Community Health

Khadija – 81 Years Young, Still Boss Lady!

My name Khadija. I am 81 year… young, not old! Young! You hear me? Life is good, Alhamdulillah. I pray five time every day, I read my Quran, I love my Prophet – because he teach love, teach kind, teach good heart. This make me strong like… like Lion King!

I go Hajj 2024, best place ever – five star, no hotel problem! Now I have 17 grandchildren and 40 great-grandchildren. Forty! My WhatsApp never sleep, always ding-ding-ding. I need secretary, wallah!

People ask me, “Khadija, what is secret?” I tell them, secret is simple: eat good food, laugh big, hold tight to faith, be kind to everybody! Life too short for angry face, habibi.

Now I am health guide for Blossom Group. We do workshop, support group, tea-drink group – everything! You come, you be happy, you get healthy, maybe little gossip, why not?

Listen, Wallahi, It’s Important!

You know Blossom Group? We not just drink tea and do workshop, no! We also on RADIO, habibi! Every Friday, 12 o’clock to 1 o’clock, we talk about all the health – physical health, mental health, emotional health, even what things make you sick or stress. Everything! No hiding.

Where? NuSound Radio, 92.0 FM, DAB – Community Hour. You put radio on, you listen, you get smart. Wallahi, these talks are important and good! I listen, I learn, then I tell all my grandchildren, even the one who think TikTok is university!

And guess what? We have all the recordings from past programmes. If you miss, no cry! You can listen anytime. Put it on, drink your chai, learn something for your life.

Blossom Group – we care for your body, your mind, your heart. Friday, 12 to 1 – don’t forget, or I come find you!

CLICK BELOW  TO LISTEN TO RECORDINGS

Supporting Mental Health with Compassionate Groups

AUNTY KHADIJA’S 5 RULES FOR BEING LESS STRESSY & MORE BLESSY

(I’m 81. I’ve seen war, love, and WiFi buffering. Trust me. Wallahi, mi nuh lie.)

1. TALK TO PEOPLE – Or you’ll start talking to your fridge.

Call your mum. Maybe maasi maseebuttey translate (ya Allah, maybe not).
Text your dost. Wave at your neighbour. Even say “wah gwan, habibi” to that one weird pigeon on your balcony.
Talking = free therapy.
Silence = you becoming suspicious to your own furniture.

2. MOVE YOUR BODY – You’re not a tree, beta.

No gym? La mushkila (no problem).
Dance while brushing teeth. Do squats while picking up dropped samosa.
Even dramatic Bollywood crying counts if you add hand movements.
Just don’t sit like a human aloo-potato for 10 hours, yaad rakho!
Small moves, big vibes — mi seh so.

3. OPEN YOUR  MIND – The world is not inside your phone, jaanu.

Look outside. Sky is skyyyyy. Bird is birddddd.
Samosa is hot and beautiful — wallahi, like jannat snack. Appreciate things.
One deep breath and your brain goes: “Aaah yes, today mi feel happylipolocious, alhamdulillah!”

4. LEARN SOMETHING NEW – Because gossip doesn’t count as education.

Try cooking. Try dancing. Try understanding your electricity bill (ya Rab, maybe not).
Even learning one new lafz (word) a day makes your brain do bhangra with dabka and one-two reggae move.
Keep the mind spicy — like your aunty’s WhatsApp forwards mixed with mashallah memes.

5. BE KIND – Don’t be a chhota Shaitaan.

Smile at people. Share food — not the leftover daal, the good biryani you eat, beta!
Help your dad with his 57 open Chrome tabs (ya Allah sabr).
Be the reason someone says, “Mashallah, wah gwan nice soul” instead of “Astaghfirullah, what is this behaviour?”
Spread happiness even if you are sad inside — sabr + vibes = barakaat.

THAT’S IT.

Do these 5 things.
Your heart = happy ❤️
Your brain = clean 🧠
Your mood = strong like grandma’s kadak chai ☕

From Aunty Khadija – still dancing salsa, still giving solid advice, still waiting for someone to marry her grandson. Wallahi, mi seh PAWW! 💥

Our story

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Pre-Diabetes

💬 Khadija: “I Still Don’t Understand This Sugar Thing”

Aunty. Community Guide. Still confused. Still trying. Still hilarious.

