Today, by pure chance, I met a housing association representative in the car park. No emails. No scripted replies. No “we understand your concerns.” Just a person. I showed him photos - not of defects or spreadsheets - but of how I’m actually living. What prolonged stress does. What it looks like when your home stops feeling like your own. The toll of over 5 years spent in fight or flight, trying to navigate a system that takes a considerable mental and physical toll. And I broke down. Not planned. Not performative. Just what happens when someone finally sees it. What it feels like to live under the weight of the legal system - camping out in what’s supposed to be your own home. Mortgage paid off years ago, but still struggling to keep up with service charges and a Section 20 major works bill. To his credit, he didn’t deflect. He didn’t hide behind process. For the first time in all of this, someone on that side acknowledged the lived reality... not just the liability. He replied honestly. Nothing’s fixed. The numbers haven’t changed. The pressure is still there. But being seen - even briefly - matters more than the system realises. Because behind every “case”, every “leaseholder”, every screen, every line item… there’s a person trying to hold it together in a place they once called home.