Author, life coach, fashion entrepreneur, even tech entrepreneur, yes, but I never imagined Journalist too. Never say never, I just got my first article published in The Daily Mail

I lost the fortune I worked for all my life overnight, my marriage fell apart and I was homeless. Then I got back on my feet in my 50s

By Shirley Yanez

Luxuriating in a marble bath in my suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I reflected on how far I’d come.

I grew up one of six children in a two-up, two-down house with a tin bath and an outside toilet on a council estate in Leicester. Back then, luxury was getting your turn in the bath before the water went cold.

But I’d worked my way out of poverty, getting a job in financial recruitment, eventually setting up my own headhunting firm and becoming a millionaire in my 40s.

Now here I was, sinking into expensively perfumed bubbles, enjoying the trappings of that success. I’d spent the day shopping on Rodeo Drive and my designer purchases – vintage Chanel jewellery, yet another Hermès handbag I’d paid thousands for, a Versace silk shirt and a Gucci dress that would join so many others I’d probably never get round to wearing – were strewn across the bed in the room next door.

After a short-lived marriage in my 30s, where I’d discovered I couldn’t have children, I’d recently married an American I’d known for just six weeks. Convinced I was starting an exciting new chapter, I had moved to Los Angeles to be with him.

Little did I realise that the bubble would burst on my exciting new life just three months later.

This was the year 2000. I’d sold my business in the UK and put all my cash – around half a million pounds – into the booming dotcom stock market, watching my portfolio climb to dizzying heights. At its zenith it was worth as much as £6million and I was renting a vast house overlooking Manhattan Beach, next door to Michelle Pfeiffer. I didn’t need to work in any conventional sense because my investments were working for me.

Then the dotcom bubble burst. The market crashed and within days the value of my investments collapsed to nothing. Almost overnight, the fortune I had built through years of hard work disappeared.

At the same time, my whirlwind marriage fell apart. Marty, who was five years younger than me, was very good-looking, a manual worker who drove a truck, with no wealth or status, which is exactly what appealed to me. I wanted someone from a background like my own; someone who wasn’t obsessed with money, who I could build a ‘real’ life with.

But as the money disappeared and I was forced to give up that amazing house for a small, rather grim one-bed flat far from the beach, Marty went the same way. I was left alone, wondering how I was going to keep a roof over my head.

I began selling off the life I’d built, piece by piece. Over the next five years everything of value I’d had shipped over from the UK went: my artwork, jewellery, the classic two-seater Mercedes I adored, the handbags I’d once been so proud of along with rails of designer clothes.

At the height of my success, I’d paid £10,000 for a Chanel handbag. When I came to sell it, desperate for money to buy food, I got around £900. When you’re struggling, you don’t get to hold out for the right buyer; you take what you can get.

Meanwhile, I tried to start again in LA, pitching a TV show about art and looking for ways to make money. But this was a city built around image and youth. I was in my late 40s by then and, no matter how hard I pushed, nothing took off.

Eventually, everything that could be sold had gone. Unable to pay my rent, my landlord told me to leave.

I remember standing there with my mobile on its last bit of battery, no credit left, no money, no family nearby and no idea where I was going to sleep. Then a free local paper was pushed through the door. Leafing through it, I spotted a small advert for a homeless shelter.

It felt like the very bottom of the ladder, but I had no other options, and so I made one last call to the minister who ran it before my phone died.

I spent the next two weeks in that shelter, surrounded by people whose lives had been far tougher than mine – gang members, men and women with no family to turn to, people who truly had nothing.

It was frightening, but it was also the point where something in me shifted. Sitting there, I realised how easy it is to find yourself at rock bottom. One or two bad decisions, a bit of bad luck, and you can end up somewhere you never imagined.

But I also realised that, unlike many of the people around me, I still had something precious: hope. I had skills and people back home I could call on.

I picked up the phone to my former business partner in the UK – the most humbling call I’ve ever made – and asked for help to get home. I admitted everything had gone, and he sent me a plane ticket.

In 2005, I arrived back in Leicester with nothing. I went back to exactly where I had started and began again, sleeping on my older sister Lynn’s sofa. She didn’t judge me or lecture me. Her kindness brought me right back down to earth and reminded me what really mattered.

I signed on for benefits and had to survive on around £80 a week. I felt ashamed and carried an enormous sense of failure. I had once been a millionaire, staying in luxury hotels and shopping on Rodeo Drive. Now I was queuing to explain why I had no income.

Eventually I was given housing benefit and managed to rent a tiny cottage. Finding work was tough. In my early 50s, with a background as a high-flying entrepreneur who’d been a millionaire, the Jobcentre staff didn’t quite know what to do with me. I was overqualified for receptionist or sales assistant roles but for a while I did work as a temp answering phones for £10 an hour.

Then I was assigned to someone at the Jobcentre who specialised in unusual cases like mine. He saw that I was an entrepreneur at heart and I was given a £300 business loan. I used it to build a fashion venture that eventually became my brand, Venus Cow.

My only qualification was that I had been a shopaholic who bought clothes all over the world. But I understood how women wanted clothes to fit and set out to create the perfect pair of black leggings. Made in Britain from cotton that was thick enough not to become transparent and designed not to create a muffin top.