“I’ve read the leaflets.
I’ve watched the videos.
I joined the Blossom group.
I listened to Blue’s story about how he lost 10kg by walking in the Asda car park.

And you know what?

I still don’t understand what I’m doing.”

🧠 The Doctor Said Words. Too Many Words.

“They say: ‘Your fasting glucose is borderline.’
I say: ‘My brain is already fasting, please explain again.’

They say: ‘You’re insulin resistant with impaired tolerance.’
I nod. Like school. When teacher asked hard question.
Smile. Change subject. Say:
‘Wow. Weather’s lovely today, isn’t it?’"

🧑🏽‍🤝‍🧑🏾 Then Everyone Else Becomes a Health Expert.

“My cousin says to eat only quinoa.
My neighbour says to drink garlic water at 4AM.
The YouTube man says if I blink 13 times during a squat, my pancreas will reboot.”

Everyone knows everything… except the part that actually makes sense.”

🍽️ So I Bought a Smaller Plate. I Check My Sugar. I TRY.

“I bought the special spoon. The air fryer. The walking shoes.
I ate the soup. I skipped the naan.
I downloaded 3 health apps — and forgot all 3 passwords.

I try and I try… and I’m still confused.”

💬 Because There’s a Gap. A Silence. A Void.

“Doctors talk too high.
Family talks too loud.
And in the middle? People like me.
Nodding. Smiling. Pretending. Guessing.”

Like a multiple-choice exam with no right answer.”

💚 That’s Why We Need Places Like Blossom Café

“No one talks AT you.
No one acts like they’re perfect.
We talk WITH each other.

We say:

  • ‘This made me feel weird.’

  • ‘I don’t know what A1C means.’

  • ‘I just want to eat one damn mango without guilt.’

And you know what?
It helps. It really helps.”

💬 KHADIJA’S HONEST HEALTH MANTRA:

  1. Ask the question. Even if it feels silly.

  2. Don’t pretend. You’re not in school anymore.

  3. Keep trying. Even when it’s messy.

  4. Find people who speak your language. Literally AND emotionally.

  5. You don’t have to understand everything. Just enough to keep moving.

“My sugar is not perfect.
But my spirit is still strong.
And I’d rather walk confused toward health
than sit clearly on the road to illness.”

Khadija. 81.
Still doesn’t understand insulin resistance.
Still shows up.
Still fighting.
Still funny.
Still figuring it out — like the rest of us.

Anwar - Heart Problems

I DRIVE DAY & NIGHT — BECAUSE I HAVE TO

“I work for three cab companies.
I take jobs off the apps, the radio, the old uncles who still call me direct.

I drive all day. Then some more. Then again.”

“Why?
Because I had to buy a new car.
You can’t drive a 5-year-old diesel in this city anymore.
It must be ‘no emissions.’
It must have camera sensors and a charger and a halo from God Himself.”

“And that’s not the worst part.
I get 2–3 tickets a week —
Red zones, camera zones, fake zones.

Private companies run the roads now.
The council doesn’t answer.
But the fines? They find you fast.”

🔊 THE CITY NEVER SHUTS UP

“Horns. Roadworks. U-turns. Diversions.
My blood pressure has its own postcode.”

“I used to love driving. Now I just… survive it.
I breathe through my teeth. I swear under my breath.
I get home and I can feel the anger still vibrating in my chest.”

💸 THE COST OF LIVING? IT’S COST ME MY HEALTH

“I’ve got council tax arrears.
They don’t care about the stents.
They just want the money.”

“I lived in a council-provided hotel for three years after my marriage ended.
Four people in one room. My daughter has autism.
There was no space. No help. No care.

You know what that does to a man?

It breaks him slowly.
Not just his heart. His mind.”

🧠 MENTAL HEALTH? WE DON’T GET TO HAVE THAT.

“I never said:
‘I’m not coping.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I feel like I’m disappearing.’

We don’t say those things.
We just work harder. Get sicker. Then one day — boom.
You wake up in hospital, wired up, and no one knows how to talk to you.”

