The Unsung Heroes at DSS — and the Hostage Game in Washington

The compassion that saves lives isn’t in D.C. — it’s already right here in our communities.

Let’s be honest: when most people hear “Department of Social Services,” they brace for impact. You picture fluorescent lights, 47-minute hold times, and someone behind bulletproof glass asking for the same form you already uploaded three times. It’s the bureaucratic equivalent of a root canal.

So when I became disabled and had to navigate the SNAP system — the labyrinth of benefits, red tape, and acronyms clearly designed by a sadist with a clipboard — I was ready for hell. I expected apathy. Confusion. Government-issued despair.

Then I met the team at SLO County DSS.

And they were awesome. Like, “restore your faith in humanity” kind of awesome.

These aren’t your DMV zombies shuffling papers until lunch, side-eyeing you for having the audacity to access the very programs your taxes fund. You know what I mean —that one look that Janet behind the counter serves at you like you're a steaming pile of crap for being forced to renew your license.

Trust me, Janet, I don't want to fuckin' be here either, sis.

No, these are warm, whip-smart humans who explain things in just the right number of words, follow through, anticipate needs, and never judge. I walked in expecting to feel like a case number; I walked out feeling like a person again.

Now those same people are catching misdirected heat. Thanks to the 2025 government shutdown, families are being used as hostages in a political standoff between oligarchs on both sides of the deranged aisle. SNAP benefits are suspended, working parents are panicking, and DSS employees are the ones absorbing the public’s fear and fury while the power brokers in D.C. play chicken with people’s lives.

And when my own SNAP benefits were suspended, something wild happened: people showed up. I didn’t have to ask. Word got around, and suddenly there was this line—figuratively and literally—of people offering to help feed my kids and me. I’m not even important. Honestly, I don't think most people like me that much. But they still showed up. The sheer amount of kindness that poured in made it clear: this is what makes America great.

It’s not the politicians twirling around in some faux gilded ballroom commissioned by our vile, obese pig of a president. It’s the people who already live here, in our neighborhoods, loving their neighbors, making sure nobody falls through the cracks. It’s the social workers on the phones, the legislators fighting for our right to eat, and the community members who quietly refuse to let each other starve.

So if you’re one of the folks waiting on benefits and feeling defeated — look up. There’s a quiet hero behind that plexiglass. Someone saving lives, one explanation, one phone call, one calm reassurance at a time.

Much love and mad respect to the social workers, eligibility specialists, and front-desk warriors who keep our communities afloat when the system itself seems determined to sink us. You are the heartbeat of compassion in a place built on chaos.