There’s a kind of mental abuse that doesn’t leave bruises. It doesn’t show up on medical charts. It doesn’t always make headlines. But it wears people down slowly, over time, until they begin to question themselves instead of the system harming them. That’s what it feels like to live and advocate in Fresno.
For years, I’ve spoken out, pushed back and fought for people, especially those experiencing homelessness, those navigating trauma and those simply trying to survive in a system that too often works against them. And like so many others, I’ve been made to feel like I am the problem. That’s how the system protects itself. Because when enough pressure is put on one person, when they’re dismissed, ignored, fined, threatened or retaliated against long enough, they begin to break. Not because they’re weak, but because they’re human. And when they finally react, when they raise their voice, when the trauma spills out in public, the narrative shifts.
Suddenly, they’re “unstable.”
“Difficult.”
“Emotional.”
“Crazy.”
And just like that, the focus is no longer on what was done to them, but on how they responded to it. That’s not accountability. That’s deflection. And if this sounds extreme, consider Fresno’s own record.
In In My Father’s Name, author Mark Arax documents decades of power, politics and retaliation in the Central Valley, stories that echo eerily in the present day. This isn’t just history. Fresno has faced repeated lawsuits over how it treats its most vulnerable residents, particularly people experiencing homelessness.
In cases like Kincaid v. City of Fresno, courts found that the City unlawfully seized and destroyed the personal property of unhoused individuals without proper notice, violating constitutional rights. That’s not a misunderstanding. That’s a pattern that had to be corrected through the courts.
And it didn’t stop there.
In Flores v. City of Fresno, the City again faced legal action over encampment sweeps and the treatment of unhoused residents. These cases point to a larger issue: policies and practices that, whether intentionally or not, push people further into instability rather than helping them out of it.
The cost?
Not just in taxpayer-funded settlements, but in human damage. And it’s not limited to homelessness.
Fresno has also seen lawsuits and claims involving retaliation, workplace misconduct and wrongful termination within its own system, allegations from employees who say they were punished for speaking up or treated unfairly by those in power. Again, different names. Same pattern.
Residents were intimidated, employees silenced. People pushed to the brink, financially, emotionally and mentally. And when they fight back, they fight alone. Because the system has numbers, attorneys, influence. It has time most people don’t. So people give up.
Not because they’re wrong, but because they’re exhausted. Because they’ve been made to feel like maybe, just maybe, they are the problem. But they are not. Let’s talk about trauma for a moment, because this city rarely does.
To some, an unwanted comment or a small physical boundary crossed might seem insignificant. “Not a big deal,” they’ll say. “No harm done.”
But for someone who has survived trauma, who has lived through violence, instability or homelessness, those “small” things are not small. They are triggers. They are reminders. They reopen wounds that never had the chance to fully heal.
Now imagine navigating that while dealing with a system that dismisses you, talks over you or uses its authority to intimidate you.
That’s not just frustrating. That’s re-traumatizing. A trauma-informed city would understand that. A trauma-informed city would listen. A trauma-informed city would hold its own people accountable. Instead, what we often see is the opposite.
We see policies passed and amended in ways that create confusion and erode trust. We hear officials say one thing, like the importance of consent or warrants, while written ordinances suggest something else entirely.
We see enforcement actions, through code enforcement, policing and administrative processes, that can place overwhelming financial pressure on residents. Fines stack up. Notices escalate. And for those already struggling, it can feel less like compliance and more like coercion.
We see decisions being made that impact real lives, while the people affected are treated like afterthoughts. And from the outside, it can feel like a game, like decisions are negotiated, traded and leveraged behind the scenes. Like support is conditional. Like our lives are part of a political exchange. But for those of us living it, this isn’t a game.
This is our housing. Our mental health. Our safety. Our dignity.
So the question becomes: How is anyone expected to survive, let alone thrive, in an environment that feels actively hostile? How do you continue fighting a system that has far more resources, far more power and far less accountability? Some people manage to push through. Some even win. But no one should have to endure years of mental and emotional harm just to be treated fairly. No one should have to sacrifice their well-being to prove they deserve basic rights.
And yet, here we are.
Still fighting battles that should have been resolved decades ago. Still watching history repeat itself. Still being told, directly or indirectly, that the problem is us. It’s not. The problem is a system that has had every opportunity to change, and hasn’t. And until that changes, the cycle will continue. The only question is: how many more people will be pushed to the breaking point before it does?
Well stated, Dez. The world needs more like you.