LIFE

I’ve never been one to share my personal life online, and I'm not sure why I’ve chosen to tell my story here. But it feels like the right time, and I'll share it in episodes. My name is Connie, I’m 50 years old, and I currently live in the UK. Originally, I’m from an Eastern European country, but I left many years ago because I’m gay, and I was never accepted there. I was treated like an outcast, constantly judged for who I am. It’s hard enough fighting the internal battle to accept yourself, but when you also have to fight for acceptance from the people around you, the struggle becomes even more exhausting. The sad truth is, many will never truly accept you—they will only tolerate you. Even those who love you may keep their distance because of societal pressure, and you realize that leaving is easier for everyone. It’s heart-breaking, but it feels like the only way forward.
I started working on a cruise ship, which is where I met my partner. We were together for 14 years, and he was the reason I eventually moved to the UK in 2016. At that time, I was full of hope and excitement. I saw the UK as a dreamland, a place where I could finally live openly, free from the judgment I had faced in my home country. But reality hit me hard.
Andrew and I split up after only a year in the UK. During our time on the cruise ship, I never saw his true colours. For 13 years, I was blind to certain aspects of his personality. But once we settled in his home country, he became a different person. Our relationship was filled with both good times and intense arguments, but our last fight stands out in my memory. He warned me to prepare for life in what he described as one of the most xenophobic and self-centred countries in the world. At the time, I was furious with him, unable to comprehend why he would say such things about his own country. But after we parted ways, I began to understand his words all too well.
Life in the UK has been a series of highs and lows. While it offered freedom, it also revealed a harsh reality of ignorance and prejudice. Adjusting has been challenging, but I continue to navigate this journey, reflecting on the lessons it’s taught me.

JUST ANOTHER DAY

Living by myself has never been easy. After leaving my ex ,  I didn’t venture far—just from the village of O to the nearby town of H. A few years ago, H was a charming place. It was known for its kind-hearted residents, beautiful architecture, and well-maintained public gardens. The shops were quaint, the restaurants were excellent, and overall, the town seemed like an ideal place to start anew. But sadly, things have changed. H is no longer the peaceful haven it once was. The decline was gradual but evident, and it mirrored my own internal struggles.
Determined to put myself back together, I found a job in hospitality, which has always been my background. I took on a role as a DM  at TC, where I worked for four long, difficult years. It was anything but easy. The hotel was run by two sisters, and it's hard to find the right words to describe them. They were cold, lifeless, and an ugly bitterness. Their jealousy and eagerness to pounce on every minor mistake made them unbearable to work for. In four years, I didn’t hear a single word of encouragement or praise from them.
Despite the toxic environment, I stayed out of fear—fear of starting over again and facing the unknown. This fear paralyzed me, and I resigned myself to a grim reality. Part of my job contract included accommodation in a lovely Victorian house just minutes from the town centre, which seemed like a great deal at first. However, I made a critical mistake that would haunt me for years—I agreed not to pay rent in exchange for working overtime. This led to me clocking in around 70 hours a week, essentially becoming a slave to the hotel.
At the time, I thought I was being practical. But in reality, I was taken advantage of. It wasn’t long before I realized that while people around me weren’t working half as hard, I had become trapped in an exhausting and demoralizing routine. My life was consumed by work, and the hotel took everything from me—my time, energy, and spirit. By the time I saw the truth of my situation, it was too late. The physical and emotional toll was devastating, and this was the first moment when I truly understood what my ex-partner meant when he warned me about life in the UK.
Looking back, I can see the patterns of exploitation and neglect. The UK, a country I once admired and looked forward to living in, began to reveal its harsher side. I had been naïve, thinking that hard work and dedication would pay off. Instead, I found myself entangled in a system where the line between work and personal life blurred beyond recognition. Even though I knew I deserved better, I didn’t have the courage to break free—until now.
Leaving that job was one of the hardest but most necessary decisions of my life. It’s easy to feel stuck when fear keeps you from moving forward, but I’ve come to understand that no situation is worth sacrificing your dignity and mental health. It’s taken time, but I’m slowly rebuilding, finding strength in my story, and learning that no matter how hard things get, there’s always a way to start again.

COVID 19

I barely had time to recover from the personal disaster I had been through when I was hit by another nightmare—lockdown. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, the world came to a standstill. We were all affected, but in my case, it felt like a particularly cruel blow. Thankfully, my hotel stayed open for key workers, which meant I still had a job, but that didn’t make things any easier.

