HOME

A house is a place, but a home is something you claim. A house can stand tall without ever knowing your name, but a home is shaped by the echoes of your footsteps, the weight of your memories, and the courage it takes. I grew up learning that walls don’t guarantee warmth, and roofs don’t promise safety. I learned that dark corners, flickering night‑lights, shadows that stretched across the room were all part of a story I didn’t choose, yet I survived. There were nights when crying was the only thing I knew. Some nights I wondered if something was wrong with me, if love was something meant for others. Trust became an unknown thing, breaking each time I tried to hand it to someone new. Behind doors.. yelling..hitting... neighbours called, asked if everything was okay.. he’d lie. It wasn't one of those “happy families” it was “scared for its life family”. And then came the shelters.. because of my dad, you would think he must have been horrible, but he was worse, you'd never know what was going on behind the blinds. A truth I couldn't deny myself nor could others. People call it trauma, but to me it was one of a kind. The forced cheerfulness from my mum, the thin blankets.. they didn’t erase the fear they added to it. I found moments that kept me alive. Wrestling with siblings. My mum's hugs. Inventing games that made me feel free, even if we were trapped. But life doesn’t pause for your fear. It keeps pushing, whispering and even the smallest spark can grow into something bright. Now I’m standing in a new space, not untouched by the past but no longer defined by it, built on my mum's strength and determination to give us a HOME.