Home isn’t always a place.
Sometimes, it’s a feeling. A rhythm. A return.
I spent years building a sanctuary for my family—a space filled with light, warmth, and intention. On the outside, it looked like the dream. And in many ways, it was. But while the walls held beauty, my relationship didn’t hold the same peace. It lacked honesty. Safety. Presence.
There’s this idea that once you’re single, you’re supposed to search for “home” in another person. But I’ve learned—it starts within. And if you’re lucky, someday, you might meet someone who feels like home too. But that’s not the beginning. You are.
I’ve felt that sense of belonging in Costa Rica, New York, and Tel Aviv. Yet it was never the place—it was my own presence. That deep, creative pulse inside me. When I’m creating, I feel it. My body alive. My mind still. My spirit awake.
And then, I lost the physical home I had built. It cracked something open in me. It reminded me: having a space you love matters too. A corner of the world that reflects who you are, where your nervous system can rest, where you don’t have to perform.
That, too, is love. That, too, is home.
I used to believe I could carry home inside me no matter where I was. And in many ways, that’s true. But what I’ve come to realize is that the physical, tangible spaces we live in shape us too. The way the light pours in through a window. The scent of herbs in the kitchen. The texture of silence at night. These things matter.
We need places that feel like extensions of our soul.
We need rooms that don’t ask us to shrink.
We need to see ourselves reflected in the colors, the sounds, the stillness.
When I lost my home, I grieved more than a structure. I grieved a version of myself. But I also began to listen more deeply. To create differently. To remember what truly holds me.
It’s not the zip code.
It’s not the person beside you (though that can be beautiful, too).
It’s the way your nervous system exhales when you walk through the door.
It’s the way your spirit returns when you sit with yourself and feel—finally—at ease.
That’s what I’m rebuilding now. Not just a house. Not just a chapter.
A whole new way of being at home—with myself, with life, with the wild unknown.
This season of my life is not about arrival.
It’s about alignment.
Not chasing the next version of “home,” but noticing the one that’s already unfolding—within and around me.
There’s a quiet kind of joy in letting go of the blueprint.
In asking, What feels true today?
In allowing your inner landscape to guide the outer one.
Some days, home is a walk in nature.
Other days, it’s a single cup of tea in silence.
It might be the scent of sandalwood on my wrists or the way my body moves when I dance alone.
Home shows up in unexpected places when we start to listen differently.
I no longer crave permanence.
I crave presence.
Spaces that breathe with me. People who meet me in truth. Moments that don’t rush.
And maybe, after all this time, this is what I was seeking:
Not a place. Not a person.
But a way of being in the world that doesn’t ask me to leave myself behind.