🩺 MY BODY CRASHED BECAUSE THE SYSTEM WOULDN’T STOP PUSHING

“Yes, I ate badly.
Yes, I stopped walking.
But it wasn’t food that ruined my heart.
It was the pressure of trying to be a dad, a driver, a problem-solver…
While the people in charge ignored the cracks.”

💬 ANWAR’S FINAL MESSAGE:

“Check your blood pressure, yes.
But also check your stress.
Check your life.
Ask: Who’s helping you? Who’s hearing you? Who’s got your back?

Because until the system changes —
The best we can do is survive…
But I want more than survival now.

I want to live.” 💔

Anwar. 56.
Cabbie. Survivor. Truth-teller.
Still fighting. Still here.
And still not sure how much longer he can take it —
but showing up anyway.

Autism and Carer's

Abida’s Day: “I Try. That’s My Full-Time Job.”

29 years old. Mother of two.
Warrior with no army. Heart bigger than her house.

“My name is Abida.
I have two boys — 4 and 7. Both are autistic.

They don’t speak much.
They cry often.
They don’t like clothes sometimes. They scream in shops.

People look at me like I don’t care.
But they don’t see me at 3am when I cry in the kitchen floor.”

🕰️ A Day in Her Life

  • Wake up at 5. No alarm. Just the crying.

  • Try to get them dressed. 3 tops on one child. No socks on the other.

  • The younger one throws the cereal. The older one bites the table.

  • Put everything in a plastic bag. No packed lunch. Just survive.

“I don’t know what routine is.
I know noise. I know fear. I know judgment.”

💬 The Jobcentre Says I’m Not Doing Enough

“They say: ‘You must be available for work.’
But my work is full time already.
Calming. Cleaning. Feeding. Explaining.
Holding my child while he hits me because the lights are too bright.

How do I write that on a CV?”

🏚️ Her Home is a Shelter with Mould

“There is damp on the walls. I clean it. It comes back.
They say: ‘It’s not urgent.’
But my child’s chest keeps wheezing.”

💸 The Money is Never Enough

“I get DLA for one child.
They said the other one can ‘manage.’

I don’t know what that means.
I don’t know how to explain my pain in English forms.”

“My fridge is often quiet.
My letters come in big words. I don’t understand them.
I hide them under the tablecloth.”

🧕🏽 The Community Doesn’t Understand

“When I go outside, and my child screams…
Some aunties shake their heads.
One said: ‘Control your kids, sister.’

But this is not about control.
This is a condition. This is autism. This is exhaustion.”

🧡 Blossom Group is the One Place She Feels Human

“At the Togetherness Café, they see me.
Not as a bad mother.
Not as a problem.
As a woman who is trying.”

“They help me read letters.
They explain things slowly.
They hold my hand when I can’t speak.”

“Even if I say nothing, they still bring me tea.”

💬 Abida’s Truth:

“I am not lazy.
I am not a failure.
I am just tired.

I want help.
Not pity.
Not shame.
Just help.”

“I love my children so much that it hurts.
I worry every day what will happen if I get more sick.
I pray for strength.
And I keep going.”

Abida.
29 years old.
Looks 40. Feels 70.
Surviving a system that doesn’t see her —
but still showing up with both hands open, trying to hold her children and her hope.

Dr. Folarin’s Talk on Neurodiversity (Community Style, Multilingual)

As-salaam-alaikum, Sat Sri Akal, Namaste, Adaab, Shobai ke nomoskar, and Praise the Lord, my dear community fellows!

Today I want to explain one big word: Neurodiversity.
Don’t worry—it’s not in your hospital bill, not in the gurdwara langar list, and not in your mosque donation box. 😅 Big word, very simple meaning.

🌍 What is Neurodiversity?

Neurodiversity means: Allah, Waheguru, Bhagwan, Ishwar, and God made many kinds of brains.

  • Some brains are fast like Punjabi dhol 🥁 — dhak-dhak-dhak, never stop!

  • Some are calm like Bengali Rabindra sangeet 🎶 — slow, soft, thoughtful.

  • Some are like Eid daawat 🍲 — so many dishes, all different but together on one table.

  • Some are like Durga Puja pandal 🪔 — bright, colorful, full of energy.

