For the past couple years now, a man has been sleeping in -- and living out of -- a pair of shopping carts parked downtown beside the ventilation pipes of the Monroe County Crime Lab
More people are huddled on cool mornings outside the Open Door Mission on Main Street. Or in doorways along Monroe Avenue before the businesses they open for the day.
But it is not just there.
Monroe County logs more than two dozen homeless encampments across the area, often with one or two people living in each. The number of homeless has doubled since the pandemic, yet the number of shelter beds is relatively unchanged.
Now more homeless are finding refuge outdoors, as summer brings an end to an emergency period in which shelters had to take all comers, utilizing any open floor space.
And that is casting into public view an entrenched and long-standing problem — not just of inadequate shelter space but a much larger issue of underfunded systems ill-equipped to meet the complexities of need.
“I think that shelters are taking the space for some issues in other systems, in substance use systems, in mental health systems, where people don't have access to that type of housing,” said Denise Read, deputy commissioner of Monroe County’s Department of Human Services.
“So they end up in a shelter that is truly not made for helping them to the level that they need, and they end up staying in those shelter beds a really, really long time.”
A worsening issue
The latest reported point-in-time count of the homeless population was conducted in January 2025, tallying 1,194 people in the Rochester area.
The count is mandated by the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development and was done by Partners Ending Homelessness. The latest count is the highest it’s been since 2007, the earliest available figures.
Meanwhile, the number of beds or units in shelters and motels that Monroe County contracts for emergency housing placement stands at 335, according to a city report released earlier this year.
And the only sanctioned encampment in the city is in an extended state of transition and uninhabitable.
At the Open Door Mission on South Plymouth Avenue the problem of demand for shelter outpacing the amount of space available has become palpable.
“We have been over capacity for the last several years. Every winter we come out of servicing 100 to 120 men a night, in a 52-capacity bed shelter, which is just not sustainable,” said Open Door Mission CEO Robert Williams.
Open Door plans to expand by upwards of 80 beds by 2028. That would make it the largest shelter in the city, surpassing the 76 beds at the House of Mercy on Ormond Street, and is planned to open in 2028.
But as new shelters open or expand, others have shut down. Last year saw the closure of Project Haven. Across its six shelters, it had about 80 beds.
It’s not just that shelters are straining to meet demand, though. They also are ill-equipped to address specific needs.
“We don't have the resources,” Williams said, echoing Reed when noting many people are needing help with addiction or mental illness. “We don't have the staff ability to assist acute mental conditions. They get referred to us. We certainly do what we can. ... We can give them shelter, we can give them clothing, we can give them food. But at the end of the day, there's a higher level of care.”
A multitude of factors contribute to homelessness, but according to a 2024 report from the Monroe County Department of Human Services, the core cause for housing instability is economic.
Of the over 9,000 people who received temporary housing assistance from the county that year, 72% had been evicted, either by another tenant or a landlord. Only 4% were chronically homeless.
Meeting the demand
Down a worn, wooded concrete path on the city’s east side, two tents pop up amid the foliage. This is the home of Rasahad and Arlene, an unhoused couple who didn’t want their last names public.
They don’t want to be homeless. Lack of government identification and documents has stood in the way of them getting benefits that could get them back on their feet. Still, the $440 offered in public assistance shelter vouchers likely wouldn’t go far, Arlene said.
“Life takes you different places,” she said. “The shelters are a little bit ... it's like a claustrophobic feeling. Out here is different, and then I look at all the stuff that I need to get back on my feet. You know, it's not an easy process.”
Rasahad said he currently receives Social Security payments, causing his income to be too high to be eligible for other benefits. But he can’t access his benefits because his documents were stolen.
“I can't touch nothing because my card got stolen,” he said. “Then they asked me to make proof of myself that I don't got no proof that I can show them besides the House of Mercy (shelter on Ormond Street) pass that shows my picture and my date of birth on it. That's all I got to show for right now.”
Going into a shelter would likely mean separating. The couple is not married and thus would likely not gain entrance to a family shelter. Compared to congregate living settings and crowding, they said, the tents are the best option.
