by former walk-in client
In a world where walls are built higher than bridges, there still exist houses whose roofs are not made of iron and stone, but of compassion, courage, and the profound understanding of human suffering. One such place is Romero House—unadorned, modest, and quiet, yet more majestic than any palace.
Today, I did not walk into a building; I stepped into a temple of humanity.
In the midst of emotional exhaustion and daily despair, I arrived trembling, with tears in my eyes and heaviness in my heart. And there, standing in the humble silence of that space, was someone who restores not only bodies, but the soul— with kindness, attentive listening, and the grace of her presence: Ms. Sana’a.
Her care reminded me of wartime nurses—those who rushed not away from, but toward the fire, dressing wounds amid chaos. It recalled the women of past pandemics who, rather than fleeing disease, stayed behind to comfort and heal the afflicted—not for payment or praise, but for the sake of being human. But it wasn’t only Ms. Sana’a.
From the moment I stepped into that quiet house, every single woman I encountered offered me a kindness that felt sacred. One brought me water, another handed me a tissue for my tears. Someone gently asked, “Would you like something to eat?” Another said, “You can take some bread and food for home.” They didn’t just assist me—they acknowledged my dignity, they restored my faith.
In that unassuming place, I met hearts more luminous than stained glass.
I did not leave with food—I left with something far more sustaining: faith in humanity.
To the leadership of Romero House, I say this: You have built not just a support organization—it is a living archive of compassion, a place where policies are practiced with moral urgency rather than bureaucratic detachment. This message is not merely an expression of thanks for physical help—it is a tribute to the resurrection of a soul nearly extinguished.