I had nothing

I picked up the keys with trembling hands. Not because I was unsure, but because I knew what this moment represented. This wasn’t just a tenancy. This wasn’t just a flat. This was a resurrection.

There were no curtains on the windows. No bed to sleep on. Not even a spoon to stir the tea I had fantasised about making in this kitchen—the one I had longed for through months of surviving on the streets, in my car, in shelters, and in spaces that offered anything but safety. But still, I stood in the middle of those bare floors and whispered, “This is mine.”

Not because it was gifted to me. Not because it was grand. But because it was the first space I could truly claim after being shattered, displaced, and silenced by a system that forgot I was human.

Homelessness is a kind of grief that follows you into every corner of your body. You learn to live with your guard up. You shrink to fit into what society offers. You ration not only food, but dreams. You measure hope in teaspoons.

So when I moved into this flat, I didn’t rush to furnish it. I didn’t scroll through Pinterest for inspiration. I breathed. I stood still. I let my nervous system catch up with the fact that I was no longer being pushed out.

The first week, I slept on the floor. My carpet hadn’t yet arrived. I remember laying there, my arms outstretched in the dark, thinking this floor is safer than the car I used to cry in. That alone was enough.

And then came the walking. Long, deliberate journeys on foot—three miles to find wax to restore furniture. Another four to hunt down curtain rods. I had no car, no van, no trolley—only my own two feet, and the will to build something from the ruins. I was tired, yes. But I was also alive in a way that surprised me.

On one of my walks, I spotted two vintage chairs discarded by the side of the road. Their seats were cracked, their legs uneven. Once, I might’ve passed them by, thinking they weren’t worth saving. But now? I saw myself in them—worn, yes, but not without worth.

I carried them home, one by one. Sanded them with quiet reverence. Painted them in layers. Upholstered the seats in sheepskin—creamy white, soft, and strong. They now sit by my G Plan-style drop-leaf table, which I found secondhand. Another thing someone else gave up on. But not me.

Because healing isn’t always about going back to who you were. Sometimes, it’s about becoming someone new—someone who sees beauty in the broken. Someone who brings life to what others left behind.

Each piece I restored became part of my emotional architecture. A found rug. A rescued mirror. A houseplant from Marks & Spencer that now lives in a vintage tray. All of it, chosen with care. All of it, made sacred through intention.

I come from a background in interiors. But this was different. This wasn’t about impressing guests or making things “Instagrammable.” This was about creating safety—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

My trauma had wired me to expect chaos. Doors slamming. Voices raised. Floors that creaked beneath the weight of fear. I wanted this home to be different. I wanted it to exhale with me. So I curated intentionally: soft lighting, muted textures, things that felt like kindness to my nervous system.

I chose natural fibers—jute, linen, wool—because they grounded me. I avoided loud patterns. I kept the color palette close to the earth: sand, cream, grey. It wasn’t just style. It was survival.

Every corner was a conversation with myself: Do I feel safe here? Does this object make me breathe easier? If it didn’t, I let it go. This was not a space for performance. This was a space for truth.

Resilience doesn’t look like what they tell you. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it limps. Sometimes it cries on the walk home. Sometimes it hangs linen curtains with string and shaky hands because the rod hasn't arrived and the streetlight outside won’t let you sleep.

But resilience is there. It’s in the decision to keep going. To turn a bare flat into a vessel for healing. To clean secondhand furniture not just with polish, but with prayer.

In this home, I laid down more than rugs. I laid down new rules for how I would live. I would not rush. I would not shrink. I would no longer apologise for my needs. I would sleep in peace. I would eat with grace. I would rebuild not just my surroundings, but my sense of self.

And I would do it with my own hands.

There is something holy about doing things manually when you’ve been made to feel powerless. My body had been through so much. It had braced itself in police stations, courtrooms, hospital waiting rooms. It had endured sleepless nights in parked cars and showers in unfamiliar places.

So when I began carrying chairs, laying carpet, and walking mile after mile for paint or fabric, I wasn’t just styling a home—I was reuniting with my body. I was saying, Thank you for carrying me. Now let me carry something for you.

Healing lives in the doing. In the scrubbing. In the sanding. In the placing of a sheepskin on a restored chair and whispering, This is my seat now. This is where I belong.

This home is not complete. There are still things I need. A proper sofa. More storage. A few shelves, perhaps. But when I look around, I don’t see lack. I see proof.

Proof that I survived. That I created something from nothing. That I can turn pain into place. That I am still here—and still capable of beauty.

When people come over, they often comment on the peace they feel here. That’s not accidental. That’s because this isn’t just a flat—it’s a living, breathing love letter to myself.

I didn’t wait for someone to save me. I didn’t wait for the right budget or the right timing. I moved with what I had. I listened to what I needed. I followed the quiet nudge of resilience. And in doing so, I made a home.

Not just for my body. But for my soul.

To anyone beginning again from the ashes—know this:

You do not need to have it all together to begin.

You do not need matching plates or a Pinterest board to claim space.

You do not need validation to say, “I deserve beauty.”

All you need is breath. Intention. And the courage to place one foot in front of the other—even if you’re carrying a chair on your back while you do it.

Because the most powerful homes aren’t built with money. They’re built with meaning.

And I made mine with nothing.

But I made it sacred.