I Had a Six-Figure Job. Now I’m on SNAP

What I’ve learned about losing everything, challenging the myths we believe about poverty, and the lifeline that kept my son and me from falling all the way down.

I’m a single mom living on government assistance. I’m also white, educated, and—until recently—earning a six-figure salary. This isn’t the story we’re told about people who need help. But maybe it’s time we changed the story.

SNAP isn’t waste. It’s not a loophole. It’s a safety net. And it helps communities stay afloat.

The Welfare Myth

Congress just passed a federal budget that slashes funding for SNAP and Medicaid—programs millions of families rely on to survive. Families like mine.

What’s wild is those who voted for these cuts often represent the very people who benefit from them the most. Instead of protecting their own constituents, they demean them—labeling them lazy, entitled, looking for a “free ride.”

I grew up on that same tired loop: people on welfare just didn’t want to work. Women on food stamps “couldn’t keep their legs closed.” They’d made bad choices, had too many kids, and now expected the government to clean up the mess. The imagined faces were always Black and brown. The blame always pointed outward.

But that story was a lie.

Today, the largest group of SNAP recipients is white. 88% of SNAP benefits go to families with children, people with disabilities, or the elderly—the most vulnerable in our communities. Nearly a third are working—many full-time—in jobs that simply don’t pay enough to survive: fast food workers, retail employees, home health aides.

A 2020 GAO report found that 70% of wage earners on government assistance work full-time—almost all in the private sector. Millions of workers at companies like McDonald’s and Walmart rely on public assistance while their employers rake in billions.

Most people don’t stay on SNAP long—just long enough to survive a layoff, medical crisis, or moment of instability. Most receive it for less than nine months. And many don’t get the full benefit. What they do get often isn’t enough to fill a fridge, let alone feed a family.

And if you're thinking, “There’s probably a lot of fraud”—think again. SNAP has one of the lowest fraud rates of any federal program. For comparison, the Department of Defense hasn’t passed an audit in over 20 years.

One reason fraud is rare? SNAP is incredibly hard to access. My application took weeks. I submitted my Social Security number, income statements, bank records, utility bills, lease, monthly expenses, proof of citizenship—every detail of my financial life. I went through multiple interviews. It took months to get approved.

SNAP doesn’t just help families, the elderly, or people with disabilities—it helps local economies. Every $1 in SNAP spending generates up to $1.80 in local economic activity. When people lose jobs, age out of the labor market, face a medical crisis, or are underemployed, they stop spending. This can devastate small towns.

And if that's not enough, studies show SNAP improves health outcomes. Elderly recipients, for example, have fewer ER visits and reduced healthcare costs.

SNAP isn’t waste. It’s not a loophole. It’s a safety net. And it helps communities stay afloat.

Last Week Was Rough

Last Tuesday, it was 93 degrees in my house. The A/C had died—just one week after the one in my car gave out. I stood in the kitchen, sweating, the air thick with the smell of rotting food. I hadn’t done the dishes the night before—not because I forgot, but because it was too hot to function.

I had just finished applying for another job. I wiped sweat from my face with a rag and looked around. My son lay on the couch, fans pointed at him—donated by kind neighbors trying to keep us from heatstroke.

All I wanted was to buy a window A/C unit. To fix the car. To treat him to something as simple as ice cream. But I’m racking up credit card debt faster than a horse at the Kentucky Derby trying to cover the bills and every dollar I have is reserved for rent.

So we went to the library instead. That’s the only A/C what we could afford. Another government program that is supporting us.

I’m not lazy. I’m not a freeloader. I’m a mom who lost her job and is doing everything she can to find another. I just have to keep my kid fed, clothed, and housed in the meantime.

How I Got Here

The Backstory

I grew up in poverty. My dad, an Army veteran, struggled to find consistent work after his service. My mom stayed home to raise five kids. We lived on WIC, free and reduced lunch, and government healthcare. But my parents worked hard to make sure we’d have a better future.

I became the first in my family to graduate college. I worked three jobs to get through school. My first job in D.C. paid $40,000—a tough wage (in this area) for a small family to live on, especially with a husband who didn’t work. I spent years just trying to stay afloat.

Eventually, I built a career. A promotion just a few years ago pushed my salary just above six figures—right around the median income for D.C. For the first time, I could see a future not mired in struggle, but in hope. And I worked hard to build towards the security I prayed for.

The Breakthrough

Six months ago, I felt like I was at the cusp of financial security. Security – you don’t know how important that is to someone who has never had it.

I had just paid off 15 years of credit card debt—accumulated from medical bills, emergencies, and unpaid maternity leave. I had savings for the first time in my life. I was preparing to replace my 20-year-old car. I was working toward buying my first home.

For someone who had scraped by for decades, that kind of stability felt like a miracle. As a single mom, a sense of financial security meant everything.

The Collapse

Then it all fell apart.

One week after the January inauguration, the new administration issued a stop-work order for all USAID projects—a move to dismantle federal aid work. It worked. USAID no longer exists.

