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My name is Emy, I’m 32. I was born in a tiny, dying town near Barnsley, but almost four years ago my husband and I packed everything up and moved to Manchester hoping for a fresh start. To be honest… these have been the hardest years of my life. Sometimes life hits you so hard you stand in the middle of your kitchen wondering how you’re even still breathing. We left our hometown because we just couldn’t see a future there anymore. Zero opportunities. Soaring energy bills. Debts. Wages that felt almost embarrassing to talk about. Then my husband said to me: “Emy, if we stay here, we’re just going to drown. In a big city like Manchester, at least there’s a chance to build a proper life.” We sold our old 2011 Fiat Punto, packed a couple of suitcases and took the train. The first few months were manageable. My husband found work in a massive logistics warehouse near Salford Quays. I started working too — first cleaning office blocks early in the morning, then doing shifts at a local convenience store. We rented a tiny, freezing terrace house. Old, drafty, with black mould creeping up the bedroom corners. He’d get up at 5:00 AM, gulp down a mug of cheap instant coffee and head out into the pouring rain. He’d come home late at night with swollen hands, a stiff back and a completely empty look in his eyes. Every single day, 12-hour shifts shifting heavy pallets, wooden crates and tonnes of other people’s online orders. I’d watch him collapse onto the sofa without even taking his boots off or eating dinner. And the next morning it would start all over again: “Come on… we’ve got to keep going.” And honestly, I was on the brink of a total breakdown too. At the store — endless queues, rude customers, fake smiles. People tapping their contactless cards for £5 coffees, carrying expensive Zara bags, talking about their holidays to Spain. They were laughing. They were living. And I was standing behind the till, scanning barcodes, thinking: “When am I finally going to start living
