On Monday, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Something set off the Google alert I’d put in place for words like “Home Office,” “immigration,” and “naturalisation.” Immediately, my anxiety went through the roof – I’m three months away from applying for permanent residency in the UK, and shortly after, citizenship. I’ve already spent the better part of two years saving thousands of pounds toward Home Office fees, and I’ve just started studying for my ‘Life in the UK’ test.

“Keir Starmer unveils ‘tighter’ immigration rules,” read one notification. I couldn’t bring myself to read the full article – too scared it would send me back to the drawing board, or that someone could take away the very thing I’ve been working so hard for.

Bracing myself for the worst, I decided to watch the full press conference. As part of the government’s newly published White Paper, Prime Minister Keir Starmer revealed some of the biggest changes to the immigration system I’ve witnessed in the last ten years, claiming the country is at risk of “becoming an island of strangers.”

“It’s all about fairness,” he said, announcing plans to extend the qualifying period for settled status from five years to ten – because, in his words, living in the UK is “a privilege that is earned, not a right.”

While I knew these changes were unlikely to impact my own route to settlement, I couldn’t help but feel the outrage, sadness and sheer frustration for anyone affected. Having experienced just how taxing the process is first-hand, I know all too well that it’s another reminder that, as an immigrant, I will never truly feel like I belong.

This year marks 10 years since I moved to the UK – a decade since I kissed my immediate family goodbye and uprooted my life to chase the “Western dream” I so longed for as a child from Central Asia.

I still remember the day I received my acceptance letter from the University of Sheffield. At first, I couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving everything behind: my family, my friends, my country. But how could I, when I was too busy being excited to start a new life – one that had only existed in the pages of my childhood diary. After all, at the time, I was a 17-year-old with big hopes and an even bigger set of rose-tinted glasses.

Courtesy of Denise Primbet

Courtesy of Denise Primbet

As a student, everything felt too temporary for me to fully grasp that I was an “immigrant.” It wasn’t until I graduated, landed my first job and got married that it hit me: my life here wasn’t just a fleeting chapter; rather, it was shaping up to be my home.

With each year, I hit more milestones: forming lasting friendships, becoming a dog mum, switching careers. At 23, I landed my dream job at my dream magazine. On paper, I’d achieved everything I set out to. But behind the scenes, my immigration journey was far from smooth.

Kazakhstan is a nine-hour flight away, so work commitments and financial constraints meant that I could only see my family once a year. I had to make my peace with missing birthdays, funerals and weddings, and knowing that, as my parents were getting older, I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with them as I would’ve liked. I don’t get to watch my nieces and nephews grow up, or taste my mum’s cooking on a random Sunday. Worst of all? I don’t have the comfort of knowing I could see them at a moment’s notice.