  • Some are like church choir 🎼 — many voices, one harmony.

Sab matha alada, shobai’r matha alada. (Every head is different, every mind unique.)

🧠 Neurodivergent = Different Flavor

Being neurodivergent means the brain works a little different. Not wrong. Not sick. Just… another recipe.

Like Punjabi lassi, Bengali mishti doi, Arabic qahwa, South Indian filter coffee—sab alag, sab kamaal. 🙌

✳️ ADHD – The Rocket Battery 🚀

  • Always moving, never still.

  • Teacher: “Beta, sit down!”

  • Child: “But madam, chair is boring, I am rocket!” 🚀

  • In Punjabi: “Dimag te turbo lagya hoya, par brake weak aa.” (Brain has turbo, but brakes are weak.)

  • In Bengali: “Chhoto battery, kintu full charge hoye ghumay na.” (Small battery, but always full charge, never sleeps.)

  • Very creative, very quick.

🔵 Autism – Different Way of Seeing 🌐

  • Likes routine. Same seat, same thali, same channel.

  • Loud noise? Ya Allah, too much!

  • May speak less, or speak only about one favorite thing.

  • Sikh thought: Ik Onkar—One Creator, many forms.

  • Hindu thought: Sabka apna dharm, apna raasta hai.

  • Christian thought: We are one body in Christ, with many different parts.

  • Bengali: “Chhoto kotha bole na, kintu mathar vitore shonar khani ache.” (May not speak much, but inside their mind is a golden mine.)

🔤 Dyslexia – Letters Playing Hide & Seek 🔠

  • Reading and writing are tough.

  • But imagination? Brilliant.

  • In Hindi: “School mein struggle, life mein sparkle.” ✨

  • In Bengali: “Boro boro golpo banate pare, kintu spelling e chhoto chhoto golti hoy.” (Can make big stories, but makes small mistakes in spelling.)

🌀 Tourette’s – Extra Moves 🎭

  • Body makes sudden sounds or movements.

  • Not on purpose. Like hiccup of the brain.

  • In Arabic: Mish bi-idihum (not in their hands).

  • In Bengali: “Ichchha kore kore na, matha theke ashe.” (Not done by choice, it comes from the brain.)

  • Christian thought: “My grace is sufficient for you.”

  • Sikh thought: Waheguru gives strength to carry the load.

🧩 Community Message

So, my dear brothers and sisters:

👉 Don’t laugh.
👉 Don’t shame.
👉 Don’t say “fix them.”
👉 Say instead: “They are ours. Sab Rab de bache. Shobai’r bachcha Ishwarer gift. Allah ka amanat. Children of God.”

Like gurdwara langar—no one turned away.
Like church prayer—everyone welcome.
Like Eid daawat—everyone eats.
Like Durga Puja—everyone shines their own light.

Dr. Folarin closes with joy:

“Remember, neurodiversity is not problem. It is gift. Some are tabla, some are sitar, some are dhol, some are flute. Together? Full orchestra, full harmony.

Say it with me:
Waheguru ji ka Khalsa, Waheguru ji ki Fateh!
Alhamdulillah!
Jai Ho!
Amen!” 🙏

Dementia - My Lovely Baba — Pyaara Singh Sohra

By Baljeet Sohra, his bebey.

There’s a man in Leyton.

Flat cap. Army discipline.
Sleeps in wool socks even in August.
Irons said socks. Then forgets where they are.

His name is Pyaara Singh Sohra.
But to me?
He’s just my lovely Baba. 💛

He’s 83 years old.

And even though his memory plays hide-and-seek like it’s training for the Olympics,
his story doesn’t live in his mind anymore —
it lives in a jangly keychain around his neck
and a tag like Paddington Bear’s…
but with more attitude, turmeric, and rage about oat milk.

🏷️ HIS TAG SAYS:

PLEASE LOOK AFTER HIM

NAME: PYAARA SINGH SOHRA
AGE: 83
BLOOD GROUP: O NEGATIVE
CONDITION: DEMENTIA
FAVOURITE BISCUIT: ROUND DIGESTIVE (NOT THE FLIMSY CHAI-SOAKING ONES)

📍 ADDRESS:

313 Beachcroft Road
Leyton, E10 5QN
East London (but his heartbeat still smells like cha, mitti, and Shalimar Gardens)

📞 EMERGENCY CONTACT:

BALJEET KAUR SOHRA
Granddaughter. Carer. Chef. Therapist. Fashion disappointment.
Phone: 07*********
Message: He may not remember who I am. But I will never forget who he is.

