When I was 16, I lived in a rat-infested house with boarded up windows. They called it squatting back then. I was homeless. I had no choice. My belongings were in Asda carrier bags. My mother had dropped them off at the jewellery shop where I was completing a YTS scheme. I now know my boss must have absolutely known what was happening but would not have wanted to get involved. I guess he still didn’t want to get involved when he watched me leave the shop that evening dressed in my white court shoes and pastel coloured cheesecloth skirt (at that time I was aiming for smart Stevie Nicks style). carrying all the bags. He didn’t ask, “Where will you go?” And I didn’t ask for help. Too much shame. Or should I say, extra shame on top of the shame I already carried. What I also remember is I knew I had the option to die. I always had that. It was my choice. No matter what happened, if someone tried to hurt me, steal from me, attack me, I could end it. Or maybe someone else would? Just 2 months previously I’d experienced an horrific trauma, one more in a line of traumas I’d experienced throughout my early and teen years. As I slept on a dirty mattress on the floor I cried. I felt rejection, fear, depravity, alienation, and so much shame that I didn’t know where to go for help.
It’s funny because even now, in my mid 50’s, I’m still waiting to grow out of that shame. I think once you’ve been in that pit of despair, not being able to wash, not wanting people you bump into in the street to know the truth, the shame never really leaves, it just finds sneakier places to hide. I can still feel those Asda carrier bags, the handles biting into my fingers, everything I owned inside as I left the jewellery shop that evening. My boss didn’t even look at me. Maybe I was invisible. Or maybe, when you see a 16 year old with nowhere to go, it’s just easier to pretend you don’t see them leaving.
When you’re homeless, eventually, when it’s become a way of life after a few weeks, you learn to keep your head down and your mouth shut. People spot that something’s off, but they decide it’s not their business. You end up carrying everything on your own. Your bags, your fear, your shame.
So that squat. I remember thinking, at least there WAS a mattress, and it was better than the floor. But it wasn’t, it was just slightly softer than a floor. The first night I stayed there I led down, pulled my skirt over my knees, and cried so hard I fell asleep from the exhaustion. I’d already lost so much in my life, feeling safe, trusting anyone, even just the right to feel ok in my own skin. A couple months before, something happened that had ripped even earlier scars wide open. The flicker of light for me was that I could choose to end it whenever I wanted. I had that choice. I’d been living with suicidal ideation since I was 12 years old and having that option was quite comforting.
People can treat homelessness like it’s your own fault. As if you caused it. Maybe you did make bad choices. But not everyone does. It can happen fast too. One argument, one job loss, someone who’s had enough of you. And you’re out.
You will never know just how cold this country can get unless you’ve been homeless. I have never ever forgotten.
And nobody wants to talk about how close suicide can feel when you’ve got nowhere else to go. I’m not being dramatic here. Because my experience of suicidal thoughts can be very different from others. For many homeless people it can be the first time they’ve ever considered suicide. But it’s there, in the background, like a door you know you could open if things get too much. That’s what everyone skips over. Shame piles up, and you start thinking maybe it would be easier for everyone if you just disappeared.
The numbers are terrible. Over 131,000 families in England are stuck in temporary places, more than ever before. 354,000 are homeless! But what breaks my heart is 161,500 of these are children. And these aren’t just statistics. They’re real people. Kids, mums, decent blokes who just got very unlucky. Honestly, homelessness can happen to anyone.
And suicide is tragically still the biggest killer of under-35s in the UK. Young people, all that future ahead, deciding they can’t take it anymore.
Losing your home, losing your hope. Those two things are tangled together.
That’s why I started EPIC HOPE in Wigan. Because I know exactly what it’s like to be invisible, to be carrying more than you can handle. We’re here for anyone who needs a break, someone to listen and not judge. Our Crisis Harbours are somewhere to go when you’re struggling with suicidal thoughts, a mental health challenge, depression, anxiety, a crisis. No forms, immediate support, a brew and volunteers and staff with lived experience who actually get it.
Wigan’s lost too many people to suicide. Too many funerals, too many families left with nothing but “why didn’t anyone help?” I know what that silence feels like, and I’m not having it. EPIC HOPE is about breaking that silence. Reminding people, “You matter, even on the days you don’t believe it.” We step in, we support, we help the people left behind. No tick boxes. Just keeping people alive, and sometimes just getting them through one more night.
And The Brick. Well, if you’re local, you know The Brick. Out every day, rain or sun, helping people who’ve got nothing left. It’s miles more than just food and beds. They help rebuild lives. Housing, job training, help with money, food banks, all of it. They also trade in hope, especially when it’s running low.
Today’s World Homeless Day. It’s not just a date to me. It’s a reminder of the girl with white court shoes and nowhere to live. A reminder of just how close I came to giving up, countless times, but I’m still here. A reminder of all the people who aren’t here anymore.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, please, just know you’re not on your own. Shame is a liar. There are people who care, even if you haven’t met them yet. If you’re stuck, if you’re thinking of packing it in, reach out. Call EPIC HOPE. Call The Brick. Knock on a door. I swear, it can get better.
I’m living proof.
We do this because someone needs to. Because I remember what it’s like to have nothing but a mattress and a choice you hope you’ll never have to make. Because people deserve more than just scraping by. They deserve safety, to be seen, to feel and to know HOPE.
