Rising From The Ashes: My Story of Finding Strength And Voice

Some years ago, I arrived in the North East carrying hope and promise. I’d just been recognised as Employee of the Year at Brent Social Services, and I stepped onto new ground feeling confident and ready to make a difference. But that first welcome wasn’t kind. I was met with racism, micro-aggression, and a quiet but heavy sense of being unwanted. Slowly, my voice faded. I stopped speaking up for myself. I lost who I was. My confidence unravelled, and with it, the belief that I’d ever feel whole again.

London was still home to my support network. In the North East, I didn’t know anyone. Each week blurred into the next. I lived for Fridays – the broken train ride back to London, where my family and friends gently pieced me together. Come Sunday evening, I boarded the train again, headed north, bracing myself to survive another cycle. It carried on like that for a while. Until one day, I whispered to myself, enough is enough.

In those shadowed days, I often heard my mother’s voice, her proverbs, her strength.

What would Mum do?” I’d ask. Every time, the answer was simple: She would rise above it.

I also thought of my daughter. I wanted her to be proud – to see someone rise rather than retreat. I wanted to be the kind of role model that stands tall, even when the world tries to push you down. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I knew something had to change. I could no longer afford to be silent. I had to rise, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. And slowly, I did. I started using my voice again, not only for me, but for those who hadn’t yet found theirs. When the chance came to chair the Race Equalities Staff Network, I stepped forward.

And somewhere in the healing, I began to write. Putting my truth on paper helped me breathe again. That’s how my poem, “Like a Phoenix”, came to life. This poem was born not in triumph, but in truth. It came from days of financial strain, fractured relationships, health scares, cultural pain, and the dark corners where trauma hides. Yet in every low, I found a whisper, a memory of strength, a flicker of fight. Like a Phoenix is not just a piece of writing. It’s a declaration: that even when the fire scorches, it doesn’t get the final say. We rise, we rebuild, and we reclaim every part of ourselves that was dismissed or diminished.

So here I stand today, not just surviving, but rising. Are you ready to rise too?

So today, I offer these words – to anyone who’s been burnt, silenced, or made to feel small. You are not alone. And even from the ashes… we rise.

Like a Phoenix* (after Maya Angelou_

When money is low and the bills are high

When rest is infrequent and toil intensifies

When friends are scarce and all seems lost

Like a Phoenix, I rise

When others doubt and the way is unclear

When troubles and fears lead to despair

When pain hits hard and relief disappears

Like a Phoenix, I rise

When family ties are stretched and broken

When relationships fail and you’re left with a token

When health is compromised and cures are few

Like a Phoenix, I rise

When cultures are rotten and behaviour is vile

When change seems hopeless and people can’t smile

When expectations mount and support is gone

Like a Phoenix, I rise

When you feel like you’re planted and your way is dark

When trauma hits hard and leaves its mark

When friends forsake and the darkness grows

Like a Phoenix, I rise

Despite being burnt, I’m ready to try

As I spread my wings and get ready to fly

*The Phoenix is the symbol of the UK Occupational Therapy Profession. So if these words struck a chord, if even one verse echoed something inside you, don’t let it fade. Stand tall. Speak out. Be the voice that someone else needs to hear. You don’t have to be unscarred to be strong. You just have to rise. Support someone who’s struggling. Challenge systems that silence. And above all, believe that your story matters. Because when you rise, you make space for others to rise too. Let’s rise together.