥欌�� she said.
Other times, the relationship has been badly damaged, and the family member isn鈥檛 interested in reconnecting.
The group also offers the reverse, helping people who are housed find loved ones living on the street. That鈥檚 much harder, Cordell said.
鈥淭rying to find your brother is looking for a needle in a haystack,鈥� she said. 鈥淭rying to find your brother who is unhoused is looking for a moving needle in 10 haystacks.鈥�
The nonprofit has succeeded in arranging more than 115 of these more difficult reunions since around 2017, according to its website.
Nonprofit LifeMoves also offers reunification services across 17 of its homeless shelter and temporary housing sites in Silicon Valley. Only a small percentage of clients leave homelessness that way (the nonprofit doesn鈥檛 track exactly how many), said Heather Griffin, director of shelter and services for Santa Clara County.
It鈥檚 impossible to know how successful these efforts are. Neither LifeMoves nor Miracle Messages tracks what happens to people after they reunite with family.
鈥楾hat was hard:鈥� Another family reconnects after decades on the street
Ashanti Terrell lived a lot of her life without her father, Ashby Dancy.
He was on and off the streets of Oakland for most of her childhood, while she grew up in and out of foster care and then with her mother鈥檚 family. She lost touch with him as the years passed and she earned a master鈥檚 degree, launched a career in public safety and had three children of her own in Atlanta.
But as she got older, she felt a void. Her mother had died and her father was all she had left.
鈥淲hen I was 18 years old, (I) graduated, I had nobody to go to my graduation,鈥� Terrell said. 鈥淚 wanted my dad to at least be at my graduation. I haven鈥檛 gotten married because I wanted my dad to be there, you know. I haven鈥檛 done a lot of stuff because I wanted my dad.鈥�
Terrell had glimpses of her father over the years. Two years ago, he landed in subsidized housing in Oakland and she went to visit him. But he didn鈥檛 know who she was, she said. Whether that was because of drug use, mental illness or both, she wasn鈥檛 sure.
Last fall, Terrell got a call from a social worker. The social worker said her father was trying to get to Atlanta to see her, but got stuck in Texas and ended up in a hospital. Terrell started planning with her sister to help him. But when she called the hospital again, he was already gone. No one knew where.
She decided to pack up her life in Georgia, move to the Bay Area, and find him.
Then, while Googling her father鈥檚 name, Terrell saw him quoted in an October 鈥� coincidentally, the same article that helped reunite Julie and Nanie Crossman. The article said he was at a tent encampment in East Oakland.
Terrell went looking. She drove around the area at different times of day, hoping to catch a glimpse of her father. She asked the workers at a nearby Burger King if they鈥檇 seen him.
In March, Terrell emailed the CalMatters reporter for help. The reporter showed her where to find her father鈥檚 tarp-covered tent, sitting by itself on the sidewalk.
After that, Terrell started visiting her father, stopping by to check on him, talk and give him food.
On a recent Friday afternoon, she brought her 7-year-old son, Mekhi. Dancy gave the boy a fistbump and asked about his school, and about the family鈥檚 upcoming move to Oakland鈥檚 Temescal neighborhood. But then he started talking about the 22 kids he鈥檇 had with his ex-girlfriend (something Terrell is positive didn鈥檛 happen). He mumbled, making it hard for her to understand him.
Mekhi asked his mom if they could buy Grandpa some Burger King, and she said yes, promising to come back with a burger after they picked the other kids up from school.
鈥淚 just wanted to let you know that I鈥檓 here,鈥� Terrell told her father, as they left. 鈥淎s soon as I get myself together, I鈥檓 going to help you out.鈥�
鈥淚 love you, sweetheart,鈥� he said. And then to Mekhi: 鈥淭ake care of your mom, OK?鈥�
Terrell teared up as she and Mekhi walked away from her father鈥檚 tent. 鈥淭hat was hard,鈥� she said.
He had admitted he was drunk, which disappointed her. Just like today鈥檚 Oakland 鈥� with its massive homeless encampment along East 12th Street 鈥� is unrecognizable as the city she grew up in, the man she just talked to is not the father who raised her. The father she remembers won trophies for boxing. He was a 鈥渂ig kid,鈥� a gentle soul who ran around and played with her and her two sisters, did their hair in cute braids and took them camping.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know who he is,鈥� she said of the man in the tent. 鈥淚 come from him, but I don鈥檛 know him.鈥�
The last real memory Terrell has of her father is from July 1998, at the same Burger King across the street from her father鈥檚 tent. It was Terrell鈥檚 8th birthday. She was in foster care, but was visiting with her parents at the fast food chain 鈥� her favorite 鈥� to celebrate.
She moved with her mother to Chicago and then Atlanta shortly after, and lost touch with her father, who stayed behind in Oakland.
Now, Terrell wants to repair their relationship. She wants him to get to know his grandchildren, and she wants to take him to visit his 86-year-old mother in Stockton.
She also wants to save him, before it鈥檚 too late. He鈥檚 63, and Terrell is scared that if he stays outside, he鈥檒l fall victim to fentanyl, or one of the many other dangers of the street.
Terrell imagines helping her father will involve rehab and an assessment of his mental state 鈥� if he鈥檚 willing. She wants to figure out why he lost his subsidized housing, and if he can get it back. But she鈥檚 not sure where to start.
鈥淢aybe 20 years might be too late,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know.鈥