2 eggs, 2 bacon: My time without a home.

It feels strange to consider myself ever having been “homeless”, but on a technical level, that’s exactly what I was. 16 with no home to call my own.

My mother, brother, sister and I fled from a home that was rife with domestic abuse, more so on a psychological level than physical, but the physical was most definitely there. For years I would cycle 4 miles to school, face my bullies for the day and cycle home - only to face the biggest bully of them all. If this were a video game he would have been the boss on the final level.

After quite some time of living in a less-than-pleasant environment, my mum had the courage to take us kids and get out of there.

The problem being, we had no where to go.

My mum had done everything right and sought help in our situation, she spoke to some support groups who managed to set us up in a local bed and breakfast.

This would be our home for the next six months.

We were spread out in two rooms, my mum and sister shared a double bed on the ground floor, while my younger brother and I shared a double directly above. It wasn’t fun by any means, but it was a roof over our heads.

I remember having an almost full-english each morning, mum wasn’t so worried about the health implications of this as she knew this would likely be the most substantial meal of the day. We had no kitchen, so we made do with microwave food and dry noodles.

I was a college student so I made sure to keep going to college to focus on building my own future, one that wasn’t in a bed and breakfast. My EMA dropped in to my bank account each Monday and that £30 enabled me to buy my train ticket to and from college for the week, perhaps the odd Snickers here and there also.

Did I dare tell anyone of my situation? Hell no. The embarrassment was just one thing my 16 year old self could not face.

I worked too. For 16 hours a week I was an “online orders shopper” for a local supermarket. Our B&B was a little under 4 miles away. The walk took me an hour.

Did I dare tell anyone of my situation? Hell no. The embarrassment was just one thing my 16 year old self could not face.

Thinking about it I don’t really consider ourselves as having been homeless because we weren’t out on the streets, cold, flinching at every strange sound. No, we had a nice warm bed - I could even have a bath when the B&B didn’t have other guests staying.

We were a very normal family, fairly poor but we got by, even with the occasional luxury. We were made homeless through the actions of someone else, we were made homeless through something outside of our control.

It makes me wonder just how many out there have, or are going through something similar. The thousands of couch servers who can’t afford to rent a place of their own but still show to work with a whacking great smile on their face like all is right with the world. The B&B stayers, the squatters. The hidden homeless.

Few people, until now I guess, know about this short passage of my life, but for me I feel it’s an important one.

It’s one of the reasons I work with my co-founders on a small start-up which aims to help those that find themselves in a similar situation. We’re not going to solve the crisis, but we’ll do our damnedest to help.

Homeless is homeless, regardless of how obvious it may be.