INSTRUCTIONS:

  • Give him cha. Full-fat. No oat milk. That’s betrayal.

  • Do not say “chai latte.” He will look at you like you kicked Guru Nanak in the shin.

  • Never argue about Partition. Or Dilip Kumar. Or which biscuit is best.

  • Let him hold his keys. They’re not just keys. They’re portals.

🔑 THE NINE KEYS TO MY BABA’S LIFE

1. The Toy Box Key
Ludhiana, 1944.
Wooden top. Marbles. Two bottle caps he swears were from a maharaja’s fridge.
He lined up his toys like soldiers.
Still does. Except now they're sugar packets and remote controls.

2. His Mother’s Wedding Bangle Key
One broken choori.
Wrapped in soft cloth.
When he holds it, he says:
“Maa da hath lagda ae.”
Even Alexa gets quiet for that one.

3. My Dadi’s Jewellery Box Key
Before he left for England, she told him:

“Sohriya, wech de zewar. Je tu wapas na aave, yaad taan aayiye.”
He sold the gold.
Built a life.
And then built me.

4. Abid’s House Key
His best friend.
Partition broke them.
But Abid gave him land papers, blessings, and a silent promise.
Baba says:

“If Abid ever finds me, give him roti, cha, and half my pension.”

5. The Family Dabba Key
One steel box.
Inside: NHS cards, passports, receipts from 1983, and a poem I wrote about potatoes.
He calls it “My India Office.”
I call it “danger zone of random staplers.”

6. Soil Tin Key
Mitti from his mum’s courtyard.
He opens it like it’s a holy book.
Sniffs it.
Then says: “Hawa vich maa di khushboo aa gayi.”
Even the pigeons get emotional.

7. The Baljeet Wedding Fund Key
Taped to a jar inside the mandir drawer.
Label reads:

“Only open if he doesn’t say ‘yo fam’ and makes daal without YouTube.”

8. Stamford Hill House Key
Their first UK home.
Damp. Cold. Walls made of leftover naan, probably.
But Baba says:

“That house listened. Unlike your generation.”

9. His Leyton House Key
Our home now.
Where stairs squeak.
Medicine hides in sock drawers.
And he forgets my name...
but still asks if I’ve eaten.

🧠 HIS DEMENTIA

He forgets me sometimes.
Thinks I’m a carer.
A noisy neighbour.
Once, he called me “the Alexa girl with bad fashion.”

He talks to chairs.
He waves at the toaster.
He argued with Google Maps because “it had attitude.”

He told a nurse his slipper could call India.
Then tried to use it like a landline.

“Oye, Amritsar? Connect karo yaar.”

He also believes he is Dilip Kumar in Devdas.
Calls me Paro at least once a week.
Tells the postman:

“I was once a great hero, now I’m just looking for my cha.”

His love for Madam Noor Jehan? Unshakeable.
He once said:

“If you don’t cry when she sings, you have no heart, only kale smoothies.”

His ringtone is Tassawar Khanum – “Agar Tum Mil Jao.”
Sometimes he sings along.
In key.
In tears.

But mostly, he forgets.

Until… he holds a key.
One of the nine.
Tilts his head.
Looks at me.
And says:

“You again? The loud one. My bebey.”

And I live for that second.
Like it’s the only second that ever mattered.

💬 WHY THE TAG?

Because one day he went to Tesco, demanded his new passport,
accused the manager of stealing his citizenship,
then wandered off with another grandad from Blossom Group
and the two of them ended up in the British Museum
arguing over which artefact used to be from Punjab.

“Ittey tey sab kuchh Punjab da lagda ae, Baljeet!”

After that, I made the tag.
Paddington had a suitcase.
Baba has nine keys, two Werther's Originals, and a dream.

🫖 MY FINAL WORD

My lovely Baba doesn’t know what Spotify is.
Calls it “Poti di radio.”
Thinks AirPods are ear medicine.
Calls Netflix “TV on stress.”

