SNAP Benefits Hung in Limbo for Weeks. It Was a Peek at Life Under Long-Term Cuts

She’d been waiting for over an hour, and Trozalla Smith was still nowhere near the front of the line.

Outside the East Oakland Collective’s food pantry, the mass of people stretched half a block in either direction around her. Women with babies strapped to their backs shifted their weight from one foot to another, bored kids sat on the sidewalk, and elderly men stood stiffly in place as they waited to pick up whatever was left of that week’s offerings — fresh produce, instant ramen, milk and, if they were lucky, eggs and meat.

It was the end of October, and food pantries were absorbing the shock of around 5.5 million Californians anticipating delays to their federal food benefits amid the government shutdown. Unsure of the status of her aid, Smith, 24, was relying entirely on pantries to feed herself and her boyfriend. “It’s our lifeline,” she said.

The uncertainty was only the latest reminder of how precarious life on the economic margins already is. The struggle to afford one of the country’s most expensive regions, with grocery prices still soaring, started long before the shutdown and will continue long after it finally ended on Nov. 12.

For two weeks, the country’s largest anti-hunger program hung in the balance — and it may have been only a glimpse of what’s to come.

As Smith and thousands more across the Bay Area scrambled to get by during the shutdown, state leaders were wrestling with a more enduring threat to food aid: policy changes recently signed into law by President Trump that are expected to reduce benefits for over 3 million California households.

New eligibility limits and benefit reductions in the One Big Beautiful Bill Act mean some 400,000 to 750,000 Californians could lose access to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program altogether, according to estimates by the state Legislative Analyst’s Office and policy experts.

And all the recent attention on SNAP has placed the program in the Trump administration’s crosshairs, leading many to brace for still more blows to food aid.

“These are unprecedented changes to the program that will have impacts for many years,” David Swanson Hollinger, chief deputy director at the California Department of Social Services, told a state Senate committee last week, warning that lawmakers will have to “reimagine our path forward.”

‘Everything is so expensive’

Some of the newly enacted changes haven’t yet rolled out in California, and others are just beginning to take effect, but staff at the East Oakland Collective said they’d heard from several clients who unexpectedly had their benefits cut in October.

Among them was Monica Thompson, a 64-year-old who has breast cancer and was one of the first to get in line that morning. Her assistance was cut from about $300 down to $24, she said, screwing up her face. “What can I do with $24?”

In the last week of October, the collective had already served 100 more families than usual, according to executive director Candice Elder.

Standing in line that morning, a pregnant woman with a toddler in a stroller checked the state benefits app on her phone for updates. “November benefits will likely be delayed,” Taylor Ducote read, scrolling through the FAQs with exasperation.

“The fear that we have to live with every day until we find out if we’re going to get it or not … it’s just really nerve-wracking and scary for our kids,” she said.

Ducote had just gotten housing four months earlier after half a decade of homelessness, and she wondered aloud how she’d pay her rent and utilities if she had to buy food out of pocket. Already, she was desperate by the end of the month.

The night before, she said, she got caught stealing from a grocery store. She didn’t get arrested, but she was humiliated. “You think I want to be right here stealing so my son can get milk?” she had told the security guard. “Look what I’m stealing: toilet paper, diapers.”

A few miles away, Ana Hoover, 54, stood in line at the Berkeley Food Pantry. She said she’d been out of work since December and was relying on food stamps, pantries and occasional gigs she found through an event staffing company or on NextDoor to make ends meet.

Every month, she used up her SNAP benefits at least two weeks before they were replenished.

Like Ducote, the prospect of losing them altogether left her unsure about how she’d stay housed and take care of other basic needs. She’d been homeless for three years until recently, and she now pays $1,050 a month for a room at the YMCA.

“Everything is so expensive,” she said. “Food stamps doesn’t cover toothpaste, toothbrushes … [and] now the money is also going for food.”

The added stress of losing her $300 in food aid rippled across her life in ways big and small. It put more obstacles on her path back to the workforce. How would she pay for transportation to jobs? She rationed the mascara, lipstick and deodorant that gave her the confidence to go to interviews.

She had a gig coming up as an usher for an event at the Moscone Center, and she needed an all-black outfit. “I went into a panic because I’m like, ‘Oh, my God, I need to buy black shoes.’”

She aims to apply for three jobs a day. “I need to be focusing,” she said. “When you’re almost in a panic, how can you focus and how can you be productive?”

The power of choice

The next week, Smith pushed a shopping cart through the Alameda Food Bank. She had applied for CalFresh, California’s version of SNAP, in early October, after she lost her job as a home health aide, and she received emergency benefits for the month.

While she waited on approval, she created a daily schedule of food pantries and bused from one to another, patching together meals from the hodgepodge of dry goods and produce available and figuring out which were worth her time. This bank, with its brand new building and heaping bins of apples and potatoes, was one of the best she’d found.

Today, she was most excited about the fresh strawberries — usually too expensive to buy, and often starting to mold by the time she found them at food pantries. Those pantries rely heavily on the Alameda County Community Food Bank, which fills their shelves with a mix of food from federal programs, donations, bulk farm purchases and surplus groceries that are sometimes on the verge of expiring.

“You have to eat it that day or the next, which makes it hard,” Smith said. These berries, though, looked perfectly fresh.

Each bin listed an item limit on the side, so Smith had learned to shop carefully. “You can get four apples,” she said, hunting through the bin for the largest she could find. “You’ll get fuller with a bigger apple, but they tend to be more bruised. It’s a bit like a scavenger hunt.”