It took six years to develop the design and fabric, protect the idea and get the product right. The business finally began to take off in 2018. Then Covid struck and disrupted everything again – but Venus Cow survived and is doing well.

I haven’t regained the millions I once lost and I still rent a small but beautiful cottage in the countryside. But I don’t need marble bathrooms or Chanel handbags to prove I have succeeded.

And should I make a great deal of money again, I intend to give it to charity. I have already lived the millionaire lifestyle. I know it doesn’t necessarily make you safe or happy.

Now 70, I’m back on my feet and thriving. I remain an entrepreneur, as well as working as a life coach and author, but I have never forgotten how quickly everything can disappear.

That rebuilding didn’t happen overnight. It was built on making every pound count, and finding ways to look and feel like myself again on a very tight budget.

I had to change my mindset around money completely. If you’ve always cared about how you present yourself – as I have – the hardest thing about having no money isn’t just paying the bills, it’s holding on to your dignity and sense of self.

These are the money rules I live by now – the practical steps that helped me go from living on the dole to being financially sound once again:

Rule 1: Audit small comforts

When I hit rock bottom, I couldn’t afford vague budgeting. I had to see, in black and white, where every pound was going.

* Track everything for one week. I wrote down every spend – wine, coffees, snacks, magazines, online ‘bargains’ – no rounding down, no pretending it didn’t count.

* Total the ‘comfort’ spending. Seeing that weekly figure was a shock. It wasn’t the rent or the bills that were sinking me, it was the comforts I’d told myself I deserved. Cut them fast, not slowly. I quit smoking, alcohol and takeaway coffees in one go. You might not need to cut everything but do choose at least one or two and stop for 30 days to assess the impact on your finances.

* Redirect the savings with purpose. I treated that freed-up money as untouchable: it went on rent, food and arrears – not new treats. It feels brutal at first, but you’ll be amazed how quickly you adapt.

Rule 2: Move your body for free, every day

I couldn’t justify a gym membership but I didn’t want to give up on my health, so I set a rule to move for a minimum of 30 minutes a day, no excuses.

* Keep it free and simple. For me walking was my go-to, but there are plenty of free YouTube exercise tutorials that allow you to work out in your own living room.

* I stuck to the same time every day. If it rained, I put a coat on. If I felt low, I walked slower, but I still moved my body.

* Focus on your head, not your waistline. I used those walks to process what had happened and to tell myself: ‘This isn’t permanent.’ As you get moving you can use that time to mentally rehearse job interviews, plan meals or simply switch off from your troubles and breathe.

In a few months, your mood, sleep and confidence start to shift – and it won’t cost you a penny.

Rule 3: Treat food as fuel, not comfort

When I was living on £80 a week, food had to keep me alive and functioning, not numb my feelings.

* Shop at the right time. I went to the fruit and veg market as stalls were packing up, when prices dropped to almost nothing. In supermarkets, I went straight to the yellow sticker reduced shelves and own brand basics.

* Build a short ‘survival menu’. I rotated a handful of meals – jacket potatoes with beans and cheese, omelettes with frozen veg and simple soups from cheap vegetables.

* Cook to the bargains, not your cravings. I looked at what was reduced first, then decided what I’d eat. You can do this too by asking yourself, ‘What’s cheap today?’ rather than, ‘What do I fancy?’

Rule 4: Be clever about beauty

I still cared about how I looked – it just had to cost next to nothing.

* Swap salons for training schools. I found local hairdressing colleges and training schools where students need models to get cuts, colour and blow dries. They charge a fraction of salon prices, and it’s all supervised by tutors.

* Create a £0 skincare routine. Each morning, I ran an ice cube over my face – that’s it. Over time my skin felt tighter and fresher. And I used what was already in the kitchen: avocado skins on dry, cracked areas; grated orange peel with a little oil as a body scrub.

The goal isn’t to look expensive. It’s to look like someone who still respects herself, even when her bank balance has fallen through the floor.

Rule 5: Shop where the rich get rid, not where they splash the cash

Losing money taught me to fill my wardrobe with other women’s expensive mistakes.

* I stopped going to designer shops and started going to charity shops in wealthy areas and car boot sales near affluent neighbourhoods.

* Set strict spending rules: take cash only, decide your maximum spend before you go in and accept that when the money’s gone, you’re done.

* Know what you’re looking for. I kept an eye out for quality fabrics (wool, silk, cotton), classic cuts I could wear for years and items with the tags still on – and there were plenty.

* Enjoy the hunt, not the haul. I treated it as treasure hunting, not shopping therapy. Even now, I’d rather wear a £10 charity shop blazer from a rich postcode than a £300 one I can’t really afford.

Rule 6: Protect your dignity with small daily standards

Losing status can make you feel invisible, but I refused to disappear.

* Create a ‘minimum presentation’ list. Put on a proper outfit, do your hair, apply a bit of make-up. If I had the Jobcentre or a difficult appointment, I made more effort, not less. This wasn’t to impress them - it was to mentally support me.

* Your standards might include painted nails, ironed shirt, polished shoes. Pick a couple and keep to them no matter what. Those tiny acts don’t change your bank balance, but they quietly protect your self-respect – and when you’re trying to rebuild your finances that matters far more than your bank manager will tell you.

Shirley’s autobiography, Waterfall Down, is available on Amazon priced £11.99.

Thanks To The Editors at The Daily Mail For This Opportunity