When I started looking for a place in May, I was hopeful. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—nothing ever is when you’re moving to a new country, especially while studying for a PhD. But I had no idea it would be this hard, this exhausting. Each day, the weight of uncertainty grew heavier on my shoulders. Every agency I approached seemed to have the same cold response. I understood they needed to do credit checks, but I didn’t have a credit history here; my life, my records, my story were all back in Ghana. I had references from back home—good, solid references—people who could vouch for me without hesitation. But it was like that didn’t matter here. I felt invisible, like I didn’t exist in their system.
It became clear very quickly that most agencies didn’t want to know my story. They didn’t want to hear about my background or understand that I was more than just a name on paper without a local credit score. The way they looked at me, or sometimes didn’t even look at me, made it feel like I was less than, like I didn’t belong. The frustration was like a knot in my stomach that just kept tightening. It felt like they were saying, “You’re not from here, so we don’t have time for you.”
Every rejection, every dismissive look, every unreturned phone call—it all began to chip away at me. I tried to stay positive, reminding myself of why I was here, why I had left everything I knew behind to pursue a PhD in a foreign land. I knew it was a challenge, but it was supposed to be a challenge of the mind, of academia, not a battle just to find a roof over my head.
I could feel my hope slipping away with each passing week. The search for a place became an emotional rollercoaster—one moment, I’d feel a spark of optimism when I thought I’d found a lead, and the next, it would be snatched away with a curt response or a closed door. I just wanted someone to see me for who I was—a person, not a problem. Someone who was trying to build a future, not looking for a handout.
When I first arrived, the only reason I even found a place was because of my sister. She lives here and managed to sort things out ahead of time. We found a flat, but the landlord only wanted to commit to a six-month lease. I took it, hoping it would buy me enough time to find something more permanent. But then, as soon as I started to feel settled, the landlord offered to extend the lease but at a much higher rent—an amount that was simply impossible for me to afford. I felt trapped, like I was constantly being pushed from one unstable situation to another. The pressure was unbearable.
So, I had to start all over again. The search this time was nothing short of a nightmare. I felt like I was running in circles, trapped in a maze with no exit. Every day was a new hurdle, a new reason to doubt myself. There were moments I thought about giving up, just packing it all in and going back home. But I knew I couldn’t—I had sacrificed too much to get here.
In desperation, I turned to Facebook, hoping against hope that someone might listen. I found a contact, someone who worked in an agency, and I poured out my story. I told her everything—how I had a steady income, was paying all my bills, and could provide references from both my landlord and my employer, even though they were in Ghana. I just needed someone to trust me enough to make that call or send that email.
Thankfully, she was willing to give me a chance. But even then, it took over four or five months of endless searching, of constant disappointments, before I finally found a place that would take me. By then, I was emotionally drained. The stress of it all was like a weight on my chest. I couldn’t breathe easy, couldn’t focus on my studies, couldn’t enjoy the experience I had worked so hard to achieve.
And all this time, I kept hearing stories from others like me, people who had also moved here, also struggling to find a place to live. The stories were different but had the same theme—doors closing, people turning their backs. I often had to walk into agency offices to plead my case in person, but the reception was always the same—cold, dismissive, as if I was an inconvenience rather than a customer. It was humiliating, to say the least.
There were moments when I stood there, my heart pounding, trying to explain my situation to people who wouldn’t even meet my eyes, who seemed to have already decided that I wasn’t worth their time. It felt like they were judging me just because of where I came from, making all these assumptions that I might not be able to pay rent or wouldn’t fit their idea of an ideal tenant.
It was disheartening, deeply so. I felt alone, fighting against an invisible barrier that I couldn’t break through no matter how hard I tried. I just wanted a chance, a fair chance, to prove myself, to find my place here, to feel like I belonged in this new country I was starting to call home.
All I wanted was to be treated with a little kindness, a little understanding. But it seemed like that was too much to ask for. It made me question everything—why I had come here, why I was putting myself through this. But I knew I couldn’t give up. I hadn’t come this far, left everything behind, just to turn back now. So I kept pushing forward, kept believing that somehow, somewhere, there was a place for me here.
