Sleeping Among Strangers...

The camp bed rocked every time I moved.

Somewhere in the dark, someone crossed the room on their way to the toilet. A door opened, closed. Then another. Sleep came in fragments, never quite settling.

Lying there, I was aware of how easily I could leave. How provisional my presence was. How different the night feels when you know it's temporary. Most of the people in the room were immigrants, though that wasn’t what unsettled me most.

Earlier that evening, I had arrived at a homeless shelter to volunteer. By the time the lights went out, I realised I was carrying more with me than I’d expected.

Last night I volunteered, at a time when immigration is anything but an ordinary topic in the UK. Conversations about who belongs, what the state can afford, integration and where responsibility ends are never far from the surface. I unconsciously carried some of that background noise with me when I arrived at the homeless shelter.

My role was simple: clear plates, wash up, serve the guests and sleep over. No speeches...just the quiet work that allows a shelter room to function.

As people arrived, it became clear that many were immigrants. Different accents. Different rhythms of speech. Some English used carefully, some not at all. Standing in that room, abstraction fell away quickly.

What remained were people waiting for a meal and bed.

I felt an awkwardness inside me I hadn’t anticipated. Not in what to do...I knew my tasks...but in how to be in this environment and with people without a home, something I can take for granted. Where to place my attention? How long to hold someone’s gaze? What to say when words felt either unnecessary or insufficient?

Alongside my professional life, I’ve spent many years engaged in personal development work and supporting others, largely outside my formal corporate responsibilities. I’m therefore familiar with the concepts of awareness and meeting people where they are. Yet here, those things felt very different...no ultimate strategic goal to arrive at...only a fleeting visit.

I realise how much I rely on telling myself "stories" to make sense of situations, who others are and I am...ultimately an unconscious strategy used to steady myself in unfamiliar situations. Here that fell away and silence stepped in instead. And silence, I learned quickly, was not empty. Communication soon emerged. Eye contact. Gestures. A nod. A hand briefly raised in thanks. It struck me how little language was required for dignity and human connection.

The evening settled into a rhythm. Chairs scraping. Plates stacking. People moving with the familiarity of those who know how to wait. I noticed my attention drifting and returning. There was nowhere else to be. That, I realised, was part of what it means to be in service to others. My focus pointing away from myself.

Later, the camp beds that had been unfolded in rows earlier in the evening became the place for guests to escape. Both temporary and practical. Mine rocked when I sat down, reminding me that comfort was not guaranteed.

The women slept on one side of the room, the men on the other, separated by a folded table tennis table. Functional. Enough.

As the lights dimmed, sound took over. Someone snored. Someone shifted, the metal frame creaking beneath them. Guests moving throughout the night, footsteps crossing the room, the door opening and closing softly but often.

I soon realised that stillness was easier than comfort. I lay awake longer than I expected, struggling to get comfortable, aware of how alert my body remained. Around me were people carrying entire lives in their bodies, histories I would never know, decisions I would never have to make. For many, broken sleep was not an exception. It was routine.

Lying there, half‑awake, I returned to something I’d noticed earlier: how quickly I reach for stories. Who someone might be. Why they’re there. What had happened to them to land them here. So many questions.

Meeting people where they are, requires a different rhythm, one that resists judgment and explanation. This feels less of an insight and more like a muscle...quiet and only recognisable once it was asked to work.

In the morning, camp beds were folded away and breakfast served donated by the local bakery. Belongings gathered. Guests packed their lives into the bags they carried on their shoulders. Efficiently. When everything you own needs to move with you, there’s little room for excess.

I found myself wondering where everyone was heading next. Not in the abstract sense but really, where were their feet taking them next? Where do you go when the room that provided safety and sanctuary closes behind you?

I headed into the office after storing beds and bedding for the next cohort. As I walked into the office looking down at the polished stone floors and entering the mirrored lift with others, I noticed the silence around me...noticing the urge to create narratives and to fill the silence. How often our lives pass close enough to share space, but not close enough to be felt. How connected to one another are we really?

What stayed with me was simpler than I expected...how easily distance is created and how little is sometimes needed to reduce it. Connection doesn't come from conversation or understanding. It comes from not filling the space too quickly, from letting go of the usual story telling and staying with what is actually present. Connection is what makes us human.