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Then and Now.

There are two kinds of time: the one we live in, and the one that lives in us. "Then" is not just a place in the past it is a shadow that follows us. And "now" is not just a present moment it is everything we've carried with us to arrive here. For me the space between then and now is where I was broken, lost, reconstructed and reborn.

I was born in Morocco, wrapped in the reassuring call to prayer that echoed through narrow streets, in a home where the scent of spices drifted through every kitchen, where we learned early to ask about your neighbours before yourself. In the Muslim culture that raised me we were trained to be present for each other to bring tea to the lonely, to feed the hungry, to honour our elders and never walk by a stranger who was crying. These were not just traditions. They were the architecture of our living a compassionate code we shared. I carried this with me like a sacred talisman even when my family could no longer see me.

Because beneath the surface of tradition I had a truth that didn’t belong not to them, not to that time, not to that place. I am a trans woman.

I tried for so long to fold myself into the pages of a book that was never written for me. But the body aches in silence. The soul protests in secret. And when I could no longer live in the lie I made a choice that would cost me everything: I chose myself.

I left.

The UK did not welcome me like an open door not at first. It was cold, grey, unknown. But in the cold I could breathe. I had nothing no home, no money, no family. Only the burden of memory and the ember of a potential future. The journey from then to now was not a straight line. It was jagged, irregular, sometimes unbearable. But that is the wonder of starting over. Like a phoenix I first had to burn.I cried into borrowed pillows, I woke up wondering if I could go on. I had lost the people who were supposed to love me first. But life in its strange way presented me with new people chosen family, souls who didn’t care who I used to be, only who I was becoming. Friends who fought for me when I was too tired to fight for myself. Neighbours who reminded me of those from home kind, curious, open. And I built a new community, slowly, brick by brick.

I started volunteering. At first it was to keep myself busy, to have purpose, to be seen. But then I noticed something: my presence mattered. Whether I was serving tea at a shelter, serving at a food bank, interpreting for one who felt as lost as I once was, or simply listening I was a strand in a chain of kindness. One fibre in a vast tapestry of humanity. That nourished me. That made the worst days worthwhile.

I took every opportunity. Volunteering gave birth to work. Work gave birth to confidence. Purpose gave birth to confidence. And purpose — that fragile, bewildering light — sliced a path through the mist. I labored for the economy in every possible way: I cleaned homes, I helped small, struggling charities with events, I helped immigrants who reminded me of my former self — scared, lost, but full of potential. Every reference I received, every pound I earned, was a small act of defiance against the idea that I wasn't supposed to make it.

Adapting to life in the UK was not about leaving where I came from behind. It was about adding to it. I still ask about my neighbors. I still bring over food when someone is sick. I still believe in community the way I was raised to. But now I also believe in myself something my past never taught me to do.

Blending two worlds was not easy. There were collisions of language, of traditions, of expectations. I remember being gently scolded by a friend once for being "too polite," too deferential. "You don't have to ask permission to exist," she said. That resonated. I had been apologizing for who I was for so long, it was second nature. But now I choose. I keep the parts of my culture that nourish me. And I let go of the parts that tried to erase me. That's the beauty of migration you get to recreate your origin story while retaining the chapters that shaped you.

Of course, there were losses that I still grieve. I lost my mother's voice, my father's approval, the illusion that love is always unconditional. I lost birthdays and weddings, family gatherings, and the language of home. I lost a self I thought I had to be.

But in that loss, I found something greater: freedom.I reached a point where I didn’t know myself anymore in the mirror or in memory. I was a ghost of what I could have been. But pain is a strange sculptor. It carves you to the bone. And in that hollow I found myself not just as a woman but as a human being with the power to love, to fight, to forgive and to be reborn.

Now I look around and see how far I’ve come. My life is still unraveling imperfect, but beautifully mine. I still ache. I still face prejudice. But I no longer live in a cage of silence. I have built a life where I am not just surviving, but thriving. I’ve been part of LGBTQ+ community groups, helped refugees navigate the system, mentored young people who remind me of my own teenage self, scared, curious, waiting to be told it’s okay to be different.

I carry a quote with me: “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” I have found the truth in every step. “Then” was a time of survival and fear. “Now” is a time of promise. I still have scars, but I wear them as ornaments proof I’ve lived, I’ve survived, I’ve earned this joy.

People say life is a series of coincidences. But I don’t believe that. I believe every person, every heartbreak, every unexpected turn was placed in my path for a reason to teach me, to shape me, to lead me here. Because now I can stand in a room full of humans some who know my story, some who don’t and be okay. I can talk. I can help. I can be seen.

The worst prisons, someone once said, are the ones we build for ourselves. I lived in that prison for years. I ate the voices that told me I was wrong, broken, unworthy. But no more. I got out. I chose light. And in doing so I became something rare: free.

So when people ask me what it’s like to start again to leave everything behind and start fresh I tell them this:

It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You will be broken. You will be alone. You will cry in public and laugh in private and question your own reflection. You will lose things you never thought you could live without.

But in that defeat you will find yourself.

You will rise like fire through ashes, wings not of feather but of will. You will build a life from leftovers and make it holy. You will love again. You will live again. You will become again.

That’s the story of then and now.

And it’s still being written.