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If you are experiencing any form of domestic violence — please know you are not alone.
You are not weak. You are not to blame. And you deserve help.

At The Community Box, we understand that domestic violence is not just one thing. It can take many forms:

• Physical abuse — hitting, pushing, harming your body

• Emotional abuse — insults, control, intimidation, fear

• Financial abuse — stopping you from having money or controlling what you spend

• Coercive control — isolating you, tracking your phone, deciding who you can see

• Verbal abuse — shouting, threats, constant criticism

• Psychological abuse — gaslighting, confusing you, making you doubt yourself

We’ve seen it all. Many of us have lived through it.

That’s why we’ve built a safe, trusted Domestic Violence Support Unit right here at The Community Box.

Here, you can:

• Speak to people with real lived experience — not just forms and titles

• Get help in many languages — Dari, Farsi, Pashto, Urdu, Somali, Bengali, Polish, English, and others

• Be supported by people who understand cultural pressures — but never use them to silence you

• Share your story only if and when you’re ready

• Be guided gently toward the right support — no pressure, no rushing

• Get help with housing, benefits, legal aid, and emotional safety

• Receive safe referrals to services you can trust — ones we know and have worked with personally

We don’t push anyone to act before they’re ready.
We don’t report anything without your consent (unless someone’s life is in immediate danger).
We will sit with you. Listen. Respect your pace.

Some people come here after years of silence. Some come after one terrifying moment. Both are valid.

We also know that anyone can experience domestic violence — women, men, non-binary people, LGBTQ+ people, people of all ages, all backgrounds, all walks of life.

No judgement here. Just care.

At The Community Box, we always say:

“You are not here for us to save you.
You are here because we walk beside you.”

You deserve:

• Safety

• Dignity

• Respect

• Freedom

• Healing

• Hope

So when you are ready, we are here. No pressure. No shame.
Come as you are — scared, angry, sad, confused — it’s okay.
We’ll make the tea, and we’ll listen.

You are not alone anymore.

I remember staring at the door.
It was locked. Always locked.

I would sit on the cold floor, watching that door for hours, wishing—praying—that it would open.

My name is Babita. I came from India, married into a family who brought me to the UK with promises of love, respect, and a better life.

But from the moment I arrived, they made it clear:
I wasn’t a daughter-in-law.
I wasn’t even a human being.

I was their prisoner.

They locked me in a small upstairs room.
No phone. No friends. No neighbours allowed near me.
They said it was my father’s fault.

"Tumhare pita ne dahej kam diya hai," they told me.
("Your father didn’t give enough dowry.")
"Jab tak paisa nahi milega, yahi band rahegi."
("Until he pays, you stay locked up.")

They called my father back home, demanding more money, screaming at him through the phone. He cried, begged them to stop—but they kept pushing.

And me?
I sat behind that locked door, terrified.

Sometimes they hit me.
Sometimes they used the belan—the rolling pin from the kitchen.
Other times, it was a stick.
The bruises, the pain—that became normal.

One time, they beat me so badly I fainted. I was unconscious in that locked room for two days. No food. No water. No help.

I thought I was going to die there.

One day, in desperation, I ran. Barefoot, confused, I escaped through the door when no one was looking. I ran out onto the road—and nearly got hit by a car.

An elderly man stopped his car, helped me up, and took me to the local doctor’s surgery.

I couldn’t speak. My lips were shaking. My eyes were full of tears.
I sat there, silent, with no English to explain the hell I had run from.

But the social prescriber in the GP’s surgery — she didn’t ignore me.

She sat with me quietly, patiently. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t push me.
She listened.

Then she said calmly,
"I know a place that can help you. You won’t have to explain everything again right now."

She called The Community Box at Blossom Group.

That’s when I met Sahera.

She sat with me, softly speaking in Hindi and Urdu.
Her words weren’t cold or official.
Her voice didn’t sound like a "worker" or "system person."
She sounded like… a sister.

I’ll never forget her first words:
"Behen, daro mat. Tum akeli nahi ho."
("Sister, don’t be afraid. You are not alone.")

As she sat beside me, I could feel her kindness.
Her eyes were full of understanding—not pity.

Then she said,
"You need to speak with Madam Folarin. She’s our elder here. She will help you."

When I met Madam Folarin, she didn’t ask me to explain everything.
She looked me in the eye and said,
"Chiamaka—my dear—you are not the cause of this. You will not face it alone."

That day, something inside me shifted.
I wasn’t alone anymore.

With their help, I found:

• A safe place to stay

• Legal advice

• Immigration support

• Benefits and help for my children

• Step-by-step care with no pressure, no shame

Madam Folarin didn’t just “refer” me somewhere.
She walked with me. She sat with me for tea. She called me “my dear” and treated me like her own.

Today, I am free.
My children are safe.
I can cook what I want, wear what I want, and I am no longer afraid of locked doors.

When I remember that door—the one I stared at for months—I think of the other door:
The door of Blossom.
The door that opened my life.

I now tell every woman who feels trapped:

"That locked door is not the end of your story.
There is always another door waiting—
And behind it, people like Sahera and Madam Folarin are ready to lift you up, not push you down."

My name is Chiamaka. I am from southeast Nigeria.

When I first married my husband, I thought it was a blessing.
He brought me to the UK, saying, “Don’t worry, I will take care of you. You will be fine.”

But inside that house, his words became different.

It started with the way I dressed:
"Look at you, Chiamaka. Who are you dressing for? See that man looking at you! You want to disgrace me?"

He would say I looked cheap. Ugly. Stupid.
"Don’t ever dress like that again. You hear me?"

