When the government shutdown landed over public housing this fall, everything froze. HUD is on life support. Conversations in boardrooms turned from strategy to survival. For many residents, there is no understanding of how precarious the situation really is. But for those of us sitting at the intersection of governance and lived experience, the pressure is unmistakable.
In Roanoke, our housing authority serves roughly 5,000 residents. When the federal budget falters, every extension, every short-term fix, feels like another spin of the roulette wheel — and the stakes are human homes. We are asked, month after month, to wait for permission to exhale.
Inside the agency, one question quietly surfaced as we weighed contingency plans, possible layoffs and shrinking operational timelines:
Should we cancel the Annual Employee Recognition & Holiday Luncheon?
On paper, the answer seemed obvious. Why celebrate when funding is in limbo? Why gather staff when we don’t even know if their jobs — or our residents’ stability — will be protected in January?
But the more I listened to staff, the clearer it became that canceling wasn’t prudence — it was surrender.
Our employees have carried the emotional weight of this shutdown alongside every other crisis housing systems quietly absorb. They field questions from residents about benefits they cannot control. They juggle cases that require more compassion than staffing levels allow. They see burnout inside their own homes: insurance hikes, PTO they can’t take because they’re understaffed, anxiety about their next paycheck. They have remained steadfast, even when the ground beneath them is unstable.
Here’s the truth I wish more people understood:
For most who work in public housing, this isn’t just a job. It’s a calling.
If they were here for a paycheck alone, they’d leave for something easier, better paid or less emotionally demanding. The reality is simpler and more profound: they stay because they care. They know the residents. They’ve heard the stories, witnessed the hardship and kept their station even when morale stretched thinner than the federal budget.
Staff are the lifeblood of a housing authority. Without them, there is no agency. Without them, families lose support networks, inspections stall and critical safety nets unravel. Without them, thousands of people — myself included — would not have a place to lay their heads.
And if any housing authority makes the choice to cancel simple gestures of gratitude — even small ones — we risk communicating that the people holding the hardest jobs are expendable when times get tight.
That message has consequences: lower morale, higher turnover and a deeper erosion of trust at the exact moment our systems need stability most.
And when the cards are down — when uncertainty is sharpest — people like that deserve to be acknowledged.
Celebration doesn’t need grandeur. It needs sincerity. Poor families have known this forever. I grew up in a home where gifts were handmade and cakes came from our own ovens. We celebrated anyway — not because times were good, but because we refused to let hardship steal our humanity.
The same principle holds here.
In a moment when Congress cannot guarantee stability for the people doing the work, our housing authority chose not to scrap the luncheon. We moved it into a resident building. We streamlined expenses. We found room in a community space. And we’re keeping it small, intentional — but most of all, heartfelt.
So on Friday, December 12th at noon, RRHA staff will gather at Melrose Towers to be honored for their steadfast commitment. When morale was on the chopping block, we chose humanity instead.
Because joy isn’t frivolous.
Joy is an act of resistance.
A refusal to let uncertainty erase the dignity of those who keep our systems standing.
Housing authorities don’t just run on budgets. They run on people: the caseworkers who go home exhausted, the maintenance staff who answer the phone at night, the coordinators who continue community outreach when no one is sure what next month will look like.
Policy conversations will continue. Shutdown threats will return. Funding cycles will always run too close to the cliff. But something deeper matters here:
When the system shakes, do we reduce people to numbers — or do we remind them that their work still has meaning?
To agencies across the country facing similar choices, I offer only this: If we want employees who remain committed when seasons are hard, we must meet their commitment with gratitude. Not only when times are comfortable, but especially when the future is unclear.
Recognition costs far less than burnout. Connection is cheaper than turnover. And keeping morale alive is the most fiscally responsible choice any of us can make.
When federal budgets stall and headlines scream uncertainty, gathering to break bread becomes its own quiet protest — one that says:
We still see you.
We still value you.
And in this moment, we choose humanity anyway.
That’s not extravagance — that’s investment.
And in housing communities across this country, investment in people is the one resource we cannot afford to cut.
Debra Carter is vice chair and resident commissioner of the Roanoke Redevelopment and Housing Authority.
