The Man Who Lost Everything

My name is Daniel Royce. And five years ago, I had it all.

A six-figure job. A corner office in midtown Manhattan. A wife who used to laugh in the mornings. Two kids in private school. A Mercedes in the garage. Golf trips, dinner parties, brand-new suits.

And then I lost everything—except my breath and my name.

This is the story of how I ended up living in a homeless shelter—and how I finally climbed out of it.

I wasn’t born poor. I wasn’t abused. I wasn’t a criminal. I was the kind of man you'd expect to succeed.

I studied economics at Northwestern, got my MBA, climbed the corporate ladder fast. By the time I was 38, I was the vice president of operations for a logistics company with clients across the globe.

My days were spreadsheets and conference calls. My nights were whiskey and missed dinners.

I told myself I was building something for my family. But in truth, I was avoiding them.

My wife, Lauren, was the first to notice the cracks.

“You don’t smile anymore,” she said one night.

“I don’t have time to,” I replied.

The beginning of the end.

In 2018, I made a deal that went wrong.

I backed a private logistics deal with a partner I trusted. I co-signed. No lawyers. No safety net. A $720,000 mistake.

When the project fell apart, the debt didn’t disappear. It followed me—through bank accounts, credit reports, and courtrooms.

My company fired me the same month I got served.

I remember standing in my kitchen with a pink slip in one hand and foreclosure papers in the other. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

I just sat down and poured another drink.

Alcohol was my answer.

Not the right one. But the one I knew.

At first, it was a habit. Then it was a hiding place. Then it was a prison.

Lauren left with the kids. Quietly. No lawyers. Just a note that read:

“You can’t fix this with silence, Dan. I hope one day you try something else.”

I didn’t blame her.

By 2020, I was sleeping in my car.

By 2021, I didn’t have a car to sleep in.

I ended up at St. Joseph’s Shelter in Brooklyn.

Not because I wanted to, but because I had nowhere else.

It smelled like bleach and sweat and regret.

I met people who used to be chefs, truckers, even an ex-teacher.

We were all statistics now. Cots. Numbers on a clipboard.

But one man changed everything.

His name was Curtis.

He was 61, wore an army jacket, and ran morning prayer whether you liked it or not.

One day, he looked at me and said,

“You got all that pain, but you still got both your hands. So use them.”

I didn’t want sermons. But something about his words stuck.

He taught me how to clean floors the right way. How to fold sheets tight like the military. How to walk with your chin up even if your shoes were falling apart.

We talked every morning.

About addiction. Shame. God. Forgiveness.

Not the kind you ask for—but the kind you give yourself when you decide you’re not done yet.

In January 2022, I signed up for a city-run rehab and job program.

It was hell.

Sweating out the alcohol. Therapy sessions that peeled me open. Writing letters I never sent. Making peace with a version of myself I hated.

But I stayed.

I made coffee. Cleaned kitchens. Learned patience.

Six months later, I got a job at a small warehouse in Queens—minimum wage, back-breaking work. But it was mine.

I saved every dollar.

No vacations. No car. Just rent and rice and goals.

By early 2023, I had moved out of the shelter and into a single-room apartment above a pawn shop.

One window. One lightbulb. One second chance.

I got promoted to warehouse supervisor. Started managing deliveries, writing reports again.

I was still in touch with Curtis. We met every Sunday for eggs and black coffee.

Then one day, I got a message on Facebook from my daughter, Ellie.

She was 16 now.

“Mom said you’re better. I hope that’s true. Can we talk sometime?”

I stared at the screen for an hour before replying.

“I’d like that. More than anything.”

Today, I’m 46.

I still rent a one-bedroom. I still walk to work.

But I’m sober. I pay my bills. I call my kids every weekend.

And every Friday, I go back to St. Joseph’s with donuts for the guys.

I’m not a hero. I’m not special.

But I didn’t give up.

And if you’re reading this wondering if it’s too late for you—it’s not.

No matter how far you fall, the climb is always possible.

All you need is a hand. Or two. And the courage to stop lying to yourself.

So yes, I once had everything.

And I lost it.

But now?

Now I have something stronger.

Gratitude.

Because when you’ve slept in the rain, when you’ve begged for change, when you’ve looked in the mirror and seen a stranger—

You learn that the most valuable thing in the world… is hope.

And hope is free.