That the new, sprawling food bank was designed to mimic the experience of shopping wasn’t lost on Smith. “I like this place because it makes you feel more like a regular person,” she said. “You get to shop for your food.”

She was grateful for the semblance of choice, but what the SNAP program provided was the real thing — something people pointed out again and again as they faced the prospect of going without their benefits.

“I get to cook. I refuse to go to them fast-food places,” said Anthony Cassidy, standing outside the food bank with a basket full of fruits and vegetables. “I like making stew.”

The 75-year-old Vietnam War veteran said he spent decades addicted to heroin, in and out of prison and homelessness, and was now sober and stably housed.

“I’m bound and determined to live out my days healthy and free,” he said. “SNAP has really helped me, allowed me to get some food that I like instead of stuff that I had to get.”

In a single week, Smith spent some 20 hours busing to and from six pantries, waiting in line and picking up food.

“My body’s tired today, really tired,” she said, the day after her trip to the Alameda Food Bank. She was back in East Oakland, making her way to the bus stop after visiting two food pantries on MacArthur Boulevard. She struggled under the weight of three heavy tote bags loaded with watermelon, butternut squash, potatoes and pears. In her free hand, she balanced a pizza, an unexpected pantry score.

“It’s definitely going to hurt later on tonight,” she said.

Smith has lupus, an autoimmune condition that makes her joints ache and some days, leaves her too exhausted to get out of bed. She was diagnosed at 8 years old, she said, after a series of mysterious rashes, fevers and aches had perplexed doctors for nearly two years.

In 2023, the illness forced her to come home from college at Emory University in Atlanta. She developed pericarditis, a swelling of the tissue surrounding her heart, and doctors recommended she take a break.

“I was on a lot of steroids, couldn’t walk at that point,” she said. Still, she was devastated to leave the school, where she was on a pre-med track. “I loved it so much,” she said.

Back home after a 30-minute bus ride and 10-minute walk, Smith and her boyfriend, 24-year-old Kelinde Secrease, hoisted the groceries onto the counter.

She pulled eggs from a tote triumphantly. The pantries often ran out, and she’d gotten in line an hour and a half before the East Oakland Collective opened in order to bring these home.

A few days earlier, Secrease had caught himself doing something he hadn’t done in a long time: wondering what he wanted to eat.

“I had a realization where I was like, wow — even being able to say ‘What do I want to eat?’ is a very powerful statement that I’m very grateful for,” he said. Before they’d learned to navigate the patchwork of pantries in the area, with Smith out of work and his own hours stuck at just 12 a week, food had been so limited that eating stopped feeling like a choice at all.

Having choices allowed him to enjoy food again. “It doesn’t feel so laborious having to eat because you’re eating something that you really don’t want to,” he said.

For people like Smith and Secrease, going without federal food aid doesn’t necessarily mean going hungry. But it pushes their already precarious budget to the breaking point, forcing them to scramble for rent and utilities, bus fare, tampons and toothpaste. Necessity strips away choice, and with it, the small freedoms that make life feel like more than survival. “When you have options, you have freedom,” Secrease said.

For the moment, the couple figured they had enough food to last them a week. Smith was relieved she’d have that time to focus on applying for jobs and tending to her health. But first they had to chop, freeze, roast and juice their way through the small mountain of produce to keep it from going to waste. After six hours in the kitchen, they had a freezer and refrigerator full of food.

Some relief, but uncertainty remains

A week into November, Hoover stood in the YMCA residence’s shared kitchen, chopping onion, potato and bell pepper to add to a roasting pan where a whole chicken sizzled in the oven.

“I love to cook, it’s one of my favorite things to do,” she said.

She’d gotten the bird for under $10 at Trader Joe’s; the rest of the meal came from the Berkeley Food Pantry.

With the month’s food stamps still in limbo amid federal court challenges and the ongoing government shutdown, she called the state’s EBT helpline, hoping for answers.

“Your CalFresh balance is $0.61,” a recorded voice said. “You have one future benefit added to the account. CalFresh benefits available on Nov. 10 for $298.00.”

“Oh, my God, what a lifesaver!” Hoover said. “Oh, my God.”

She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. “The stress level — feeling like, how am I going to do this,” she said. “You have no idea what relief.”

Earlier that week, Smith had come home from a three-hour food pantry trip to a letter from the county. Her CalFresh benefits were being denied, the letter explained, because she had not submitted proof of income. She was deflated and frustrated. “I don’t understand. I don’t have any income,” she said.

By mid-November, Smith had landed a part-time nanny position, Secrease was working full-time, midnight to 7 a.m., training robots to fold clothes and bus tables, and Hoover was still picking up gigs while applying for jobs.

Smith was again waiting to hear back about her CalFresh case after submitting new income documents, and Hoover had $58 left in her account — just enough to make a Thanksgiving meal with the free turkey she’d learned a local pantry was offering.

For both women, the last month had deepened their distrust of a system meant to catch them when they fell. “I have always felt that these types of benefits could end anytime,” Hoover said, but that fear no longer feels hypothetical.

Republicans have long sought to cut federal funding for food benefits, implement stricter work requirements and shift the burden to states. After Trump signed some of those restrictions into law this year, the shutdown showed what could follow if federal benefits are further curtailed.

Smith took some comfort in knowing she found a way forward through sheer tenacity, but the effort had caused her lupus to flare.

As she lay in bed, she hoped the food in the freezer would last long enough for her to recover. Then she’d pull up her pantry schedule, pack her tote bags and do it all over again.