Every day, it became worse:
"Give me your phone. Let me see your WhatsApp. Where are you? Send me screenshot. Give me your bank card too."

He controlled everything:

• My phone

• My clothes

• My money

• My movements

I had two children, but he would shout:
"These ones, they’re not even mine. They act just like their useless mother."

He would insult me in front of others:
"You can’t cook. You can’t clean. You’re useless. You break everything in this house!"

And every time I tried to speak, he’d shut me down:
"Keep quiet! You don’t talk to your husband like that. I’m your head. Respect me!"

It wasn’t just words.
Sometimes, he’d push me around, grab my wrist so tight it would bruise.
Sometimes he’d smash things, shouting in my face, daring me to leave.

At home, I was living inside fear:
Fear of cooking the wrong food.
Fear of speaking too much.
Fear of answering a phone call.

In our culture, people say:
"Na marriage matter. Woman must endure."

But I was drowning.

One Sunday after church, my friend Nkechi noticed I looked tired and afraid.
She said, “My sister, this is not how marriage should be. Come with me.”

She took me quietly to her GP surgery.

There, I met a social prescriber who listened calmly, softly. No judgement.

She said, “I know somewhere safe for you. You won’t be alone.”

That’s how I found The Community Box.

The first woman I met there was Sahera.
She looked at me and said in her calm, warm voice:
"Sister, breathe. You are safe here. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last."

I cried. I couldn’t stop. She sat with me, no rush.

Then she told me,
"You need to speak with Madam Folarin. She’s our elder here. She will help you."

When I met Madam Folarin, she looked at me—not with pity, but with deep, serious respect.

She said,
"Chiamaka, you don’t need to explain everything now. Just know this—you are not the cause of this. And we will walk this path together."

That day, something inside me shifted.
I wasn’t alone anymore.

With their help, I found:

• Emergency housing for me and my children

• Legal advice

• Immigration support

• Benefits for my children

• Safety planning, step by step, with no pressure

Madam Folarin didn’t just “refer” me somewhere.
She walked with me, checked on me, sat with me for tea, called me "my dear."
She made me feel human again.

Now, I am free.
My children laugh again.
I wear what I want, cook what I want, and nobody controls my phone or my life.

I tell other women this:

“Marriage without respect is not marriage.
If your home feels like prison, there is help. You don’t have to live in fear.”

I found my strength at The Community Box.
And I will never forget the women—Sahera and Madam Folarin—who helped me unlock the door to freedom.

— Chiamaka, survivor and proud sister at The Community Box

Wendy’s Story: “It Always Feels Like It’s My Fault”

My name’s Wendy. I’m from Essex.

I met Brian six years ago.
I was working in a little café in London—serving tea, toasties, the usual. He came in every day, smiling, cracking jokes, leaving big tips. He made me feel special.

Back then, I thought I’d won the jackpot.
He made me laugh. Said I was beautiful. Said he’d take care of me.

But it started small.

First, it was my phone.
"Who’s that texting you?"
"Why’s your phone on silent? Let me see it."

Then it was,
"Don’t meet your friends tonight. Stay home with me."
"Your parents don’t like me. They’re poison. Stop going there."

When I spoke to my dad or my brother, he’d flip:
"You’re picking them over me, ain’t you? You’re disrespecting me in my own home!"

He’d get angry if I so much as smiled at the delivery man:
"What you chatting to him for, you little slapper? You want attention from everyone, don’t you?"

I kept thinking, maybe it’s just his temper… maybe it’s the drink… maybe it’s me.

Then I got pregnant.

By the time we had our third baby, I wasn’t allowed out much at all.
He checked my phone every day.
If I didn’t answer his calls within two rings, he’d go mad:
"Who you with? Where you at? You think I’m stupid?"

When he drank, it got worse—shouting, smashing plates, slamming doors, calling me every name under the sun.

Sometimes it was worse than shouting.

I thought I could fix it if I just kept quiet… but it got too much.

The day he grabbed my arm in front of our kids, I knew something had to change.

I got a non-molestation order. I thought it would end there.

But Brian didn’t stop.
He called me from private numbers:
"You think a bit of paper’s gonna stop me? You think you can take my kids away?"

He threatened me so many times I stopped counting.

And still, some days, I think about going back to him.

I know how that sounds.
People say, “Just leave him for good.”
But it’s not that simple.

He was all I knew for years.
Sometimes, even now, I think maybe it’s my fault—maybe I pushed him too far.
Maybe if I was better, quieter, prettier, things wouldn’t have got so bad.

It’s like he’s still in my head, even now that he’s out of the house.

But the truth is… I’m tired of living scared.
I’m tired of thinking love is meant to feel like walking on glass.

And then, one day, I was at my kids’ school, picking them up, and a community outreach worker overheard me talking to another mum.

She pulled me aside and said gently,
"Have you heard of Blossom Group’s Community Box? They’ve got people who can help. No judgment. Just proper support."

I was scared—but something about her voice made me go.

That visit changed everything.

At Blossom Group’s Community Box, they didn’t ask me to prove anything.
They didn’t tell me what to do.
They just listened—properly.
They spoke to me like I was still a person, not just a "victim."

They signposted me to real help:

• Domestic violence specialists

• Legal advice

• Counselling

• Support for my kids, too

They’ve stood by me ever since. No pressure, no rushing—just steady, patient care.

I’m still learning. Still healing.
But I know one thing:
Without them, I wouldn’t be here telling this story.

And if you’re where I was, please hear me—
There are people out there who get it.

Blossom Group’s Community Box showed me that the door out is there—
You just need someone kind enough to show you where it is.

— Wendy, survivor and mum, standing stronger every day