Thank you, Chair.
Good morning, members of the committee.
My name is Taylor Soroka. I'm the co-founder of the Jasper Place Wellness Centre here in Edmonton, Alberta, a community development organization I founded together with my father, Murray, who, regrettably, couldn't join us today. I know he would have liked to be here.
It's an honour to contribute to this committee study on homelessness in Canada. I thank you for the invitation.
I want to begin with a distinction that I believe is foundational to this study and to getting policy right. Homelessness is not complicated; it is complex, and that difference is costing lives.
Our organization works in a community that knows complexity up close. Edmonton is the city of champions, but we're also the frostbite capital of Canada, a city where temperatures fall to -30°C, and where people lose their fingers, their feet and, ultimately, their lives, not because of some abstract failure but because they had nowhere safe to go.
I know that complexity does not fit on a policy form. It does not communicate well to a frightened public watching encampments grow outside their windows, so we have done what humans do with things we cannot hold. We've named the most visible, most basic surface feature and called that the problem: no home—homeless. In collapsing that enormous human complexity into a single administrative category, we've named the symptom and lost sight of the patient.
The word “homeless” groups together residential school survivors and the person with a traumatic brain injury, the young woman who aged out of foster care at 18 with nowhere safe to go, the veteran, the man living with untreated bipolar disorder. What they share is one thing: no safe place to call their own. What they don't share is anything else. That's the complexity. It's not hard to understand. It's human.
The pace at which this crisis is growing has created a common misunderstanding. When people see encampments in their parks, or when they feel unsafe walking through their own neighbourhood, they conclude the solutions must not be working. I understand that, but the truth is the opposite. The research is not ambiguous: Housing first works and supportive housing works, but they are being outpaced. An outpaced solution looks identical to a failed one unless you know the numbers.
In Edmonton, the average wait time to access supportive housing is 512 days—512 days in the frostbite capital of Canada, in the city of champions. That wait exists because we have not built enough, but it's not only about supply. Too much of what we have built has been designed to scale rather than to the person, with large facilities where no one knows your name, never mind your story. For our neighbours living with the most complex needs—deep psychosis, severe mental illness, brain injury—that design feature is the most costly of all. They need the most from their housing: psychiatric care, clinical support and real intensity.
Housing is the foundational solution, always, but the supports inside it have to match the people it is for, and that's a real gap we're facing and one we have to build next. When we respond to the complexity of a human being with enforcement, encampment clearances and the removal of the visible signs of suffering rather than what it causes, we're not solving the problem. We're moving it. We're breaking the trust that makes intervention possible. We are choosing, in the language of my field, social control over social care. The data is consistent. It costs more, produces worse outcomes and makes the work of organizations like mine profoundly harder.
At the Jasper Place Wellness Centre, we fit in the gaps where systems fail people, and we do it through a design called a healing house. We start with the building, because the building itself is a solution. Housing is always the answer.
A healing house is, first and foremost, housing. Each one sits on a single city lot and has 12 self-contained units. The entire main floor is common space. It has a kitchen where residents can cook together, watch the Oilers, the best team in Canada, hold house meetings, do chores and access therapy and programming. The whole building is fully accessible. Research is clear that communities of eight to 12 people produce better outcomes for those navigating severe mental health and complex trauma. We built that finding into the walls.
On top of housing, you layer a program, and now you have an intervention. Programs come and go with funding cycles—that's the reality of this work—but when capital funding built a healing house, it built an essential infrastructure that stands for a lifetime. If the program ends, the building keeps housing people as affordable housing, supportive housing or whatever the community needs next. The investment is never lost.
For a federal government deciding where dollars go, I cannot overstate how important that distinction is. Two programs currently operate out of our healing houses today, each one built at an intersection where the system loses people.
Bridge healing sits between the emergency department and the street. When someone is discharged from an Edmonton hospital with nowhere to go, they come to us into a healing house with wraparound supports, including health care access, income navigation, housing assessments and connection to treatment. It costs $140 a day compared to upwards of $1,000 in hospital, and the outcome is a 76% reduction in health care utilization among participants. That number is not just a program result. It's proof of the housing first model that, if you stabilize someone first, if you start with housing, everything else changes.
Recovery and transition sit between detox and residential treatment, a gap that historically meant relapse. A person who completes detox is medically stable and has a confirmed intake date. We hold the stage. We keep the thread from breaking.