Being alone in a massive hotel with no guests was surreal. The once-bustling corridors were silent, and I was left to do everything—housekeeping, dusting, cleaning toilets. I felt isolated and overwhelmed. To make matters worse, the company sent all the other employees home, leaving just me and the two sisters—the same toxic pair I had been working under for years. It was a truly daunting experience, spending eight hours a day in what felt like a ghost hotel, praying for the phone to ring or for someone—anyone—to walk through the doors. It was as if time had frozen, and I was trapped in this eerie, empty space.

But sometimes, as they say, "every cloud has a silver lining." Amidst the despair, I received some unexpected good news: my long-awaited squint surgery was finally scheduled! After enduring months of hardship, this glimmer of hope felt like a lifeline. I did all the required tests and analyses, and as the surgery date approached, there was one final hurdle. I needed someone to take me home from the hospital, as I wasn’t eligible for an ambulance and booking a taxi was out of the question. Panic set in—I was completely alone and terrified that my surgery would be cancelled simply because I didn’t have anyone to help me.

In an unexpected turn of events, one of the sisters—the same person who had made my life difficult for years—offered to help. She volunteered to drive me home from the hospital after the surgery. It was a moment of humanity that I didn’t see coming, and for that act of kindness, I will always be grateful to her. Despite everything, this gesture softened my heart toward her, and I found a new sense of respect and even affection for her. This one act was enough to convince me to stay at the hotel for another two years, despite all the difficulties.

Those two years were no less challenging, but I managed to find a way to endure them. I often joke that I felt like Cinderella, tirelessly working in the background, never quite able to escape the harsh reality of my situation. But looking back, I realize that these struggles were shaping me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Every day was a test of resilience, and each moment of hardship taught me something about myself.

I came to understand the value of small acts of kindness, even from unexpected sources. While my job at the hotel was far from ideal, it helped me survive through some of the toughest periods of my life, including the isolation of lockdown. These experiences, though painful, have built a new kind of strength in me. Now, as I look toward the future, I know that no matter how difficult things may seem, there is always room for hope and a way to move forward.

CLOSING THE DOOR

My eye surgery was a success, and it completely transformed my life. It’s incredible to walk down the street and make eye contact with people again—something I hadn’t been able to do comfortably for years. Before the surgery, I wore thick, unattractive glasses that made me look like a cartoon character. Now, with sleek Tom Ford specs, I feel confident and more , I like myself again. It felt like a turning point—finally, something positive was happening in my life.

One day, I woke up and made a firm decision: I would no longer tolerate the toxic environment I had been stuck in for so long. I quit my job and closed that chapter of my life for good. I was ready for a new beginning, determined to find a better work environment. Shortly after, I accepted a duty manager role at another hotel, convinced that this was the fresh start I needed.

However, it didn’t take long for me to realize that the grass is not always greener on the other side. My new job was at the oldest hotel in the town of H, a stunning 300-year-old building with rich Victorian architecture. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful building in town, and its location in the heart of the town made it feel like the perfect opportunity. At first, I was happy and hopeful. But soon enough, I discovered that behind the elegant façade, there was chaos.

The work environment was hostile. Everyone seemed ready to undermine each other, and there was no sense of teamwork. It felt like a game of survival, with every meeting and decision adding to the stress. The constant staff shortages only made things worse. I found myself working with agency staff who had no real investment in the job or with young people who lacked both experience and interest. It quickly became another nightmare, different but just as bad as my previous job.

Despite the difficulties, I wasn’t ready to give up. I believed I could manage the situation, that somehow I would turn things around. But it became clear that working with a team that didn’t act like a team was an impossible task. No matter how much effort I put in, the hotel was destined to struggle, and so was I. The dysfunction around me made success unattainable, and for the first time, I found myself missing my old job. At least there, I only had two people to deal with who made life difficult. Here, it felt like everyone was against me.

One thing I will never fully understand is why so many managers in the UK seem to suffer from what I call the "God syndrome." It doesn’t matter who you are or how hard you work; they act as though they’re untouchable, as if their position gives them the right to treat others poorly. It’s baffling and disheartening, especially when we’re all just human beings, looking up at the same stars, trying to do our best in this world. The power dynamics in the workplace became exhausting, and the lack of mutual respect made it impossible to thrive.

