I never write anything political. I don’t. I’d much rather chat about henna, healing, gratitude, and happiness. Throw in some metaphors about life being like overcooked dal, mushy, but salvageable with the right spices. But today? Today I’m FUMING!.
Head-throbbing, eye-twitching, muttering-swear-words-under-my-breath kind of fuming.
And here’s the thing: I’m not just angry, I’m HELPLESSLY ANGRY. And that, is the worst kind. Because anger you can direct. Helplessness? That sits in your gut and rots like bad bacteria.
Let me explain.
I’m a British citizen. Born in Nairobi, raised in London. I did the whole thing; school, university, NHS, fish and chips. I paid my National Insurance, took the Tube without making eye contact, perfected the awkward ‘thank you’ wave when someone opens the door from afar.
Then, 22 years ago, I moved to Canada. I didn’t fall off the grid. I built a life. Worked, paid taxes, volunteered, raised kids, built communities, fell apart, rebuilt. You know, life as we know it, a tornado with a rollercoaster jammed inside! But somewhere in the middle of maple syrup and sub-zero winters, I held tight to my British identity. I was proud of both countries.
So when the opportunity came, I made the brave decision to return. I packed up my life (again), said goodbye to a beautiful but increasingly unaffordable country, and flew “home” with my British-born, adult son. This was meant to be our new beginning. A fresh start. A homecoming.
And what did we get?
A BRICK WALL!
No, not a wall. A door. One of those heavy institutional ones that slams shut in your face and has a little sign that reads:
“Sorry. You don’t meet the residency requirement.”
WAIT. WHAT?
Let me get this straight.
I can’t apply for Civil Service jobs.
- Or local council jobs.
- Or NHS admin jobs.
- Or work in a school.
- Or the Metropolitan Police
- Or community services.
- Or apply to bloody MI5. (I had plans, okay?)
Apparently, I, A BRITISH CITIZEN with a valid BRITISH PASSPORT and FULL RIGHT TO WORK, cannot apply for most government-related jobs, including civil service, police, security, and any role that even smells of government funding. Why? Because I haven’t lived in the UK for the last three consecutive years.
LET THAT SINK IN!
I’m not a foreigner. I didn't SNEAK across the BORDER or SWIM across the ENGLISH CHANNEL. I’m not here illegally or asking for special treatment. I AM BRITISH! And I came home. So why is the system treating me like an outsider?
Imagine, that’s 70% of jobs I can’t apply for. How do I explain that to Universal Credit, who by the way, actually sent me to an interview for one of these government-funded security jobs?
I even had a long chat with the hiring company. Lovely people. They said I was qualified, actually overqualified, in fact, but their system wouldn’t even let them enter my details because I hadn’t lived here long enough. It shows up as ERROR on their system!
How bloody crazy is that?
I can’t even make this shit up even if I tried.
The absurdity of it would be HILARIOUS if it weren’t so CRUEL.
I moved to Canada, a country where we say sorry even when we’re not in the wrong. You’re telling me that in 2025, we still don’t have the tech to run an international background check? We can send billionaires to space for brunch but can’t check my Canadian police clearance?
Funny thing is, when I first volunteered in Canada back in 2003, they requested a UK background check. It took two weeks. TWO!
But now, the UK the same one that handed me my PASSPORT , my UNIVERSITY DEGREE, and IDENTITY, is acting like I’m a stranger at my own bloody wedding.
Meanwhile, let’s take a moment to remember Mark Carney, born in Canada, waltzed in as the Governor of the Bank of England, and now casually leading Canada as Prime Minister in 2025. No “residency” nonsense there. But me? Not eligible to be a council receptionist because I had the audacity to be a productive citizen abroad.
HOW. IS. THIS. REAL?
It’s like being invited to a family party, only to have your name crossed off the list by a cousin who doesn’t even know who brought the samosas.
My son’s in the same position. British-born, smart, capable, and blocked at every turn because he too didn’t spend the last three years breathing in rain-soaked air and queuing at Tesco’s.
You know what’s even more ironic? I moved back because I wanted to contribute. To work. To be close to family. To build something. But now I’m STUCK, both literally and financially in my childhood home with my adult son and my elderly mum. Yes, I’m back in the same room where I once plastered Take That, John Travolta & Erik Estrada posters. Welcome to the full-circle hell.
We’re so very LUCKY. GRATEFUL. We have a roof over our heads. Without Mum? We’d be homeless. Because Universal Credit isn’t covering shit.
And before anyone gets smug, let me make this clear: I’m frugal. I don’t order takeaways. I budget. I track expenses like a ninja with a spreadsheet addiction. And it still doesn’t stretch. Not with today’s prices. Not in London.
