Dear Reader,

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I moved to the UK from Nigeria in 2001. I was a teenager trying to work out where I belonged, moving between family homes, holding onto the hope that somewhere, someone would want me to stay.

On the outside, I looked fine. Inside, I was slowly breaking - the constant moving, the tension, the rejection no one said out loud. My grades slipped. Not because I didn't care, but because survival had become the only thing I had room for.

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Then things fell apart with the last family member I had, and I was on my own. While my friends prepared for college, I worked out where I'd sleep. Some nights it was a friend's sofa. Other nights, a police station bench. I learned which shopping centres stayed open late enough for me to wash my face and look "normal" the next day. The system didn't see me. It saw a label: intentionally homeless as though fear and instability were choices I'd made. Every conversation chipped away at my hope. But I held onto one quiet truth: I didn't need saving. I needed one person to say yes.

That yes came as a hostel. Eighteen months with a roof, a key worker who cared, and the space to begin again. She didn't just help me find work  she helped me see myself differently. Someone believed in me without conditions, and that changed everything.Because someone believed in me, I began to believe in myself.

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That belief is why I lead now with purpose, with conviction, without apology. I know what it is to rebuild from nothing. I know what being seen can do. Sometimes all a woman needs is someone to believe in her until she believes it herself. Someone was that person for me. Now I am that person for others.

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I see you,
Cynthia