Looking back, I see that my search for a better work environment was a necessary journey, but it taught me a harsh lesson: beauty on the outside doesn’t always reflect what’s beneath the surface. Now, I’m more cautious about where I place my trust and energy, and I continue to navigate the challenges with more wisdom and resilience'

FIRST ACCUSATION

When everything goes wrong, it often feels like you’re surrounded by people who lack both emotional intelligence and common sense. In my case, I found myself accused of something I never thought would happen: sexual harassment. Yes, you read that right—me, a gay man, accused of sexual harassment.

The incident stemmed from what I thought was a harmless comment. A young girl, visibly upset about being taller than her peers, seemed to be struggling with her self-esteem. In an attempt to cheer her up, I said, "Tall means sexy." I intended it as a light-hearted way to reassure her that being tall was nothing to be ashamed of. She took my comment the wrong way and reported me to HR.

The real nightmare began when HR called me into their office. Without any room for explanation, I was immediately accused of sexual harassment. I was shocked beyond words. The HR manager knew I was gay, and I tried to reason with her, explaining that I don’t even view women in a sexual way. It seemed absurd to me that I was being accused of something so completely against my nature. But no matter how much I tried to explain, my words fell on deaf ears. She was fixated on the idea that my comment constituted sexual harassment, and there was no convincing her otherwise.

I left that meeting in a state of disbelief, questioning how such a misunderstanding could escalate to this level. I was simply trying to help someone feel better about themselves, and instead, I found myself labelled in the most damaging way possible. It felt like a surreal experience—almost as if I were trapped in some kind of twisted reality. How could this be the world we live in? A world where even a well-intentioned compliment is twisted into something inappropriate? It was deeply disheartening, to say the least.

This incident forced me to reflect on the state of the modern workplace, and how communication has become a minefield. It feels like we live in a society where people are constantly on guard, ready to interpret every word or gesture in the worst possible light. While I understand the importance of protecting individuals from harassment, it’s equally important to recognize when an accusation is the result of a misunderstanding rather than malice. In my case, no harm was intended, but the consequences were severe nonetheless.

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of frustration and disappointment. Is this really the environment we have created for ourselves? An environment where a simple, supportive remark is enough to ruin someone’s reputation? I began to question how we, as a society, have become so quick to judge, so quick to punish without fully understanding the context or intent behind words.

The incident left me feeling alienated and confused about how to navigate future interactions. Should I refrain from offering compliments or encouragement, even when my intentions are good? It’s a difficult balance to strike, especially in a professional setting where everything you say or do is scrutinized. More than anything, this experience taught me how easily words can be misconstrued and how important it is to tread carefully in today’s world of heightened sensitivity.

In the end, I realized that while the situation was beyond frustrating, it also served as a learning experience. It highlighted the complexities of communication and the need for greater understanding, empathy, and patience in the workplace. But even with this newfound awareness, I’m still left wondering—has it really come to this?

SECOND PAINFUL ACCUSATION

My second accusation was even more painful , racism. This one stung because, unlike the first, I knew I was at fault. I used a word that I deeply regret and cannot even bring myself to repeat. The guilt has stayed with me ever since. I acknowledged my mistake immediately and was prepared to face the consequences. However, the fallout was severe, and I felt as though I was being crucified for my error.

What struck me most during this time was how difficult it seemed for my superior to make a decision regarding my punishment. He struggled with it, almost as if he didn’t want to take action against me. For him, the situation was complicated. But for our HR manager, it was anything but. I could see the satisfaction on her face as she relished the opportunity to reprimand me. I felt like Hansel and Gretel, trying to escape the clutches of the old crone. It was a harsh reminder that sometimes people seem eager to see others fall.

This was a wake-up call for me. I had made a serious mistake, and I had to pay for it. But what I didn’t expect was the overwhelming sense that everyone around me was now against me. The combination of guilt and paranoia was the perfect recipe for my descent into depression. Living in the UK sometimes feels like you’re walking a tightrope—one misstep, and you're judged. If you're an immigrant, you're viewed with suspicion; but UK citizens living abroad are considered "expats." The hypocrisy weighed on me.

That night, my guilt became too much to bear, and I had my first panic attack. It was terrifying. I found myself in the hospital, surrounded by a pile of tablets, struggling to comprehend how I had ended up there. In the days that followed, I somehow managed to pull myself together, determined to move forward, but it didn’t last long. Just when I thought I was getting back on track, life hit me again.

