The
Manual

Before I Was Born, We Were Already Homeless

Before I even took my first breath, life had already handed me a bill. My parents, young and eager, landed in Portugal with dreams and empty pockets. They hoped to find stability, a concept that seemed to favor everyone but us.

Housing was a barricaded fortress; even when an opportunity arose, it came with strings attached and a cruel twist. The home we sought refuge in belonged to family, or so we believed. But when my parents arrived, bags in hand and hope in their hearts, they found the locks changed. No warning, no explanation—just a cold message that family ties don’t always offer shelter.

With nowhere else to turn, we drifted between relatives, an unwanted burden passed from hand to hand until their patience wore thin. Eventually, we ended up in the shantytowns, the place society forgets. These makeshift shelters, cobbled together from scraps and sheer will, became our home. Life there was raw, stripped of privacy and dignity. Illness spread unchecked, and cleanliness was a rare luxury. As a child, I learned early that survival wasn’t a grand battle but a daily grind. You kept going, day after day, without applause.

Lice were constant companions—relentless, invasive, and humiliating. Treatments were a luxury we couldn’t afford, so my head was shaved. I remember the chill on my scalp, the stranger in the mirror who looked older than his years. That moment taught me a bitter truth: in poverty, choice vanishes.

What lingered more than the physical discomfort was the silence from those who could have helped but chose not to. Family, in theory, should be a safety net, but ours was full of holes. There were no confrontations, no loud denials—just absence. Doors left unopened, calls unanswered, a quiet agreement that our struggle was inconvenient.

Yet, my parents refused to succumb to bitterness. They adapted, they searched, they asked the hard questions. In Portugal, finding housing without a guarantor is a locked system—and we had none. Until, against all odds, someone stepped forward. Not family, not out of obligation, just a person willing to vouch for us when others wouldn’t.

That single act changed everything. With a guarantor, the impossible became a matter of paperwork. A house with solid walls, a door that locked from the inside, and a roof that didn’t leak became ours. We moved in quietly, almost as if permanence might catch on and change its mind. I remember feeling the space, the way sound behaved indoors, the way sleep felt when rain was no longer a threat.

It was the start of what many call a “normal life,” though normal is subjective. We didn’t suddenly become carefree or secure, but we had a base—a place to return to. A foundation my parents carved out through persistence, not support.

Looking back, I see this pattern defining my life. Struggle first, solutions later. Help arriving from unexpected places, while those expected to help remained distant. I learned not to romanticize hardship but also not to fear it. Growing up without guarantees, resilience became second nature.

The Army and Its Shadows

When my father joined the army, it was more than just a duty—it was a means of survival with a dark edge. He smuggled food home, stolen from army supplies, just to keep us fed. But with this came a harsh discipline. At home, my father abused his authority. He would wrestle me against my will, strike me in places that wouldn’t bruise, and lock me in a cupboard full of engine parts, forcing me to stand on tiptoes in the dark. If I shifted, more punishment awaited. It was terror, but it taught me early that survival wasn’t just about facing the outside world. Even at home, I had to find my own strength.

As the struggle at home subsided, a new peril emerged. My mother, desperate for her own escape, embezzled from the firm where she worked. When the consequences fell, so did the threats—toward her, and toward me. Fearing for our safety, we fled Portugal entirely. England wasn’t chosen out of hope, but necessity. Landing in this unfamiliar place, I carried scars from one battle, only to start anew. England became both refuge and yet another test of endurance—a test I would face with the same resilience that had carried me this far.

The New Beginning in England

Our first night in England brought no comfort. My father pieced together shelter from two discarded doors and plastic, with a mattress beneath. It was a makeshift hut, not just a place to rest, but a symbol that even in this new land, we would build our survival with our own hands.

