This Is Me: A Short Introduction to a Long Journey

A life shaped by struggle, faith, and a relentless pursuit of truth, this is my story, unfiltered and unapologetically real.

By Sean Ash 

I was born in 1981 at Lewisham Hospital, South East London. My family moved between Brockley, Forest Hill, and Catford, and for a time we lived in a hostel. My parents worked hard, but money was tight. I remember the hunger. I remember always feeling cold in winter. My mum came from a large Irish family, nine siblings, and we were close to our grandparents on her side. My grandad was from Wexford and my nan from County Clare. They helped raise us while my parents worked. We were raised Catholic. My mum was the one who kept us grounded in the faith. She made sure we attended church and Catholic school. I even became an altar boy.

It was my mum who sang me songs when I was little, John Lennon’s voice, soft through hers, who cuddled me when I cried, who protected me when I couldn’t protect myself. She stuck up for me when teachers or other adults crossed the line. She gave me a sense of being seen, of being cared for. My dad, on the other hand, was stricter. His love came with challenges. He believed in toughening us up. I remember him throwing me into the deep end of the pool so I would learn to swim. I remember him making me confront bullies. But he also made me laugh, playing games, tickling me, calling out “tickle time.” And he shared his passion for music with me, laying the foundation for something that would shape my life.

School wasn’t kind to me. I was bullied relentlessly, not just by pupils, but by teachers. I believe now that I have undiagnosed autism and ADHD. I didn’t understand social rules. I spoke without a filter. I couldn’t sit still. I was smart in my own way but always hungry, always distracted. I’d be punished instead of helped. I remember being made to sit with my face to the wall for what felt like hours. I remember stealing bread and wine from the church cupboard because I was so hungry. Eventually, the school suspended me, not for bad behaviour, but for my own safety. I left school at 15 with no GCSEs. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I just wanted to be liked, to be cool, to fit in. But I was always the one on the outside, dreaming of a future that felt further and further away.

My mum and dad tried to help, and I ended up at Lewisham College doing car mechanics. I could change brakes and shoes, but I dropped out. I tried GCSE equivalents, dropped out again. I drifted, got into trouble with friends, drugs, drink, driving without licences. We thought we were grown, cool, untouchable. I wasn’t the one who got the girls. I was too sensitive, too kind. They saw me as a friend. I watched my mates get into relationships and ruin them, while I stayed on the sidelines. That hurt my confidence. I wondered what was wrong with me. I tried to be the peacemaker, the one who broke up fights, and once, it nearly killed me. I was hit with a bottle so hard I went blind for a moment and still have issues with memory and sensitivity in that part of my head. I forgave it. I had to.

In my late teens, I craved independence. I argued with my parents a lot and moved out to stay with my aunt and uncle, Liam and Jeanette, who have both since passed. I tried to get help with housing but was turned away. I remember standing there, confused and angry, watching African families get housed, seeing African councillors and officers behind the desk. I convinced myself I was being racially discriminated against. Years later, I came to see the truth, it had nothing to do with race. They were prioritised because they had children, families, greater need. I was just 17 and alone. That lesson shaped how I view politics today. I understand how people fall for the far-right lies, because I nearly did too. It feels real, until you examine it. And once you do, you can’t unsee it.

My grandad Ash lived in Deptford, and after my nan passed, I spent time at his flat with cousins Tom, Dave, and Brian. My grandad would go to markets, looking for books and collectibles he thought might be worth something. He knew I loved music and would bring me back microphones, most of them useless, but I’d always smile and say thank you. He’d written a book, and I think that stayed with me, planting a seed for my writing years later.

My dad was a musician, and through him I got into music. I started learning classical piano at age eight or nine from a private tutor called Belinda. Then one day, a local guy was selling an Atari ST with Cubase. I begged my dad for it. He bought it for £50, and that was it. I started composing music, using tape decks, old hi-fis, anything I could get my hands on. Later, my dad built me a home studio with Propellerhead Reason. I wrote music every day. He even paid for video shoots and software, backing me all the way. I had some success, featured in RWD Magazine, won BBC 1Xtra’s Ras Kwame Homegrown Cut of the Week, performed at Brockley Max and at Two8Six in Ladywell. But anxiety held me back. I’d forget lyrics. I’d freeze on stage. And so I stopped performing.

Life moved on. I got married, studied Communications at college, then started an Access to Business course. My dream was to study politics at university. During my second year, my marriage fell apart. My ex had an affair, got pregnant, and left with our kids. I took her to the High Court and won custody back. It was a dark time, court battles, custody rows, threats from her new partner. I had to get an injunction to protect myself. Eventually, I met Melanie. We got married and had two children. We met through music. She heard me perform at Two8Six, we exchanged numbers, and I asked her to sing on one of my songs. From there, we connected and built a life together.

My interest in politics deepened. I’d lived through homelessness, through the family courts, through injustice. I’d seen friends go to prison. I started volunteering for Simon Hughes, the Liberal Democrat MP. I worked in his office, learned about data, canvassing, casework. It gave me confidence. I even stopped to help a homeless man during polling day, because sometimes that’s more important than votes. I campaigned for the AV referendum. I protested against tuition fees at Greenwich University and at the Millbank Tower, in 2011–2012. I fought for what I believed in, even when I stood alone.

Eventually, I made it to university. I studied politics. I got first-class marks in essays and presentations. But when it came to exams, I broke down. I couldn’t do it. I sat in the room and wrote about how I felt instead. I still passed with lowest marks despite not even answering the exam papers. I think they acknowledged my honesty. 

Then came the hardest chapter. At 39, I was diagnosed with Cauda Equina Syndrome. I became paralysed. I tried to take my life in hospital. I cried through the nights, shut off from the world. I became institutionalised, afraid to leave the hospital. But I did. Before that, I’d worked for the London Ambulance Service during the start of COVID. I got the job through appeal, as always. Nothing ever came easy. I’ve always had to fight for what should have already been mine. I came out of spinal rehab and raised £83,000 for the NHS. For a while, people cared. Then it faded. I started again, wrote books, published music, created AI apps, wrote political blogs. Nothing took off.

Then, two years ago, I had a heart attack. I had a stent put in. Now I’m on blood thinners, still in a wheelchair, still trying. I rely on food banks. Friends help when they can. I keep writing. I keep speaking. Because I know I have something to say.

My Christian upbringing, my Roman Catholic roots, taught me to forgive. I get upset, I speak with emotion, but I forgive. I give second chances, third, fourth chances. I just want to be good, to do good. I am someone who suffers, who feels isolated. But I am also someone who loves deeply, who believes in justice, and who won’t stay quiet. My voice is valid. I’m still here. And I’m still trying. 

There is so much missing. So many huge parts to the puzzle not entered here. But I felt to give you a snap shot. Just so you could reach some understanding to who I am and why I am.