I was seven years old when I arrived in England. It was early December. Cold and unfamiliar. London. Brixton, to be exact. I came to stay with a woman I now call my aunt, though we’re not related. Her mother, who I call my gran, was the one who brought me here. These weren’t family by blood. They were family by circumstance. Strangers, really. But I had no choice. That was my introduction to England.
I remember that Christmas so clearly. I don’t know why that memory has stayed with me for more than thirty years, but it has. Maybe because it was the first time I truly felt out of place. I sat and watched as all the children in the house opened their gifts. Laughing. Smiling. Full of joy. But not me. It was my first Christmas in England, and instead of feeling celebrated I felt invisible.
My gran turned to my aunt and asked, right in front of me,
“Why didn’t you get her a gift?”
I heard every word. I was right there.
I wasn’t angry. I didn’t cry. I just listened. Quiet. Watching the grown-ups speak like I wasn’t even there.
But something inside me sank. Something that told me I didn’t matter the way they did.
That was the moment I realised I didn’t belong. Life in England wasn’t the warm embrace I had imagined.
I can’t remember every feeling I had in that moment, but I know I felt sad. Like I had been placed somewhere I didn’t fit. And even now, writing this, I’m tearful. My chest feels heavy. That seven-year-old version of me is still inside. Still remembering.
No gift.
No welcome.
No warmth.
Just silence and a cold house filled with people who didn’t want me. At least not for the right reasons.
That moment changed something in me. It taught me to rely on myself. To not expect too much from others.
My childhood changed forever.
I still feel so sad for that little girl. She didn’t understand why things were the way they were. She just wanted to be loved. To be treated like everyone else. To feel like she belonged to someone.
If I could hold her now, I would whisper to her that she was always enough. That she was always worthy of love. That even if no one brought her a gift, she was the gift.
She mattered.
She still does.
I look at my own seven-year-old son now and see how young he is. How vulnerable. And I wonder how anyone could look at a child that age and not feel moved to show love. To make them feel safe. To simply make them feel seen.
