What home means to me

Home isn’t just walls or a roof overhead— it’s the place where my thoughts walk around unafraid. It’s the echo of laughter that never quite fades, and the quiet corners where new dreams get made. It’s the doorway where I drop my day, the couch that forgives me for flopping onto it, the table that has seen every version of me from sleepy to unstoppable. It’s where the fridge is full but somehow there is “nothing to eat,” and the snacks I want are always hiding behind the vegetables like they’re in witness protection. Home is where I can finally relax, right after doing the chores I didn’t know existed until someone pointed at them dramatically. It’s the space that holds my history, my habits, my experiments, my growing edges. A place that doesn’t ask me to pretend. Home is the one spot in the world that fits me exactly as I am.