Last July, Janie “China” Jackson’s boss told her to lift heavy boxes across the backroom of the Starbucks at Miami International Airport. Mid-task, Jackson felt something pull in her arm.
Still, Jackson says she kept showing up for shifts. She pushed through the injury for weeks, even after a doctor advised her to rest. She ultimately decided to resign in October.
But walking away from the job didn’t bring relief — for her or her nine children.
Without the proper separation paperwork, Jackson couldn’t immediately secure food stamps.
On a recent morning, Jackson stood in the middle of a long line outside the Freedom Lab, a Liberty City facility where thousands of people just like her get help with groceries, housing assistance and mental health services.
“I didn’t know how we were gonna eat,” Jackson said. “But through God, grace and mercy… we ate all the way up until now, we’re still eating.”
Jackson is one of hundreds who come to the Freedom Lab each week for help. The community-focused venue feeds people, helps them find housing, provides disaster relief, advocates for political change and supports incarcerated women.
The four-year-old location is run by Valencia Gunder, who grew up in Liberty City, attended Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University, and eventually returned home to make her neighborhood a better place.
Her understanding of homelessness is deeply personal. Gunder recalls stories from her childhood that shaped her perspective early on, particularly the ways people quietly supported one another without recognition or resources.
She grew up seeing neighbors step in during moments of crisis, whether after a family death or after Hurricane Andrew. They offered food, money and care simply because it was needed.
After graduating from college, Gunder lost her job as an assistant store manager during the 2008 recession. Not long after, she found herself struggling, even experiencing a brief period of housing instability.
While dealing with homelessness, she discovered that she had a warrant out for her arrest, leading to 45 days of incarceration in a criminal facility in 2010.
When Gunder finally got out, she moved back home and gained a ton of support from her community and loved ones. Her sister lent her an extra vehicle, and her aunt offered her a position as a secretary for her business, helping her restore her life.
“Life can change fast,” she said.
That reality is something echoed by those who pass through the organization every day: teachers, service workers, parents and people who once thought they were secure.
“People think it can’t be them,” Gunder said. “But it can.”
Those experiences led her to launch The Smile Trust in 2014. After saving $300, Gunder organized what she thought would be a one-time outreach event in Overtown, inviting a few friends to help feed people experiencing homelessness. Twenty-five volunteers showed up.
“Everybody was like, ‘When are we doing it again?’” she recalled. “And I’m like, well, it was supposed to be just today.”
It wasn’t.
It quickly became a sustained effort, eventually growing into a registered nonprofit in 2015 and expanding its reach across Miami, Florida, and Atlanta, Georgia.
Today, that grassroots effort has expanded into a network that has delivered an estimated 1 million services, including meals, housing assistance and emergency support, across Miami and Atlanta.
But even as it has grown, the organization has held tightly to its original philosophy to meet people where they are.
Inside the organization’s Freedom Lab collaborative space in Miami that houses multiple community groups, the approach is clear. There are no lengthy forms. No strict eligibility requirements. No interrogation about someone’s circumstances.
“If you come in here and you need something, and we have it, you get it,” Gunder said.
Anthony Pringle, who works with a partner initiative called Village Freege, said the experience changed how he sees the world. The Village Freege is an organization that combats food insecurity by placing community fridges throughout Miami.
“Everybody’s dealing with something,” he said. “Being here reminds you of that every day.”
For many, the work is deeply personal.
Some moments stay with Gunder long after the day ends. She remembers a young man who once approached her asking for $50 a month. Not for food; for something else.
“He said, ‘I’m trying to get off the streets,’” she recalled.
The organization gave the man money to rent a storage room as a temporary place to sleep.
A year later, he returned.
“He told us he had a job and had moved into an apartment,” Gunder said. “I went in the corner and cried.”
Moments of small interventions leading to major change keep her going, she said.
While food distribution is how the Smile Trust started, it has expanded into a multi-layered support system.
Programs now include housing assistance, a rent-gap initiative to prevent evictions, community gardening education and a youth climate fellowship that trains young people in advocacy.
A mobile shower bus, set to launch soon, will provide hygiene services for unsheltered individuals: a need often overlooked in traditional aid models.
Freedom Lab has partnered with multiple organizations to provide health care, reentry support, mental health services and civic engagement opportunities.
“It’s about building something bigger than just us,” Gunder said.
But the work comes with challenges. Gunder describes long hours, limited rest and the emotional strain of supporting people experiencing deep trauma.
“Being unsheltered is trauma,” she said. “Poverty is trauma.”
That trauma can sometimes show up in difficult ways such as frustration, anger and conflict. But the organization approaches those moments with what Gunder calls “restorative justice,” offering space for people to return to society rather than be permanently excluded.
Then there are the fundraising and logistical challenges. Still, Gunder pushes forward.
“I believe in liberation,” she said. “This is part of that work.”
For those who have never faced housing or food insecurity, Gunder has a simple message: it could happen to anyone.
She knows because it happened to her.
Back in Liberty City, the line continues to move. Volunteers hand out hot meals and grocery bags. Someone stays behind to help clean up. Others linger, talk, laugh and catch up.
It is not just a place to receive food. It is a place to be seen.
For Gunder, that is the point.
“When people walk through our doors, they’re treated with respect,” she said. “That matters just as much as anything we give them.”
What started as a single day of service has become something far larger: a network of care built not on policy or paperwork, but on presence.
For the thousands who rely on it, that presence can make all the difference.