The emotional toll of these accusations, compounded by the stress of navigating the complexities of workplace dynamics in the UK, left me feeling isolated and overwhelmed. It’s not just about being accused of something; it’s about how easily people turn on you, how quickly judgment is passed. I began to question everything—my actions, my worth, and even my place in this country.

In that moment of vulnerability, I realized how fragile our sense of belonging can be, especially as an outsider. It became clear to me that living in the UK, as an immigrant, often comes with an unspoken burden. You're held to an impossible standard, where even a single misstep can define your entire character.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Never in my life did I think I would be accused of incompetence. Yet, there I was, facing such an accusation on one of the busiest days in the hotel. We had multiple events running, and to make matters worse, we were severely understaffed. The hotel had brought in agency staff to cover the gaps, but they were mostly inexperienced and, frankly, useless. It felt like we were setting ourselves up for failure from the start.

The F&B manager called me and asked me to "open" a private bar for one of the parties. Now, in my understanding, opening a bar meant welcoming guests and serving them drinks. But apparently, to the F&B manager, it meant physically setting up the bar—something I wasn’t informed of until the guests were already arriving. When I walked in, I found the bar dirty and empty, with not a single thing in place. On top of that, my only help was a young agency worker who had never worked in a bar before. She didn’t know the first thing about service—whether it was handling glasses, charging customers, or using the payment system.

So there I was, alone, in a completely unprepared bar, with 90 guests waiting to be served. I’ve worked in bars for years and can handle high-pressure situations, but when you don’t have the resources or support, things quickly spiral out of control. The customers grew frustrated as they waited, and their frustration quickly spread to me. It became a nightmarish scenario. The partygoers, unfortunately, were not the most polite or patient crowd, which only made things worse. By the end of the night, we were flooded with complaints about the service, the quality of the drinks, and how slow everything was. And of course, I was the one blamed for it all.

I was accused of being rude, slow, and unprofessional. It felt like the final straw—the last burden on an already overloaded camel's back. Was it really my fault? Could I have done something differently? Perhaps. But without proper support, and with inexperienced staff, I had been set up to fail from the beginning.

After that disastrous night, I decided to take a step back. I resigned from my position as duty manager and accepted a role as a supervisor instead. It was a humbling decision, but one I was ultimately happy with. I’ve learned that sometimes, for the sake of your sanity, you need to remove yourself from impossible situations.

Now, as a supervisor, I don’t carry the same weight of responsibility. I’m not in charge of fixing every problem that arises in the hotel. Instead, I float around like Tinkerbell, offering support where it’s needed without being dragged into the chaos of managerial duties. It's a more peaceful existence, and after everything I’ve been through, I’m okay with that.

I’ve realized that sometimes, stepping back is the best way to move forward. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed; it simply means you’re choosing to protect yourself from a toxic environment that will never change. And in doing so, I’ve found a bit of peace amidst the turmoil.

SCOTLAND HOLIDAY

One of the few people who truly cares about me is my sister-in-law. She’s the type of person who doesn’t take “no” for an answer, and when she invited me to spend a few days with her, my brother, and my nephew in Scotland, I didn’t even try to resist. So, there I was, packing my luggage, ready for a much-needed break. Let’s go to Scotland!

I should mention that my relationship with my brother hasn’t always been perfect. In fact, it took him 20 long years to fully accept me for who I am. While I always knew he loved me, it was difficult growing up without the full support of my family. But that’s in the past now, and as I stood there packing for this trip, I decided to let go of old grievances and focus on the joy of spending time with my family.

After a three-hour train ride, I arrived in Dunbar, a small fishing town on Scotland's eastern coast. Oh my goodness—what a place! Dunbar is quiet, charming, and picturesque, a far cry from the chaos and stress of my day-to-day life. It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with Scotland. From the first moment, it felt like a healing balm for my soul.

We explored so many breath-taking places during those few days. Edinburgh, with its ancient architecture and rich history, was nothing short of mesmerizing. The Kelpies, those towering horse-head sculptures, made me feel small but also incredibly alive—there’s something awe-inspiring about being dwarfed by art. Loch Lomond, with its peaceful waters, brought back a flood of memories as we cruised along the serene landscape. Stirling Castle was the perfect place to experience the weight of history, and Edinburgh Castle left me breathless with its majestic beauty and commanding presence. Every corner of Scotland seemed to have its own story, its own way of captivating the heart.