But he remembers how to boil cha until the whole house smells of legacy.
He remembers how to hum shabads at dawn.
He remembers how to love — clumsily, wildly, loyally.

As long as that tag is on his chest,
as long as those keys jingle in his lap,
as long as his voice calls me “bebey” even once a week…

He’s not lost.

Not to Leyton.
Not to Punjab.
Not to me.

He is Pyaara Singh Sohra.
And he is still here.
My lovely Baba.

Prostrate Cancer

💬 Raj Joins the Table

A gentle conversation over tea, with truth quietly passed between guys.

It’s a usual Tuesday.
Ahmed and Ola are already deep into a conversation about whether Messi plays like a divine prophecy or a well-oiled machine.
The chai is warm.
The biscuits are borderline stale.
Nothing’s different.

Until Raj walks in.
Quiet. Thoughtful.
Pulls out a chair, no swagger, no sermon.
Just… sits down.

☕️ Small Talk First

Raj: “You lot still solving the football world, I see.”
Ahmed (grinning): “These two feet changed history, my friend.”
Ola: “Pelé could’ve won World War II with a football, I’m telling you.”

They laugh.
Raj listens.
He sips his cha.

Then, after a pause, Raj speaks — not with the voice of “that guy who knows everything,”
but with the quiet tone of someone who’s been thinking alone for too long.

Raj:
“You know... I’ve been feeling off lately.
Not pain. Not panic. Just… off. Slower.
More trips to the loo at night. Back’s been tight too.”

Ola and Ahmed look at him.
Not alarmed. Just… listening.

Raj:
“I thought it was age. Or too much pakora.
But I started reading. Not the scary stuff. Just enough to realise…
I don’t actually know what’s going on inside me.”

He glances down at his tea.
Taps the rim of the cup.

“So... I booked the PSA blood test.”

Ahmed raises an eyebrow.
Ola doesn’t say anything.

🧠 Raj continues, gently:

“It’s nothing mad. Just a blood test.
Not even 5 minutes.
No poking, no stories, no shame.”

Still no response.
Just quiet.
The way uncles sit when something’s landed but they’re not ready to say it.

“I didn’t come to convince you.
I came because I didn’t want to do it alone.”

Ahmed clears his throat.

Ahmed:
“I’ve had those late-night loo trips too.
Told Rekha it was ‘air from the window.’”
(They all laugh, softly.)

Ola rubs his back.

Ola:
“Same. I blamed the beans. But it’s every day now.”

Then silence again.

Raj looks at them.

“No pressure.
Just saying… if you ever want company,
I’ve got the number.
We go together. We come back together.
Then argue about Messi again.”

Ahmed reaches for a biscuit.

Ahmed:
“As long as no one talks about... the other thing.”
Raj smiles.

Raj:
“No need. Just the blood. That’s it.”

Ola lifts his cup.

Ola:
“Alright. But after... samosas. From your house this time.”

They tap cups like a toast.

💬 FINAL WORD

Raj didn’t push.
He didn’t preach.
He just showed up with his truth —
and made space for theirs.

And sometimes, that’s all it takes.
A cup of tea.
A small story.
A quiet bridge built between proud, scared, brilliant men.

.

Sakina's Story - Mental Health

Sakina’s Story – As Told by Khadija

Let me tell you about one of our own — a strong sister named Sakina.

Sakina is 44 years young. She doesn’t say “tired” anymore. She just says, “Alhamdulillah,” and keeps walking — even when her knees are shouting and her head is pounding.

She has a son, 21 years old, on the autism spectrum. Beautiful boy, but wallah, very challenging. From sunrise to midnight, he’s calling her name, needing this, shouting that, throwing things, banging doors. No break. No “me time.” Even her cup of tea goes cold five times before she gets one sip.

Her husband? Don’t get me started.

He says he’s “trying.” One week he’s working, next week he’s “between jobs.” He complains about the bills, complains about the noise, complains about the food — but doesn’t lift a finger to help. Sakina once asked him to take their son for a walk so she could breathe, you know what he said?

“I’m tired too.”

Tired?! The man slept till 11am.

