Content warning: domestic abuse, trauma, recovery
Arrival in the dark
I still remember that first morning in Edinburgh.
After a long flight from Cancún to Gatwick and a night bus north, I arrived before dawn – around four or five in the morning. It was cold, the streets empty and dark. I walked from the bus station to the flat, pulling my suitcase behind me, tired and unsure of what was coming next.
In that suitcase was my whole life – my memories, my clothes, the few things that were part of who I was. I told myself this was the beginning of a new life.
I had just got married and was ready to build a home, to learn everything about this new country. But the dream did not last. The shouting began, then the insults, then the control. One morning, after a violent outburst, he threw me out of bed and told me to leave. When I tried, he blocked the door.
After hours of fear and shouting, the police came. They broke the door open and took him away. I thought it was over. But that was only the beginning of another kind of struggle.
That night, I was taken to a shelter. I could not sleep. I sat on the floor beside my bag, dazed, asking myself how I had reached this point.
A voice on the phone – the Edinburgh Councils Refugee and Migration Team
In the days that followed, I moved between temporary accommodation. I didn’t know the city, I didn’t know where to get food or help. I felt lost and invisible.
Then my phone rang. A man’s voice said, “Hello, is this Ella? My name is Michael Grant, from the Edinburgh Councils Refugee and Migration Team.”
He spoke kindly and asked if I had eaten, if I had money, if I had friends or family here. I said no to everything.
“Don’t worry,” he told me. “We’ll help you. You’re not alone.”
That call changed everything.
He helped me find an emergency payment point so I could get food. I didn’t even know how to use Google Maps, so he stayed on the phone describing places near me until I found it. When I held that first envelope with money inside, I cried with relief.
This became my first point of stability. They explained my rights as an asylum seeker and how to find help with housing and benefits.
A few weeks later, just before Christmas, Michael called again. He asked if I wanted a gift from their volunteers. Days later, someone knocked on my door with a bag full of things – chocolates, coffee, toiletries, tins of food, and a handwritten card.
That card said, you are not forgotten. I still keep it.
When I asked Michael more about their work, he told me:
“Our role is to support migrants and refugees to rebuild their lives with dignity. We help them find housing, access benefits and make sure their rights are recognised. For those without public funds, we liaise with the Home Office for accommodation and financial assistance. Above all, we treat everyone with respect and equality – ensuring their voices are heard.”
That word – respect – stayed with me. For the first time in months, someone treated me like a person again.
The long wait for justice – the Ethnic Minority Law Centre
The next part of my journey was waiting. The legal process for my asylum case took years.
My lawyer, Michael Ross, from the Ethnic Minority Law Centre (EMLC) in Glasgow, helped me through everything. He was patient and always treated me with respect. Sometimes, when I felt desperate, he called just to explain what was happening and remind me to have faith.
I asked him once how he helped people who had no money for lawyers. He told me:
“One of the great achievements of Clement Attlee’s Labour government in 1945 was Legal Aid. It’s one of the pillars of fairness in the UK, like the NHS. It gives people access to justice regardless of income.
Although Legal Aid is underfunded today, it still allows people to have proper representation. The Home Office has the full resources of the government – my clients often have nothing. My job is to make sure they still get the best defence possible and that their voices are heard.”
Those words gave me strength.
Months passed. Then one morning, the letter arrived. Inside was my refugee ID card. I held it for hours, checking it again and again to make sure it was real. For the first time in years, I could breathe.
Shelter and sisterhood – Shakti and Edinburgh Women’s Aid
Freedom on paper is not the same as feeling safe. I still needed a place to belong. I found it through Shakti Women’s Aid.
At Shakti, I met women who understood. Many were from minority backgrounds and recognised my silence and fear. They offered me shelter, food, clothes and compassion.
For women like me, escaping abuse can be twice as hard because of language and cultural barriers. But at Shakti I was treated with respect and patience. They helped me rebuild my confidence and start to feel human again.
Through Shakti, I was connected to Edinburgh Women’s Aid and EDDACS – the Edinburgh Domestic Abuse Court Support Service. They became part of my support system.
EDDACS called me often, giving updates about the court process and explaining everything carefully. They made sure I had an interpreter when needed and helped me plan for safety.
When I spoke with Cynthia Gimenez, team leader at Edinburgh Women’s Aid, she told me:
“Edinburgh Women’s Aid was founded in the 1970s, born from the Women’s Liberation Movement. It started as a response to domestic abuse that society didn’t want to see. For over fifty years, we’ve supported hundreds of women and children every year. And we continue to advocate for systemic change – to make sure abuse is recognised as a public issue, not a private one.”
Hearing that made me realise I was part of something bigger – a long history of women helping women.
Justice and closure – supported through the courts
When the police first took me to safety, I didn’t understand how long the legal journey would be. Giving evidence, waiting for court dates, and receiving letters brought constant anxiety.
Throughout this time, EDDACS and Edinburgh Women’s Aid supported me. They explained what was happening, helped me feel safe, and always reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
The process took years, but finally, it was over. The court reached its decision, and justice was done. I felt relief more than anything else – a quiet peace after a storm. Knowing that the truth had been heard allowed me to finally begin to heal.
Healing the mind – Rape Crisis Scotland
Physical safety is one thing, but healing your mind is another. I was living with panic attacks, depression and fear. I didn’t trust anyone, not even myself.
That began to change when I started therapy with Rape Crisis Scotland. My counsellor, Aliki, helped me find strength again.
At first, I didn’t think talking would help. But slowly, session by session, she taught me how to breathe, how to manage flashbacks, how to understand that what happened was not my fault.
Recovery is hard work. Some days I moved forward, other days I fell back. But Aliki reminded me that healing isn’t about forgetting – it’s about learning to live without fear.
I also realised how much these counsellors give of themselves. They carry so many stories, yet they keep showing up with empathy and courage. Their work changes lives quietly, one conversation at a time.
Becoming myself again
Abuse takes away your sense of self. For a long time, I believed the lies I had been told – that I was useless, too old, not enough. But through the support I received in Scotland, I began to remember who I was.
I was a teacher, a barber, a makeup artist, a therapist – and now, a survivor.
I found friendship and belonging in Scotland’s LGBTQ+ community, where people accepted me as I am. They became my chosen family, supporting me with kindness and understanding.
Writing to heal
The last part of my recovery came through writing.
One night, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a post from the Mexican author Fernando D’Sandi offering a writing workshop. I almost didn’t sign up, but something inside said I should try.
Over seven months, I wrote my story piece by piece. For the first time, I could write about my past without crying. Those words became my first book, Change of Flags, a tribute to survivors of modern violence and slavery.
Writing helped me release the pain and turn it into purpose. It gave me a new beginning and a new voice.
A message for Scotland
When I look back on these years, I see the people and organisations that stood beside me – the Edinburgh Councils Refugee and Migration Team, the Ethnic Minority Law Centre, Shakti Women’s Aid, Edinburgh Women’s Aid, EDDACS and Rape Crisis Scotland.
Each of them helped me rebuild my life. They are strong, compassionate people who work every day to make sure others like me can find safety and dignity.
These services need support. Many face funding cuts and high demand, but they keep going because they believe every person deserves a chance to live in peace.
Behind every file and every case number there is a real person. I am one of them.
Thanks to Scotland, I am still here – living, healing and finding new ways to give back. Survival is not only about escaping, it is about being seen, believed and supported until you can stand again.
This article was written for The Scottish Beacon through a partnership with Pass The Mic Scotland.
