Under My Roof: A Place Called Home

Home is a word with many meanings, maybe it’s shelter, maybe it's love, maybe it’s family, but for me it means something deeper. It means memories. My house isn’t just four walls, it's a photo album, a scrapbook with the scattered pieces of my life—birthday celebrations, quiet Sunday mornings, holiday traditions that have shaped who I am. Laughter from an old family gathering echoes off the walls, along with the scent of my mom's cooking and the warmth of afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, making each day seem just a little bit brighter. After a hard day at school, home is my safe place, my sanctuary—where I can let my guard down, share my struggles, and know I'm accepted exactly as I am. Every time I pass the piano, the nostalgia hits hard as I remember the song my dad would play when I was little, filling my chest with a bittersweet ache—part joy, part longing. Years ago, I would gaze at my backyard, admiring the beautiful lilacs and peonies—the same place where I did my first cartwheel and sang my first song. Here the birds sing and the breeze dances through the trees, a place where time seems to pause, where I stay a kid forever. My home holds memories, every one like a picture in a collage. Home is where I'm loved by everyone and everything. From piano to backyard and even my room, home is where I'm free, but most importantly home is where I'm me. Home is my foundation, my peace, my everything. But not everyone has this sanctuary. That's why Habitat for Humanity matters; they understand that shelter isn't enough. Families need a place where their stories can unfold. Through supporting Habitat, we help create sacred spaces where new memories will bloom for generations.