God Save This Queen

My name is Beau Paley. I’m a 24-year-old trans artist, survivor, and former student. I’ve endured a lifetime of abuse, neglect, exploitation, and systemic failure—from my own family to the institutions meant to protect me. I’ve fought hard to survive. I’ve built beauty out of devastation. But I can’t do it alone anymore. I’m raising funds to escape the UK and start over in a country where I can be safe, supported, and finally heal.

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A Life Shaped by Abuse

From early childhood, I was treated as “the odd one out.” My sister got pocket money, clothes, a life. I got a lock on the fridge—just for me. At 13, I was living on a remote farm in Wales. No friends. No freedom. No protection. One snowy night, my stepdad woke me up and said my mother had disappeared—blamed me for it. He dragged me to the front door, barefoot in the cold, and screamed at me to call for her. I stood there crying, screaming into the dark, terrified. Later, my mum told me she had walked for hours that night, hoping to die—because I hadn’t made her a Christmas card. I was a child. And I’ve carried that guilt ever since. At 7, he drove me to a forest road and screamed at me to walk alone into the trees. He said that’s where my uncle lives and I’m going to live with him on his farm with no toilet, heating or plumbing. Only a hole outside in the ground. (I later found out this was untrue from my grandmother and the man himself, when I was an adult) When I begged to come back, he eventually pulled me up by the neck—but then pinned me against the car, screaming into my face, spitting. I blacked out. My memories are fragmented, but vivid. I still live with C-PTSD episodes.
 
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My Body Was Failing Before I Even Knew Why

By the age of six, my stepdad was already trying to discipline the life out of me. He made me do army-style routines to “burn off my energy.” Forcing me to do sit-ups which I couldn’t do.
He said I’d either join the army or become a farmer on his land—no dreams, no options, just control. And once, he told me outright: “You have no human rights under my roof.”
 At the same time, I was being fed Krusha milk before bed, while my health deteriorated. I was so neglected that by age six, I had to have all my teeth extracted under general anaesthetic. I woke up crying.
 At school, I was bullied by teachers and pupils alike for having no teeth, for not being able to eat properly. They didn’t ask why. They just saw something broken. And blamed me for it.

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 Even Music Was Taken From Me

I loved music. I was loaned a violin by the school—beautiful grain, curved edges. It felt magical. We couldn’t afford music grades, my mum said. But looking back—they could. They just chose not to spend it on me. Because in that house, I wasn’t a child—I was a financial burden. Like in a pack of dogs—the weakest doesn’t get the milk.
Even though they got child benefits on my behalf, I saw none of that support. My cello teacher saw my potential. She told me: “You’re playing grade four material. If you ever get a chance to test, skip the first three.” But at home, that encouragement became humiliation.
One day, my stepdad took my violin and mocked me with it, pretending to play while everyone laughed. I collapsed in the corner, overwhelmed and sobbing. My mum screamed, grabbed me by the head, and stabbed the violin with a knife.
You see, years before around age 9, I was given a guitar for Christmas. No one taught me. No one asked which way I wanted to play it. When I didn’t know what to do with it, I was mocked again. It wasn’t a gift. It was a trap. Another excuse to make me feel like nothing. And when I did finally excel in my own way. I was trampled on.
I started becoming odd towards the later years before leaving home. Sleeping outside on the farm. Going down the valley to escape family. Walking barefoot in hopes I get hurt. Trying to ‘astral project’ and escape reality. I was so fucked up by these people. Even my biological father, who had noticed the abuse and would call to check on me, was pushed away. When my stepdad told him I was gay, he turned on me too—became hateful, homophobic. I lost the only chance I had at a connection with him.

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I Was Nothing—Not at School, Not at Home

After my violin was destroyed and I started coming out, things only got worse. One day, on the school bus, a boy took my bag and sat on it. I slapped him, panicked. He broke my nose with one punch. I never got braces. Never got help. The bullying got worse. So did the abuse. I was nothing. Not at school. Not at home. Just a target.

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When I Found My Voice, the Abuse Got Worse

When I came out at 13/14, started wearing makeup—everything intensified. Grown men catcalled me. Students bullied me. Teachers punished me for existing. Even after all that, I kept trying to live. But people kept turning on me—friends included.

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No One Stepped In—Even When I Asked for Help

I began taking paracetamol every day—because I saw a character on a tv show use it to dull emotion. Once, I nearly passed out on the bus. I didn’t tell anyone. I was trying to disappear. Eventually, my mum took me to the GP—but only because I stopped going to school. I was falling asleep while brushing my teeth, while studying. My body was shutting down. The head of music, Mrs Honour, refused to let me switch from cello to singing. She said the budget was set, but by then I’d come out—and the abuse had escalated. When I pushed back, she mocked me. “Why are you being a bitch?” I said. “I’m going to the headmaster.” “I’ll race you!” she laughed—and literally ran to get there first. My counsellor eventually weighed me and saw I was underweight. But when I told social services about the lock on the fridge, about the abuse, they spoke to my mum and sister behind a door—and sent me back.

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 Grooming, Survival & Silence

At 17, I fled—not out of bravery, but because I had no choice. My sisters fiancé was honing in on the abuse. Mocking me for getting a sugar daddy because he had no job and was bitter. I moved in with a man in his 60s who gave me a phone and control disguised as protection. Around 19–22, I stayed with another older man in London—surrounded by 15+ cats and filth. He gave me tools: a keyboard, a camera. In return, he tried to shape me into a product. A persona. I took what I could. And I made art. That’s how I got into university. Not because I was safe. Because I refused to die quietly. ⸻ How Even Education Was Taken From Me I fought my way into university. But I had to pause my studies after a final blow. While staying in Brighton, a man across the street filmed me through the window, then exposed and pleasured himself while watching. I was clothed, wearing a dressing gown. I called the police—but he knew where I lived. I have a public profile. I didn’t feel safe anymore. I began dissociating. I stopped attending. Even tutors and trainers exploited me—pushing boundaries, refusing refunds, complicating relationships. Eventually, I had to leave university.
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The Asbestos Incident That Took Everything

Ten months ago, my home was contaminated during a botched asbestos removal. I have video, audio, and air quality proof. Workers mocked me, used slurs, entered without protection. My air purifier maxed out at PM2.5 500+, the most dangerous reading possible. I had to evacuate. I lost everything. My sanctuary. My health. My education. No compensation. No accountability. No help from anyone.

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Why I Need to Leave the UK I need to relocate to a country where:
• Being trans isn’t treated like a threat
• I can access free healthcare, therapy, and gender-affirming care
• I can exist in peace

Germany, Canada, or Luxembourg being my top three. 
I believe I could thrive there. And I have one small link: One of my half-sisters—raised separately by the father I never met—moved to Canada for work and is now applying for citizenship. We’ve never met. She was raised safely, far from all this. But knowing she’s there gives me hope. I’m just asking for a chance too.

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What Your Donation Supports:
 
• Emergency rent + relocation
• Legal fees to hold the asbestos company accountable
• Trauma therapy + mental health support
• Application costs for asylum or humanitarian visas
• Replacing essential belongings (clothes, music tools, ID)
• Stability—a chance to finally heal

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This Is My Life. And I Want to Live It.

If you’ve ever felt unseen or unsafe—this is for you too. I’ve survived things no one should. But survival isn’t enough anymore. Now, I need help to live. Please donate, share, or stand beside me.
Thank you for believing me.
 —
Beau Paley