Funding vanished. Grants canceled. Invoices for over a billion dollars in completed work went unpaid.

The nonprofit I worked for lost millions. I was owed a sizeable severance after nine years—but with the government defaulting, I received only a fraction.

Tens of thousands of us were laid off - from janitors to CEOs. Jobs disappeared. Benefits were gutted. Contracts dissolved. Whole companies are gone. An entire agency—and the industry around it—collapsed overnight.

Now, we’re all applying for the same shrinking pool of jobs. Even the “most stable” jobs can vanish when systems fail.

And fail they did.

I’ve applied to hundreds of jobs. I have a master’s degree. I’ve led teams, built strategies, and helped raise over $1 billion for mission-driven work. None of it matters in a frozen job market.

Now I’m on SNAP. On Medicaid. On unemployment. And without those programs, I’d be uninsured—and likely without a home.

What $43 a Week Buys

It took months to get SNAP approved. We relied on the Food Bank, the church, and friends to survive. I’m grateful. But let’s be clear: these resources, though generous, are limited especially when you have a kid with special dietary needs.

My first Food Bank pickup included one head of cabbage, some chicken, four salsas, one bag of rice, a few canned goods, and one can of seltzer. It helped. But it wasn’t enough for two weeks of meals.

The first time I used my SNAP card at the grocery store, I placed a watermelon in my basket and cried. I don't recall ever crying over fruit before. This was so much more than a big green melon. It felt like Christmas. It felt like freedom. It felt like dignity. I felt human.

But then came the checkout line. I had an interview earlier that day, so I looked professional. Not the kind of person you’d expect to be on SNAP. But I was.

I handed the cashier my card and quietly said, “I’m paying with SNAP.” The person behind me looked surprised. I felt embarrassed. Then I remembered: I’m so grateful for this card. I hadn’t been actual grocery shopping in four months. I didn't know how empowering it could feel to choose my own food.

My benefit is $170 a month—$43 a week. I knew I was over budget. I didn’t know what to put back.

Let me tell you: $43 doesn’t go far at the grocery store.

My unemployment check doesn’t even cover rent. It’ll run out soon. SNAP and Medicaid help—but they were never meant to be enough.

These aren’t handouts. They’re what keep people from falling off a cliff. Right now, they’re the only thing keeping me from falling.

Changing the Story

Here’s what I’ve learned: Critics call SNAP, Medicaid, and other public programs wasteful. Reality is they’re the only systems holding families together when everything else collapses.

They’re not a luxury. They’re a lifeline.

Because of them, I can keep applying for jobs. I can keep my son fed. I can keep moving forward.

Without SNAP, the food bank, and the kindness of others, we’d be skipping meals.

Without Medicaid, my son couldn’t see a doctor. Without unemployment, we’d lose our home.

Without credit cards and savings, there’d be no gas, no water, no lights.

It’s a fragile web keeping us afloat. And we need every single strand.

We say these programs are the problem. But maybe the real problem is how we think about their purpose. How we talk about the people who need them. The assumptions we make.

Government assistance isn’t a scam. It’s a safety net. It’s not a loophole. It’s a lifeline. It doesn’t reward laziness. It gives families a shot at stability.

Before You Judge

So before you roll your eyes at the person using an EBT card in front of you... Before you call someone “lazy” for needing help... Before you share that meme about freeloaders—pause.

It might be someone like me. Someone who worked hard, paid taxes, followed the rules—and could have lost everything, but didn't. Because of a safety net that keeps me afloat until I lock in my next job.

It might be an elderly woman who spent her life caring for others, never earning enough to save. Now her husband is gone, and her Social Security check doesn’t stretch far enough.

It might be a parent caring full-time for a child with a life-threatening condition.

It might be a cashier at Walmart or a line cook at Waffle House—working full-time, still not making ends meet.

It might be a military veteran navigating trauma and transition.

It might be a recent graduate burdened by debt, unable to find work.

It might be your neighbor. Your friend. Your pastor. Your child’s teacher. Your sister. Your son.

It might be you.

That’s why these programs matter. That’s why they must be protected. And that’s why I’m telling my story.

Because the truth is, most of us are just one diagnosis, one disaster, one layoff away from needing the very lifelines we’re so quick to judge.

Your Move

We talk about these programs as if they’ve failed. But they’re doing exactly what they were designed to do: keep families afloat.

This week, Congress voted to gut SNAP and Medicaid. But this isn’t the end of the fight—it’s the moment we decide who we are.

So take five minutes. Call your representative. Email them. Tag them on social media. Tell them your story—or mine.

Because silence is how this becomes normal.

Tell them to reverse the cuts. To restore what was taken. To protect the people they were elected to serve.

Tell them this can’t happen again. Demand they protect—not punish—families.

Tell them to build a safety net that actually catches people.

Tell them we’re watching. And we will remember who stood with families—and who didn’t. Tell them we’re not done fighting. And we’ll hold them accountable at the ballot box.

You choose the message that resonates with you. Just don't be silent.

If this hit home, share it. We change minds one story at a time. And if you want more truth-telling like this, subscribe here.