Challenging My Very Core

It can be rather odd to compare the perceptions of both resilience and ignorance.

Two drastically different concepts, yet when broken down, each can be equally used as tools for survival.

The reason I have mentioned the two, as well as combined them together in comparison, is to highlight what is often curated and experienced by those that are of privilege, in contrast to those who are less fortunate.

Resilience requires hardship. It demands adversity, real-life situations that ignite trauma and inflame unrest.

Ignorance requires insulation. It thrives in the absence of exposure, protected by comfort, shielded by privilege. It does not demand hardship or adversity; instead, it feeds off detachment, the luxury of not having to know, not having to experience, not having to care.

When I relocated to the United Kingdom, I used my privilege to create comfort in my new existence. Yet, how humbling it has been to be reminded of how swiftly privilege can be taken. One slight change in our journey, one choice, one unexpected altercation—and everything can shift in an instant.

I began my career in human rights, working within a charity for some of the most vulnerable people in London. This line of work places me among those who have little to no privilege.

Stripped of capacity due to deep traumas and systemic biases, these men are confined by structures that discriminate and limit their accessibility and freedoms—stigmatised, misunderstood, and neglected. I work with some of the most 'complex' individuals: reoffenders, substance misusers, and those burdened with severe mental health challenges and multiple disadvantages.

Often deemed the most ‘unwanted’ in society.

And then there was me. A young 25-year-old, five-foot female, thousands of kilometers away from my networks, tasked with supporting, caring, and facilitating change for these men.

Instinctually, I should be terrified—my very core screaming that I am not safe. The unpredictability of this work is known, the incidents have been extreme. Yet, despite this, I find myself deeply invested in their well-being. It’s a complex and conflicting feeling—to want to support these men while also grappling with the reality of their actions.

I see them fight on the streets, their crises laid bare beyond the safety of the hostel walls. Bystanders film and laugh. I want to step in, to advocate for their dignity. Violent men in presentation, who are really children that were never allowed to be children.

I once found one of our men so deeply under the influence that he collapsed on the footpath in front of me, surrendering to his sorrow and grief. He had just been told his daughter no longer wanted contact. Only a week before, he had confided in me that he would die for his family—that without them, there was nothing left to live for.

As he curled into a fetal position, the public walked by. They asked if I was okay, but never if he was.

We were both not okay, but for very different reasons.

The hardest challenge I have had to overcome, is the realisation that I get to leave. I get to remove myself each day and return to the sanctuary and security of my home. Clocking off for the day and their ‘problems’. 

This is their reality, and mine one of privilege. This stark reality found its way into my consciousness when I was cleaning a room for the arrival of a new client. Opening his door and bringing his items in for the first time, I closed the door behind us. I saw his reality—four walls, a space that was his ‘home.’ Ten years of this cycle. Moved from one support organisation to another. This was not new to him, however the unspoken words found in the hopelessness and resignation of his eyes, said more than words ever could. 

This work is challenging, yet it is a privilege to be part of a space where vulnerability is allowed. A place where emotions can surface—sometimes through anger, sometimes through silence.

Even in their most volatile moments, I feel only sadness for them. They are imprisoned by their trauma, reliant on heroin, crack, and alcohol to numb the thoughts in their heads. Grown men, desperate and vulnerable, often passing out in corridors.

One day, I found myself in the communal kitchen, where three residents stood deep in conversation. Three men—vastly different in backgrounds, ages, and experiences—united in their current stage of life, sharing space in supported accommodation.

I tried to be discrete with my presence, hoping to leave them to their discussion and quietly get on with my tasks. However, immediately I was embraced with a warm question by one of the men, and as a result, instantaneously invited into the conversation. 

It was the topic that took me off guard and left a warmth within my heart. They were speaking about bubbles and whether it’s still appropriate for adults to enjoy the pleasure of such. One of the residents had a bubble blower in his possession, and the three of them were deep in conversation surrounding its suitability. 

There I was, in a kitchen with three grown men, laughing over the simple joy of blowing bubbles.

The conversation broke into great belly laughs over the absurdity of the concept. Each one bringing in their own thoughts and fond stories linked to the uncomplicated act of blowing bubbles. 

And it was in this moment that I saw the young child within each of these men. All three I have witnessed in crisis and at their breaking point; each found in great desperation at times. But for a brief moment, there was nothing more than shared laughter. A child-like laughter, over an activity loved by children and adults alike.

A simple delight carried over into the joy of the conversation being had.

It was a reminder that we are all not too dissimilar in life. At the very core and essence of everything, the simple joys and pleasures of this life are the very things that we all desire and love to experience- much like the sweet act of blowing bubbles. That despite our differences, experiences, and challenges, we all need a good belly laugh. 

There is such a delight in the human connection, which proves that even with these differences, and the vastly separate personal struggles we continue to face, each of us can come together and share in these simple joys and pleasures of life.

In these fleeting moments, nothing infiltrates us—no trauma, no substance use, no chaos. We are just people, equal and understanding.

I see young men. Misunderstood. Full of many things. But above all, hope.

Even if fleeting, hope has an immense power to get us through.

How wonderful is this life and the connections we can make? I often reflect while walking alongside a unlikely character- me, a young woman in my 20s, sharing space with those who society may overlook.

The curious looks from onlookers as we sit together on a bus.

Their judgment, misunderstanding, and curiosity do not hold weight. They do not have the privilege of knowing the beauty of these connections. The lessons. The journey of reflection they force upon us. The mutual exchange of understanding, trust, and forgiveness.

A humbling and mutual exchange that is impartial and neutral. One that is between two vastly different beings, from two extremely different worlds of experience, yet, here we find ourselves, coming together. One trusting, vulnerable and complex and the other understanding, willing and forgiving.

Both just trying to navigate this life. 

Working in the heart of the city, the location presents a stark contrast in my everyday experiences.

Sitting on a balcony in a client’s commissioned ‘home,’ my view is of million-dollar terraces. Yet, here I sit, surrounded by a kitchen with no hot water, cupboards fallen off their hinges, mold sporing from the walls.

Brick and mortar forming a barrier—not just physically, but representing the immense disparity of wealth, privilege, and systemic inequality.

Nature and nurture intertwine here. Upbringing, circumstances, trauma—these shape our paths in ways privilege often shields us from recognising. And in many ways, it feels like pot luck. Some are born into stability, into resources and opportunity. Others are thrust into hardship before they ever have a chance to build a foundation. The difference isn’t always effort or will—it’s the hand we are dealt.

And so, we must remind ourselves to use our privilege for good—to listen, to learn, to bridge the divide. Because at the end of the day, despite our differences, we are all shaped by circumstance, seeking the same joys, the same understanding, the same sense of belonging.

Privilege isn’t just about what we have—it’s about what we choose to do with it.