So, Sakina works as a carer outside the house. Imagine that — she’s looking after other people’s parents while no one looks after her. She comes home, cooks, cleans, cares for her son, argues with her husband, then lies awake at night worrying about rent arrears and Universal Credit.

Her WhatsApp is full of messages to housing, journal entries to the jobcentre. All blue ticks, no replies. Like she’s talking to ghosts.

She doesn’t sleep properly. She drinks energy drinks like water. Painkillers are her best friends now. Her body is aching. Her back is gone. Her eyes are always heavy.

One day, a doctor told her, “You’re obese.”

No salaam, no kindness, just like that. As if she didn’t know. As if she wanted to carry this weight. So she said thank you, walked out, and never went back. That was three years ago.

Somebody told her to try talking therapy. She gave it a shot. She went to this clinic, sat down with a lady who smiled too much and said things like, “How does that make you feel?” in a voice like she was reading bedtime stories.

Sakina sat there thinking, “Habibti, I don’t have time to ‘explore my inner child.’ I have a full-grown man-child at home pulling the curtains off the wall!”

She never went back.

But still — still — she keeps going.

She wakes up, prays, hugs her son, fights with the council, makes biryani, wipes her tears in the steam of the cooking pot, and says “Ya Allah, give me strength.”

And you know what? That’s not weakness. That’s power. That’s warrior-level patience. That’s motherly love mixed with pure grit.

So why am I telling you about Sakina?

Because I know she’s not the only one. I see her in many of you. Carrying mountains in silence. Smiling for your family while your soul is tired. Saying “I’m okay” when you're clearly not.

We need to stop pretending. We need to start supporting.

And we need services that understand us. Not cold rooms with clipboards. We need tea, conversation, faith, understanding. We need someone to listen without judging. Someone to say:

“You’re not crazy. You’re not lazy. You’re just doing the job of five people.”

At Blossom Group, this is what we do.

We talk. We support. We make space for people like Sakina. Sometimes we cry, sometimes we laugh, sometimes we spill tea and gossip — the good kind, the healing kind.

Because nobody should suffer alone. And no woman should feel invisible.

So if you see yourself in this story, come sit with me. Come talk to us. Come breathe.

We’ll lift each other, insha’Allah.

— Khadija

(Boss Lady of Tea, Talk, and Truth)

common health issues with links to relevant UK organisations and support groups.
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Check Out Our Kitchen – Billu is the Boss!

Eh, listen, you think Blossom Group only talk health? No, habibi, we also COOK health! Our kitchen is the heart of the community – and the heart of the kitchen? Billu! Yes, Billu is the chef, the king of spice, the master of chaat!

He cook with love, he teach with fun, and he make everybody laugh while learning healthy food tricks. Want to see? Go check his Facebook – wallahi, it’s great, it’s funny, it’s tasty! You watch, you learn, you smile, maybe you get hungry too!

So, don’t just sit there – go look at Billu’s magic. Then come join us for cooking classes, healthy eating tips, and some good old chaat fun!

 

[Click Here to See Billu’s Kitchen on Facebook]

NHS App? GP Online? Booking Test?

I Show You How!

So many people come to me and say:
Khadija, how I get NHS app? How I join GP online? How I book blood test? How I make appointment?

Believe me, it’s not easy! These people in power, they just make everything digital, like magic – but no ask us first! Hello? Not everybody is computer genius!

Anyway, don’t worry. I do the hard work for you. I learn, I click, I shout at the screen – and now I know! So, below you will find step-by-step guide how to:
✔ Download NHS App
✔ Join GP online
✔ Book blood test
✔ Make appointment

Simple, clear, no headache. Because health should not be stress, habibi!

JUST CLICK THE BUTTONS BELOW

Khadija Says: Do You Know How NHS Works?

Eh, listen to me! You think you know how NHS works in UK? Wallahi, most people don’t! Even I was confused – and I am clever lady!

But no worry, I make it easy for you. Just watch the video below. Simple, no headache, no big English words, just straight talk. You watch, you learn, you understand how to use NHS, how to get help, how to get care.

So what you waiting for? CLICK PLAY NOW – and then share with your uncle, your auntie, everybody in WhatsApp group!