This holiday was unlike any other I’ve had in recent years. It wasn’t just about seeing new places; it was about reconnecting with my family in a way I hadn’t before. Having dinner together, spending time in the same house, and just living under one roof for six days with my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew—it reminded me of the simple joys of life. I felt alive again, genuinely happy. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t haunted by the stress of work or the pressures of everyday life. I was simply present, enjoying the moment and cherishing the people I love.

Being with my little family made me realize how important it is to nurture those connections, especially after so many years of distance—both physical and emotional. My nephew’s laughter, my sister-in-law’s determination to make everything perfect, and even my brother’s quiet but loving presence all contributed to an unforgettable experience. It was a reminder that, despite everything, family remains a pillar of strength and support.

As the days in Scotland came to an end, I found myself feeling a deep sense of gratitude. This trip wasn’t just a holiday; it was a turning point. It helped me heal some old wounds and appreciate the present more fully. Scotland, with its beauty and history, gave me the space to breathe again, and my family gave me the love and companionship I had been missing.

When I boarded the train back to my everyday life, I carried with me not just memories of castles and lochs but a renewed sense of hope and connection. Scotland had worked its magic on me, and for that, I will always be grateful.

GETTING OLDER

They say that as you get older, you become wiser, but you also become more fragile. I’ve noticed this myself—frequent visits to the doctor, slower movements, and a sense that time is slipping away faster than I can keep up with. After several rounds of tests and endless doctor’s appointments, I received a diagnosis that felt like a punch to the gut: Primary Lateral Sclerosis (PLS).

To make matters worse, there’s also suspicion that I may have Hereditary Spastic Paraplegia (HSP). The news was devastating. My mental health, which was already fragile, plummeted from the top of the mountain to the depths of the sea. The diagnosis left me feeling lost and overwhelmed, struggling to come to terms with a future that suddenly feels uncertain. I keep asking myself: How do you accept this new reality? How do you live a half-life when you’ve always been full of energy and independence?

My therapist tries to help me navigate through this emotional labyrinth. She constantly encourages me to stay positive, to focus on what I can control. But how do you stay positive when there’s no real solution for your condition? When the people who are supposed to help—doctors, social workers, therapists—often seem more interested in going through the motions than offering meaningful support? It’s hard not to feel like they’re just helping themselves feel better, convincing themselves that they’re doing their jobs, while I remain stuck, waiting for something that never seems to happen.

And the waiting—it’s endless. There are waiting lists for everything. Every treatment, every appointment, every test involves more waiting. They tell me not to overwork myself, to take it easy, and to apply for benefits. Benefits, they say, will help ease the burden. One of these is Personal Independence Payment (PIP), which, in my case, offers a whopping £24 a week. Twenty-four pounds per week? That’s the grand sum of help I’m supposed to live on? It’s almost insulting.

I’ve always been independent, so hearing that my life might now depend on such amount feels like a slap in the face. The reality of PIP and other benefits is far from the lifeline they’re supposed to be. How do you maintain dignity and self-respect when the system treats you like you’re barely worth more than the change in someone’s pocket?

Navigating life with these diagnoses is not just physically challenging, it’s an emotional rollercoaster. The isolation, the sense of helplessness, and the overwhelming frustration of being stuck in a system that seems to move at a glacial pace—it’s exhausting. I find myself questioning everything: my past choices, my future, and my ability to cope. People around me offer platitudes, but they don’t really understand what it’s like to wake up every morning knowing that your body is betraying you and there’s no clear path forward.

What makes it even harder is that time feels like it’s running out. I’ve always lived with a sense of purpose, of having time to accomplish things, to live fully. But now, with this diagnosis, I’m constantly reminded that my time is limited, that my body is slowing down, and that I can’t do everything I used to do. The fear of losing my independence weighs heavily on me.

I don’t have all the answers, and I’m still struggling to figure out how to move forward. Perhaps the key is to take things one day at a time, to find moments of joy where I can, and to continue fighting for the care and support I need. But it’s hard—harder than I ever imagined it would be. Life with a progressive condition feels like an uphill battle, and some days, it’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

So, if anyone has any advice on how to navigate this, I’m open to hearing it. Because right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to live a life that feels increasingly out of my control.

WHEN YOU CEASE TO EXIST

The condition I am living with and the accompanying reality that no one seems capable of helping me has left me feeling profoundly isolated. It’s as if I have ceased to exist as a person and have instead become defined by my limitations. This sense of abandonment is not just emotional, but it also permeates my interactions with others. It seems that, rather than seeing me for who I truly am, people view me as nothing more than a burden—an individual whose worth is diminished because I require special care or attention.

