Finance adverts are everywhere. This bank with that offer, this product on low APR if you buy now, access to that club, these tickets, that experience, another subscription, another upgrade. Even the most basic frivolities now seem ring-fenced for people with money.

Meanwhile, I nearly threw myself down the stairs in my university halls building because the milk curdled on my Weetabix and I can barely afford a weekly food shop. I’ve got payments bouncing, a debt management payment pending, a phone bill looming, and absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to get through the next few weeks.

Like so many naive students, I picked up my life and plonked myself in London to seek my fortune, and instead it’s been one long battle after another. I’m broke, unemployed, and exhausted. Half the time I can barely find the energy to tidy my room, sit at my desk, send emails, polish my portfolio, and look for summer work. The cycle is relentless.

And despite how isolated poverty can feel, it’s far from uncommon. According to the Joseph Rowntree Foundation, 14.3 million people in the UK are living in poverty, around 21% of the population. Among the poorest households, 69% are going without essentials, 55% have cut back on food or skipped meals altogether, and 44% are behind on bills or repayments.

Since moving to London, I’ve felt constantly pressured to perform life. Spend fast. Live hard. Never stop to think about it. If I even consider doing something outside my immediate area, it feels like £150 disappears before I’ve left the house.

And I’m not asking for luxury. I know choosing arts, culture, and mental health journalism was hardly the financially sensible route into adulthood, but that’s exactly the point. Who is London actually for now? Because it increasingly feels inaccessible to anyone trying to rebuild their life after instability, trauma, poor mental health, or financial hardship.

I live with bipolar disorder and ADHD. Both have made my life extraordinarily difficult. Things are more stable than they once were, but even now, something as simple as a theatre trip or a day out can become an act of self-destructive rebellion against my own circumstances.

And honestly, I have no idea what happens after graduation. I’m not naive enough to believe I’ll walk straight into a stable journalism job, and I’m not convinced there’s much support for people stuck in the uncomfortable middle ground between crisis and coping.

That’s the part nobody really talks about. There are charities and organisations supporting people in the worst possible situations, often with nowhere near enough government backing, but the people hovering just above outright collapse are frequently left to fend for themselves. Surviving, but never progressing. Existing, but never stabilising.

I’m often told my writing doesn’t reflect the “average” experience, but I think far more people are trapped in this downward spiral than we like to admit. Most people aren’t asking for handouts or an easy life. They’re asking for enough support, stability, and breathing room to build something better. Those are not the same thing, and the conversation around poverty in Britain needs to catch up with that reality.

And no amount of blaming immigrants, benefit claimants, or other struggling people changes the fact that millions in Britain simply cannot afford to live properly.