Homecoming

I used to think coming home was a journey. Now I know it is a choice.

‘Homecoming’

Coming home isn’t what I thought.

I believed it was a journey to be made.

And the home inside of me—the final destination.

But it’s not.

Because the truth is—I’ve never left.

I am always with myself.

Every ache, every joy, every contradiction.

I carry it all. I always have.

But I’ve learned something—something I think is true for many of us:

We can be with ourselves our whole lives—

and still not feel safe in our own skin.

And certainly not believe the home inside us is trustworthy.

For some, it does.

Coming home feels natural.

Safe.

Like an exhale they didn’t know they were holding.

But for me—and maybe for most of us—

it’s the last place we want to be.

Because sometimes, the home inside us is cluttered with old beliefs we didn’t choose.

Sometimes, it echoes with voices that never saw us clearly.

Sometimes, it’s haunted.

Filled with ghosts we can’t see.

Nightmares we can’t escape.

Sometimes, the home inside us feels dangerous.

I’ve learned, we’re all born with a home inside of us—

but not into a blank space.

That home comes already decorated,

furnished with the fears, hopes, wounds, and wisdom

of generations before us.

Over time, it fills even more—

with the stories we’re told,

the love we receive or don’t,

the harm we survive,

the things we keep secret,

and the truths we haven’t named yet.

Coming home to myself isn’t a return.

It’s a renovation.

An excavation.

A reckoning.

And, eventually—an acceptance.

And maybe it doesn’t have to happen all at once.

Maybe it’s not about gutting the whole house—

maybe it starts with carving out one small corner,

just for me.

A safe place to rest

while I slowly, bravely dismantle the rest.

Bit by bit.

Light by light.

Maybe it’s about sitting down in the middle of the mess

and deciding what stays, what goes,

and what gets rewritten in my own handwriting.

And, just as importantly,

it’s deciding what I will allow to come in next.

What voices.

What stories.

What loves.

What truths.

That part?

That part is not easy.

But it’s something we all get to claim.

And most of all—it’s a choice.

A daily choice.

For everyone.

No matter where you are in life,

or how long you’ve been away from your own tenderness,

you can still choose to stay.

So let’s start where we are.

With what we have.

With whatever part of us is willing.

Let’s choose to make it livable.

Let’s choose to make it ours.

Let’s choose to make it safe.

Let’s choose, again and again,

to come home.