I see people on benefits driving luxury cars; BMWs, Merc’s, Audi’s, wearing designer labels, somehow thriving in council housing provided by the local government at minimum rent or fully covered and I’m left wondering if chickpeas are a luxury this week. This isn’t jealousy. It’s CONFUSION. Because I paid in. I worked. I contributed to two countries. And now I’m being told, “Sorry, love. YOU DON’T QUALIFY.”
It’s not just FRUSTRATING, it’s DEHUMANISING.
This three-year residency rule? Arbitrary. Cold. Disconnected from reality. It assumes that anyone who left the UK is some kind of security risk. That we’ve been cavorting with foreign spies or running an international pickpocketing ring. Meanwhile, I was parenting, working, creating art, running a very successful business (until COVID), and trying not to lose my bloody mind.
And now, back “home,” I’m made to feel like a threat. Like I don’t belong.
Let me repeat: I don’t want to live off the system. I NEVER HAVE. I want to work. I’m trying to. But nearly every job post comes with a big, fat “NOT ELIGIBLE” stamped across it, all because I haven’t been sipping lukewarm tea in the UK for three uninterrupted years.
And please, don’t hit me with “Those are the rules.” Because rules are written by people. People who, apparently, have never had to uproot a life, support a family, or navigate two, actually three cultures while trying not to lose their last nerve.
I moved back because Canada was no longer sustainable. My landlord was selling. My job contract at a major hospital (yes, I worked in Health Care) was ending. Rents had skyrocketed to absurd levels (Thank you Trudeau for the housing crisis in Canada). I couldn’t live in some farmland village an hour from work. Even if they cleared the snow, it’s gonna be a slow drive! I’d already been laid off once after separating from my husband. I’d already taken massive pay cuts. I hustled, scraped, and survived.
And now I’m here. Back where I started. Literally.
Only now I’m in my 50s. With a young adult son. Starting life over again from scratch and in the middle of a DIVORCE!
I stare at job boards and feel a weight pressing down, not from laziness or entitlement but from being crushed between the gears of a system that pretends we don’t exist. That doesn’t want us to exist.
So yes, I’m angry. But this isn’t just a rant (well, technically it is).
This is a WAKE-UP CALL.
To the POLICY MAKERS, the CIVIL SERVANTS, the ones who write these bloody rules you’ve alienated your own. You’ve made citizens feel like strangers. And you’ve made a complete mockery of what it means to “belong.”
Because if someone like me, British by right, educated here, contributed here, wants to return here, is LOCKED OUT?
BRITAIN HAS FAILED.
You’ve lost TALENT, PASSION, LIVED EXPERIENCE, COMMUNITY SPIRIT, and RESILIENCE. You’ve lost people who chose to come back not because they had to, but because they wanted to be part of this country again.
And what are we left with?
A BROKEN SYSTEM. One that opens its arms to some (rightfully so) but slams the door on the very people who already hold the key.
So no, this isn’t the end. It’s the start of another uphill climb.
- I’ll freelance.
- I’ll teach.
- I’ll create.
- I’ll find ways to support myself, build my business, make art, and somehow laugh through the chaos.
And if MI5 is listening? I’m still open to squirrel-based espionage. I’ve got an entire network of bushy-tailed operatives ready to decode enemy secrets via henna tail-flicks. I’ve spent years coding messages into henna patterns. Not just swirls and florals, but ancestral prayers, protective symbols, affirmations. Every curve whispers resilience. Every dot? A defiance of systems that tried to erase us.
So if this government won’t hire me to decode enemy comms, fine. I’ll keep coding hope and truth onto skin, the ancient way. Through organic henna paste. Through patterns. Through art that outlasts bureaucracy.
And while we’re on the topic of decoding breath, let me say this:
I teach mandala breathwork, too. I guide people through trauma release using nothing more than a pencil, some colouring pencils, their breath, and a circle. The mandala becomes a mirror, each inhale a revolution, each exhale a rebellion. But now I’m starting to wonder...
Was I unknowingly using enemy breathwork techniques??
Should I have asked permission before cohorting with Pranayama?
What if somewhere, on a government list, there’s a note:
“Potential security risk. Affiliations: Canada. Hobbies: art, yoga, meditation, long walks with my cute dog, rowing, suspicious breath patterns.”
GUILTY AS CHARGED!
But let’s be real, if I was collaborating with the enemy, I’d at least have better funding and a decent flat. Or free access to delicious food, drink and hot yoga. Instead, I’m here eating chickpeas and explaining to recruiters that, no, I didn’t abandon the country I was co-regulating my nervous system across the pond.
So I’ll keep teaching breathwork. Keep drawing mandalas. Keep inking coded messages of strength onto the bodies of those who need reminding they still matter.
Because even when the system fails us, art doesn’t. Ritual doesn’t. Breath doesn’t.
And I may be a little broke, blocked, and borderline feral at this point but I’ve still got my pen. My paste. My lungs. And my laugh.