“Out here, we have better neighbors than we ever did when we lived in houses,” Arlene said. “We look after each other.”
The shelter crowding is evident on an unseasonably cool May afternoon at La Madonna Della Strada, a homeless shelter on West Main Street.
A gentle rain falls on a group of about a dozen men who have gathered around the doorway. It’s about an hour before the shelter opens, and the men are looking for a warm place to spend the night.
Inside, two dozen canvas cots lay stacked against the side walls. Hot coffee dribbles into a large stainless steel communal pot.
La Madonna Della Strada, which translates to Our Lady of the Streets, is dedicated to the late Sister Grace Miller, founder and longtime operator of the House of Mercy homeless shelter. It has only been operating since October and has the capacity to hold about 25 people, but typically exceeds that number by 10. Men often resort to sleeping on the floor.
“Homelessness is a solvable problem that we have here, but you have to have political will at all levels of government to want to resolve this issue,” said Mercedes Vazquez-Simmons, a county legislator and president of La Madonna Della Strada.
“There's always going to be individuals that want to stay out in the elements,” she continued, “but that's such a small percentage of people. Most people don't want to even be in shelters.”
Throughout the interview at La Madonna Della Strada, the door buzzer rang twice. Both, Vazquez-Simmons said, were drop offs from the hospital of people who had been recently discharged.
“There are people that come to the door, and sometimes I don't know how to help them, and I don't like that,” said Sister Rita Lewis of La Madonna Della Strada. “I say a prayer for them, and I just hope and pray something is going to work for them.”
Amy D’Amico, a homeless outreach volunteer and advocate, sees the situation as untenable. She said there are simply not enough options for people to get off the street. If they are in active addiction, that becomes near impossible.
“There is nothing available, nothing legal is allowed,” D’Amico said.
Homeless people with sanctions – a process that withholds county funds due to violations, like substance abuse, or behavior – might still seek a hospitality placement in a shelter.
“People who use drugs cannot do that,” D’Amico said. “Some people with sanctions can call after hours, get an exception made, and get placed in a hotel for the night if the weather is particularly bad, for example, but people who use drugs are a high risk in a hotel of overdose.”
The rats on Plymouth
La Madonna is a mile away from the man living in shopping carts beside the crime lab.
He keeps to himself in his small encampment in a perimeter garden beside the building on the corner of South Plymouth Avenue and West Broad Street. The area is overgrown and rife with weeds. Beneath the foliage, are dozens of holes— rat burrows. Dead rats are visible about the property — from the sidewalk up to the building’s concrete block wall.
Chicken bones and food scraps lie on the ground where he has dumped garbage bags of food to feed the rats.
Neighbors have begun to complain. Ken Price lives in a nearby apartment.
“Yesterday was croissants and pizza, but I've seen a whole platter of roast beef, like it was catered roast beef,” Price said. “Whatever he can get his hands on, he just puts there, and again, I'm sure his intention is admirable, but it has a consequence, because it's a constant food source, and rats are smart.”
Read knows about the man near the crime lab and described him as DHS’s “number one priority.”
She also described him as an encapsulation of the challenges of meeting everyone’s need. He does not want to stay in a shelter, has done nothing to warrant a mental health arrest, she said, and has declined any offers for help.
“Services are voluntary, and even when you believe or neighbors believe that the person should be treated as if he does not have the choice to accept the services that are being offered, the bar for involuntary commitment or involvement in services is very high,” she said, adding that when it comes to forced treatment for this individual:
“He does not need it.
The city has begun gathering a list of encampments in recent years. Sarah Fletcher, the city’s deputy commissioner of the Department of Recreation and Human Services, sends it to homeless outreach workers each Friday. The latest list had 28 sites.
Fletcher said the goal ultimately is to create a person-by-person catalog of the chronically homeless, what their needs are, and what barriers are in place to getting them into stable housing.
“It's a slow and steady process, because people can refuse services,” she said, and many do. “Getting them to trust you and getting you to understand what their needs are. Yes, they need housing, but what else is it?”