That night, I was restless in more than just spirit—I couldn’t stay still, and my tossing kept my father awake. By morning, we moved to a hostel. But upon arrival, it was clear we weren’t anonymous. Word spread quickly. That evening, a scene erupted downstairs—not a party, but intimidation disguised as one. The crowd gathered below, a pressure campaign aimed at breaking my father. England was meant to be a refuge, but on that night, it felt like we were cornered again—just on a higher floor in a new country.

Temporary shelter came at a Mexican man’s house in Stockwell. My mother, protective of her gold, locked it—and me—inside a room, taking the key. Then, a deceitful scene unfolded. The man’s accomplice banged on doors, shouting desperately, trying to trick me into opening up. I couldn’t, locked inside. But with the noise and threat of danger, I had to plan an escape. I crawled to the window, legs straddling the sill, ready to jump from the second floor if the door gave in. It didn’t. I stayed perched, waiting—my safety balanced between danger inside and a fall outside. In the end, the door held, and I remained—but the tension of that moment, the sense of threat and isolation, stayed with me.

After the ordeal, we went to the police to report what had happened. But on the walk back from the station, trouble found us again. My mother was attacked—strangers trying to snatch her purse. Even in the aftermath of seeking help, we were met with danger. It seemed as though every attempt to move forward was met with another test, another moment of survival. Yet, we kept moving—because that’s all we could do.

A New Form of Shelter

While in that Croydon hostel, intended for my mother and me, my father stayed quietly too. One day, he asked me to cook porridge. As I stood in the kitchen, a man—unstable and unpredictable—burst in wielding a knife, threatening me. I bolted back to the room, fear propelling every step. It seemed danger followed us everywhere, even when we thought we’d found shelter.

Eventually, we moved again—this time to Lancaster Gate, in a small apartment within a Victorian house. The ceilings were tall, and a loft space was carved above. Each night, I wedged myself up between those walls and slept in the attic, feeling like a character out of Harry Potter. It was still small, still precarious, but in that tiny attic, I found the closest thing to my own corner of safety.

My father and mother took different paths. With Portugal pursuing my mother legally, they transferred everything into my father’s name—properties, money, all assets—and they divorced, shielding everything from the government’s reach. During this time, my mother worked for a wealthy computer programmer, making enough to sustain us. But as their legal maneuvering unfolded, it marked the end of our family as it was. That chapter closed, leaving me to navigate what came next in a fragmented world.

Choosing Sides

When my parents split, I was caught in the middle. Without fully realizing it, I chose my father—when he asked to stay in my room, I let him. My mother left. That was the start of me and my father alone. I got a job in security at a clothes shop, started making money, and tried to bring that money into our family. But my father drew a line—his money was his, mine was mine. That was the moment I claimed my independence. From that point, I never looked back—my own life, my own path.

In time, my father and I fell out. We ended up in the same company—I had become a motorcycle mechanic. But when he clashed with the boss and was fired, I stayed. His resentment toward the boss turned into pressure on me. Day after day, he urged me to quit. At first, I resisted—I had my own footing. But eventually, his influence wore me down, and I walked away. That was the final break, where I realized my own path had to be fully mine—no more being pulled by his battles.

The final break came when he kicked me out of the house. After I left my job at his urging, I struggled to find another. He waited deliberately—until winter—to throw me out into the cold. It was calculated, designed to leave me exposed and struggling to survive. But in that moment, as harsh as it was, it forced me to stand on my own. And from there, I built a life completely mine.

After the Fire Station

The fire station hostel was supposed to be temporary. Everything in my life had always been temporary, but this place felt different. Maybe it was the irony—sleeping in a building once meant to save people while I was still learning how to save myself. The walls were thick, the corridors long, and the air smelled faintly of dust and old smoke. It wasn’t comfort, but it was shelter. And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

"I realized something quietly radical: blood had never been my safety net—self-reliance was."

I owned very little. A bag. Some clothes. Tools I refused to sell, because tools meant possibility. I learned quickly that when you start from nothing, routine becomes your anchor. Wake up early. Keep clean. Stay invisible when needed, assertive when necessary. Survival, again, was not dramatic—it