I didn’t plan to get pregnant. It happened on the only night in months we weren’t sleeping on the ground – a break from the cold, an Airbnb over Thanksgiving. No sidewalk. No strangers hovering. No fear of someone creeping up in the dark. Just warmth, quiet, and a chance to breathe. That night, we felt safe enough to hold each other like people who still had a future. That night, I conceived a child I now desperately want to protect.
Now it’s July. I’m 33 weeks along. And I’m still sleeping outside.
When I redid my ECHO Coordinated Entry Assessment – the gateway to possibly qualifying for rapid rehousing – I told the truth. I’m pregnant. I’ve been harassed, stalked, propositioned just for sitting alone. I sleep on concrete because the last time I had a tent, a man tried to drag me into his car.
I told them how, while my boyfriend and I were out trying to scrape together enough to rest that night, four Home Depot employees destroyed our belongings. They cut up our backpacks and shoes so we couldn’t carry or wear them. They slashed our IDs, paperwork – even the business card of a man who’d offered Connor work. They tore up the pillows and blankets gifted by a couple trying to help. That card was a lifeline. We never got to use it.
Despite everything I shared, my score was a 7. Too low to be prioritized. The woman doing the intake told me, “Come back in six months – after you’ve had the baby.”
They’ve now said I can retake the assessment at the end of this month – four weeks before I’m due.
But I might not have a baby if I don’t have housing.
How do you carry a pregnancy full term while sleeping on concrete in the Texas heat? How do you recover from childbirth outside? What hospital will discharge a newborn to a mother with no roof, no crib, no door?
I have a degree in public relations from Texas Tech. One of the first things they teach you is “Know your audience.” I think about that when I’m flying a sign. But I don’t know the audience anymore. Or maybe they don’t want to know me.
If I look clean, I must be scamming. If I look dirty, people recoil. There’s no safe way to be visibly homeless and visibly pregnant without facing shame.
Some days, I trade clothes at Goodwill just to walk into a gas station with a shred of dignity. Other days, I’m too worn down to try. I’ve slept 14 hours on the ground – not because I was at peace, but because my body gave out.
Still, when I feel a foot press against my belly, I remember why I keep going. Even when the system stops listening.
No form captures what it means to carry life with nowhere to put it down. No assessment score values dignity.
The system says, “Come back later.” But I don’t have later. I have now. And now, I’m still sleeping outside.
All I want is a life for my child where people offer compassion instead of cruelty. A life where shelter isn’t something you earn by being broken enough. A life where a pregnant woman on the street isn’t just another invisible body.
That life has to start with a place to sleep.
My body is a home for this baby.
But we still don’t have one.
Pregnant and living unhoused in Austin, Rebekah Blanchard draws from her own experience to highlight the barriers women face on the streets. She studied public relations and journalism at Texas Tech University.
This article appears in July 25 • 2025.