The Heart of Belonging

Home is not just a place I can point to on a map, it is a feeling that finds me when I’m not looking for it, slipping into quiet moments when my guard is down. The sense of being held even when no one is near. Home is the quiet understanding that I belong. The sound of a familiar voice calling my name, the way silence feels safe instead of empty, knowing that I can leave and still be welcomed back. Home does not demand perfection, it lets me arrive messy, tired, and unfinished. Home is more than four walls and a roof. It is the place where my heart loosens its grip, where I don’t have to explain why I am the way I am. It is where laughter echoes longer, where tears are not embarrassing, and where love shows up quietly, again and again. Home is memories stitched into the present, traditions repeated, stories retold, and moments that feel ordinary until they’re gone. It is the invisible thread that ties who I was, to who I am becoming. Home is those little things that I don’t notice until I miss them, scattered shoes lying by the door, the smell of my favourite meal drifting through the air; telling me that I am cared for without words. Home can be a person, a moment, or even myself, but no matter how far I go I carry it with me. Not as a destination, but as a reminder; I am never truly lost, because home lives inside me.