Jayne’s Story – Christmas is a reminder of everything you've lost

“Christmas is soul-destroying,” she says. “You see the lights in houses that are never yours, families celebrating, the warmth and joy you can only look at from the outside.”

Her first Christmas homeless was in 1979. She was just 15. “Part of me died that year,” she says. “The innocence, the hopes, the dreams.”

Jayne didn’t end up on the streets because of crime, addiction or family breakdown — she left home because she felt different and desperately alone.

“I was gay in the 70s and there was no one to talk to,” she recalls. “Everything was underground. You could be locked away under the Mental Health Act, given aversion therapy. I had no one. I didn’t want to be a disappointment to my family. I went out one afternoon, sat on a bench and I never came off it.”

The temperature dropped that winter night as the lights came on in nearby homes. “I remember it getting dark, getting really cold, thinking, I can’t go forward and I can’t go back.”

It was a moment that would shape her forever.

Jayne began sleeping rough in public toilets in Bristol city centre. “You had to go downstairs to get in,” she remembers. “I learnt to get out before 6am because the cleaners would throw buckets of foul-smelling detergent down the stairs.”

That first Christmas, while others opened presents, Jayne huddled in the dark, trying to stay warm. “You’re open to the elements — cold, damp. Rats move under you to stay warm. You’re scared of everything and everyone. You learn to disappear.”

She survived on almost nothing: “I lived on one sandwich and a pint of milk each day, and nothing on Sundays. If there wasn’t milk left outside shops, I’d take a pint from a doorstep. That’s how I ate for a year.”

But that Christmas also brought her the gift of connection — when she met another homeless woman, Mickey. “One night someone came down and I hid, thinking this is it, this is how it’s going to end. But it was a woman. She said, ‘I know you’re in there. I’m not going to hurt you. You can come out.’”

Mickey had once been an Oxford student, from a wealthy family, before losing everything to heroin. She took Jayne under her wing and made her promise: ‘Whatever happens, Jayne, do not pick up drugs. Do not pick up drink. Don’t do anything you can’t stand in a mirror and look at yourself.’

Jayne never did.

Jayne spent her teens and twenties drifting between the streets, squats and temporary shelters. “I stayed out of sight, stayed clean, never touched drugs or alcohol,” she says. But the fear and isolation never left her: “Every sound makes you jump. Every person could be a threat. You don’t sleep properly because you’re scared someone will hurt you. And Christmas makes it worse — it’s a reminder of everything you’ve lost.”

She saw friends disappear — into hostels, prisons, or graves. “The streets don’t forgive. Every winter, someone doesn’t make it.”

When Jayne turned 16, she tried to get help. “I went to the council for housing. The man told me to go away and get pregnant. I told him what I thought of that and walked out.”

She wouldn’t ask again until she was 60.

Despite everything, Jayne refused to give up. She found part-time work, studied during the day and slept wherever she could. “When I finally got access to a house, I was 32,” she said. “I’d been on the streets for years, but I put myself through university and trained as a social worker. I couldn’t bear to leave anyone out there. I know what that cold feels like — the kind that gets into your bones and makes you stop caring whether you wake up.”

Since 1990, Jayne has worked in the homelessness sector, in roles that have given her moments of both joy and heartbreak. She remembers one Christmas vividly. “There was a man who’d never had his own place,” Jayne said. “I helped him move into a flat. I decorated it with lights, put up a tree, wrapped presents, filled the fridge with food. Eleven days later, he was found dead under the tree. Not because he overdosed or relapsed — his body had just given up.

“People say he had a good death, but I think we should aim for a good life, not just a good death.”

Every winter, Jayne feels that loss. “I’ve held people as they’ve died. Some had never known safety, never known Christmas. Every year, I see the same despair — people alone in the cold while the world celebrates.”

It’s why she’s never taken Christmas off work. “Some years I’ve tried to celebrate, but it never feels like mine. I’m always on the outside looking in at the lights, the warmth, the joy — always a reminder of what I never had.”

Each December, while others gather with loved ones, Jayne walks the streets, checking on people sleeping rough. “Every person deserves a warm place to sleep and someone who cares if they live or die. No one should spend Christmas alone in the cold.”

Today, Jayne has a small home she shares with her dog, Archie. “He’s my companion. I keep a roof over our heads for him, because I won’t let him die on the street. That’s part of why housing is so important — safety, dignity, love, belonging.”

She works for Porchlight as a Lived Experience Ambassador and Coach, turning her pain into purpose. She helps people rebuild their lives, trains frontline workers, and speaks publicly about homelessness and mental health.

Jayne believes passionately in Housing First, an approach that gives people a home before addressing other challenges. “We can’t change the world in a moment,” she says, “but we can change someone’s life. Housing First works — give someone a roof, then help them heal, rebuild, find hope.”

Her story is proof that with understanding, housing and hope, people can rebuild their lives.