I’ve been volunteering here for just over six months now — I started back in December, just before Christmas. At the time, I thought I’d just try it out and see how it went. It felt like something I could fit into my life without too much disruption, but I wasn’t sure if it would stick. Now, half a year later, I can’t imagine not doing it. It’s become part of my week, something I look forward to, even on the cold mornings when getting out of bed feels like a battle.
Most of the time, I cover the early shift, from eight until ten in the morning. It’s mainly for rough sleepers — people come in for a hot drink, some toast or cereal, and a bit of warmth before starting their day. I’ve done the lunchtime shift a couple of times too, which involves proper hot meals, but mornings suit me better. I can’t manage the evening sessions when the night shelter’s open — work and life don’t leave me with the time — but that’s okay. For me, it’s not about doing everything, it’s about doing what I can and doing it well.
On the surface, my role sounds simple: make toast, pour tea and coffee, hand over bowls of cereal. But that’s not the real heart of it. What matters most is the human side — smiling at people as they walk in, greeting them by name, making sure they feel noticed. I think people underestimate how important that is. When you’re homeless or at risk, you spend a lot of time feeling invisible. People cross the road to avoid you, or pretend they haven’t seen you sitting there. In here, we try to do the opposite. Instead of “order number two, your coffee’s ready,” it’s, “Here you go, Lee, here’s your coffee.” That little personal touch says: “I see you. You matter.”
One of my favourite moments so far was with a man who’d been coming in regularly. He was one of those people who, even while struggling himself, was always looking out for others — making sure someone else got their toast, checking in on a mate who looked rougher than usual. Then one morning he came in grinning from ear to ear. “Guess what?” he said. “I’ve got accommodation. I’m moving in next week.” He was so excited, almost bursting with it, and he wanted to share that news with us. For me, that said everything about the importance of this place. He didn’t just come here for food or coffee; he came here because he felt part of a community. And when something good happened, he wanted us to know. That’s a privilege.
Of course, not every day feels like that. Sometimes people come in after a freezing, wet night, and you can see how drained they are. Shoulders hunched, heads down, barely a word as they take their tea and sit in silence. Those are the mornings when you realise how important the little things are. A smile, a bit of small talk, even a joke if you can manage it. You might not change the world, but you can lift someone’s mood just enough to get them through the rest of the day. That counts.
What I’ve learned is that you don’t always need to say much. People share snippets of their lives, and sometimes you’re not sure how to respond. But I’ve realised it’s not about having answers. Just listening is enough. Being present, giving someone your attention, that’s what matters. It’s helped me become more empathetic and more comfortable with silence too. I don’t feel the need to fill every gap with words.
On a lighter note, I’ve also become a pro at toast. Perfectly browned, perfectly buttered. It sounds daft, but there’s something oddly satisfying about handing over toast that looks just right — especially when you know for some people, it’s the first proper thing they’ve eaten that day.
Volunteering has also opened my eyes to how much support is actually out there in the community. Before I started, I didn’t know much about food banks, community fridges, or the other local services. Now, I feel much more aware, and even confident enough to point people in the right direction when they ask. I’ve even been able to tell friends about things that could help them, which I wouldn’t have known before. That’s something valuable I’ve gained — knowledge I can share.
But mostly, what I get from volunteering is connection. Those fist bumps when I walk in, the smiles from people who recognise me, the friendships that form behind the counter with the other volunteers. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s real. It’s human. And for me, that’s what makes it worth getting up early for.
If I had to give advice to someone thinking about volunteering, I’d say: don’t overthink it. Just show up with a smile. You don’t need special skills, you don’t need to commit huge chunks of your life. Even a couple of hours can make a difference. The organisation is grateful for whatever time you can give. And trust me, you’ll come away feeling part of something bigger.
Six months in, it feels like second nature now. I know the routine, I know the faces, I know how to spread butter right to the edges of the toast without tearing it. But more than that, I’ve learned the value of small kindnesses. Sometimes volunteering really is as simple as this: a smile, a hot drink, and some perfectly buttered toast.
