I think people sometimes underestimate the emotional toll of these journeys, too. The language of visas is so clinical: sponsor, applicant, evidence, threshold, biometrics, correspondence. But none of those words captures the experience of leaving your family behind and knowing that love, commitment, marriage, or even having a British child are not, in themselves, enough. They must be translated into documents, income, accommodation evidence, bank statements and compliance.

I arrived in the UK, in the clothes I stood up in, knowing what I had to do. I had to rebuild quickly. I had to find work. I had to create an income stream that met the requirement. Although my stepmother had very generously enabled me to stay in her spare bedroom whilst I got back on my feet, I knew I would one day need to secure accommodation. I had to become, in effect, a compliant answer to a set of bureaucratic questions.

But before all of that, there was simply grief and anxiety. I sought out support from the GP at one very low point in July 2024, but I have, on the whole, been ‘well’ in terms of simply applying myself to the task.

When I speak of grief, I don’t mean dramatic or theatrical grief. Just the quieter, daily kind. The sort that sits with you in empty rooms, follows you through supermarkets, and turns routine moments into reminders that your life is currently split between countries. I have looked forward to having video calls on WhatsApp every day. But as much as that has been a Godsend, it also creates pain.

I knew why I had come. I knew what the task was. But that did not make the leaving easier.

This was the beginning of the practical journey. It was also the beginning of the waiting.

Lloyd Hobbard-Mitchell