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I spent two years servicing lorry drivers for money. Enough. Hi everyone. My name’s Sophie. I’m 26. I grew up in a small town in Yorkshire. When I was 24 I realised if I stayed there I’d be stuck working for next to nothing and watching life pass me by. So I packed my things and moved to Manchester. My mum gave me her last £1600. “Just to get you started,” she said. “Don’t let me down.” I rented a tiny room on the outskirts for £650 a month and started applying for jobs left, right and centre. The answers were almost always the same — unpaid internships or minimum wage. After rent and shopping at Tesco there was basically nothing left. Two months later I had less than a hundred quid in my account. Rent was due in a week. I was sat on the kitchen floor and for the first time I was properly scared. A girl I knew who’d been living in Manchester for a few years said it straight: “There’s an option. Fast money. But it’s rough. At a motel on the motorway where the lorry drivers stop.” I was quiet for a long time. Then I just nodded. That first night was a nightmare. I was sat in the room, hands shaking, heart going so hard I thought it was going to jump out of my chest. But the money came. Then more. After a couple of weeks I already knew how much I needed to “work” to cover the rent and still put a bit aside. On average I was making £1400–1700 a month if I went almost every day. I kept it up for nearly two years. In that time I learned not to look them in the eyes. I learned not to hear what they said. I learned how to smile while everything inside me was clenched tight. But any respect I had for myself disappeared pretty quickly. All that was left was exhaustion and this constant feeling of being dirty that even the longest showers couldn’t wash off. About six months in my mum found out. I still don’t know who told her. She called me crying. Then she said quietly but really clearly: “Don’t come home. You’re not my daughter anymore.” After that things got worse. I star