The stigma surrounding those with special needs or chronic conditions is a silent, yet pervasive issue. Instead of being treated with dignity and compassion, individuals like myself often feel reduced to being perceived as "unwanted." This is not just a matter of personal perception but is reflected in how others behave. Conversations become strained, relationships fade, and opportunities for inclusion are increasingly scarce. It’s not just the physical or mental challenges that weigh heavily; it is the social isolation that reinforces the feeling of being unwelcome.

Society, unfortunately, has a way of marginalizing those who don’t fit within a narrow definition of "normal." The result is that those of us living with unique challenges often feel invisible or, worse, like we are in the way. It’s as if people don’t know how to approach or engage with us meaningfully. Rather than seeing our strengths, abilities, and potential, we are often defined by what we cannot do. The burden of being viewed as an inconvenience can be incredibly overwhelming, especially when compounded by the challenges of navigating daily life with a condition that already brings its own difficulties.

What makes this situation even more challenging is the pervasive sense of helplessness that accompanies it. Knowing that there may be no immediate or effective solution to my condition leaves me feeling trapped. The well-meaning yet dismissive phrases like "stay strong" or "things will get better" often do little to address the deeper sense of despair and frustration. Instead, it feels like people are trying to offer comfort for their own sake, not because they truly understand what it’s like to live in this reality day in and day out.

This emotional toll is further compounded by a lack of genuine support. While there are services, professionals, and organizations aimed at helping individuals with special needs, many of these resources fall short in addressing the full scope of the issue. It’s not just about meeting basic needs or managing symptoms; it’s about fostering a sense of belonging, of feeling seen and valued beyond the confines of one’s condition. When this support is lacking, it leaves people like me feeling that our existence is reduced to mere survival rather than truly living.

The desire to escape from this overwhelming feeling is not rooted in a lack of gratitude for life, but rather in a desire for a life that feels meaningful and connected. It's not enough to simply exist. Like everyone else, I want to experience a sense of purpose, belonging, and fulfilment. Yet, this feels increasingly out of reach when the world around me seems to view me only through the lens of my challenges, rather than my humanity.

In moments like these, the weight of it all becomes unbearable. I am not asking for pity or am I seeking attention for the sake of it. What I long for is understanding—an acknowledgment that my struggles are valid and that my life has worth, despite the challenges I face. I want to be seen not just for my limitations, but for my strengths, my dreams, and my potential. And most of all, I want to feel like I matter, not just as someone who requires help, but as a person who is worthy of love, inclusion, and respect.

NEW DAY - NEW CHALLANGE

All my life, I have been burdened by two significant fears. The first was the fear of walking like my mother. My mother had a severe condition affecting her legs, and unfortunately, I seemed to have inherited the same issue. The thought of eventually facing the same physical limitations weighed heavily on me, as I watched my mother struggle with mobility. This fear wasn't just about the physical pain or the inconvenience but also about the potential loss of independence, a frightening prospect that always lingered in the back of my mind.

The second fear that haunted me was the fear of being abandoned by the people who mattered most to me. I had always been deeply connected to those around me, and the thought of losing those relationships was something that filled me with anxiety. It wasn’t something I consciously acknowledged at first, but it was always there, quietly shaping my interactions and emotional responses.

When I moved to the UK, I didn’t realize how these fears would be triggered even more intensely. The transition to a new country brought with it a whole host of challenges—new surroundings, a different culture, and, most painfully, a slow but inevitable disconnect from the friends I had once been so close to. I had always assumed that our bonds would remain strong regardless of distance, but the reality of life often gets in the way. People move on, and relationships change. Before I knew it, I had lost touch with many of the people I considered my closest friends. It was a gradual process, not something that happened overnight, but it was devastating, nonetheless.

Looking back, I realize that much of what I feared ended up materializing. I have had to confront the physical limitations of my condition, and I have experienced the pain of losing meaningful connections. However, these experiences have also taught me invaluable lessons. I have learned the importance of resilience—both physically and emotionally. I’ve come to understand that while some things are beyond our control, like genetic conditions or the shifting nature of relationships, there are always opportunities for growth, adaptation, and the forging of new connections.

The fear of abandonment has pushed me to become more self-reliant and to focus on cultivating inner strength rather than depending solely on external relationships for my sense of security. As difficult as it was to lose touch with old friends, it has opened space for me to meet new people and form new connections in this new chapter of my life. These experiences, while painful, have ultimately helped me grow, shaping me into a stronger and more self-assured individual.

In the end, life is about navigating challenges and learning to face the fears that once seemed insurmountable. Though the journey has not been easy, I now have a deeper understanding of myself, and I am better equipped to face whatever comes my way.

OUT OF THE BLUE

Out of the blue, I decided to return to my home country for a medical check-up. After booking my flight ticket, packing my luggage quickly, and taking a few hours' flight, I found myself back in my homeland after living several years in the UK. My brother greeted me at the airport, and I headed straight home, where I received the warmest welcome of my life. It was truly overwhelming.

My brother and I never had a strong relationship in the past, mainly due to me being gay, but it seems that time has brought change. People evolve, and sometimes they learn to accept reality. It was a surprising but deeply comforting moment for me.

The next morning, after enjoying a cup of coffee with my brother, I decided to visit my favourite shopping centre. What I encountered there left me utterly shocked. The quality of people, the diversity of products, and the refined clothing designs made me feel out of place. I felt like I was shopping at Harrods but dressed in a Primark outfit. As an old-school gay individual, I’ve always had an affinity for high-end brands. A Gucci bag and a stylish outfit have always been my signature, but this time, my usual flair didn’t make me stand out. Everywhere I turned, people were wearing Tom Ford glasses, Gucci bags, and Alexander McQueen shoes. It was humbling and eye-opening.

For the first time, I realized the magnitude of my decision to move to the UK. Walking into a local grocery store, I was stunned by the vast selection of fresh produce, meat, seafood, cheeses, and bread. The sheer quality and variety were unlike anything I had seen in the UK, where grocery shopping often felt monotonous. I’ve spent years used to factory-made and microwaveable meals in the UK, but here, everything felt alive and vibrant. It dawned on me how much I had sacrificed for freedom and opportunity.

The price I paid for my independence now feels too high. The UK offered me freedom and education, but it also came with isolation, depression, xenophobia, and a lifestyle I no longer enjoy. My home country, on the other hand, has evolved dramatically over the years, with a modern mentality replacing old prejudices. The change is heartening, and I feel inspired to return for good.

However, I am determined to complete my university degree in the UK, with only two years remaining. This chapter is nearly over, and I am eager to begin a new one. Once my studies are complete, I will bid farewell to the UK and all its challenges. Goodbye to depression, junk food, and constant rain. Goodbye to feeling like an outsider.

In two years, my self-imposed exile will end, and I’ll have the chance to live freely and fully in my home country. The future feels brighter than ever. Good luck, Connie – the best is yet to come!

JOURNEY OF FRUSTRATION

Three weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and I found myself packing for my return trip to the UK. I felt a deep sadness, but I had no choice. The path I chose—the pursuit of completing my studies—demanded sacrifices, including leaving my home country behind. My desire to achieve my goals outweighed my longing to stay. So, here I was, ready to embark on yet another journey, albeit one tinged with melancholy and, frankly, dread.

After a brief ride to the airport and a smooth check-in process, I boarded the plane. Due to my medical condition, my ability to fully bend my legs is limited, and I occasionally experience a loss of balance, requiring the use of a walking stick. As a result, I always book seat 1C and pay the extra cost to ensure some level of comfort. In all my prior experiences with Wizz Air, this arrangement had been handled professionally and without issue. Although not my favorite airline, Wizz Air remains my only direct option to travel between the UK and my home country.

This time, however, my experience was drastically different. Shortly after boarding, a young crew member approached me and insisted I change my seat, claiming that someone with my disability was not allowed to occupy 1C. Her demeanor was cold and unprofessional, reminiscent of a florist abruptly thrust into the role of crew supervisor. I attempted to explain the necessity of my chosen seat, but my reasoning seemed beyond her comprehension. Despite having spent half my life working on cruise ships and fully understanding safety protocols, I was appalled by her rudeness and aggressive attitude.

To avoid further confrontation, I reluctantly agreed to switch seats with a gentleman nearby, even though I knew it would result in extreme discomfort for the entire flight. As expected, the next three and a half hours were sheer agony. My physical pain was compounded by shock and disbelief at the crew member’s behavior, which was far from the standard of care I had come to expect.

Though the ordeal eventually ended, the memory of that flight remains vivid—a stark reminder of how essential empathy and professionalism are, especially in customer-facing roles.