I used to think a home meant walls, windows, and furniture. Turns out, that’s just a house.
Over the years, my definition of home kept evolving. From a place I could call mine, to a house I owned, to something far less tangible and far more meaningful.
Different stages of life bring different understandings.
For a long time, home meant putting down roots.
A place to stay.
A place to belong.
A place I could branch out from and grow.
And then, sometimes, life hands you a mirror.
A mirror that shows you not just who you are, but where you came from. And when life hands you that mirror, it often sprinkles in a little magic. A spell so subtle that if you’re not paying attention, you miss it entirely.
That spell is self-awareness.
The ability to truly look at yourself. To meet your past without flinching. And to glimpse a blank canvas quietly waiting to become your future.
A few years ago, life offered me that gift.
That flicker of clarity. Call it foresight. Call it grace.
I took it.
And somewhere along the way, my idea of home changed again.
I realised that I could choose and decided that I would rather have wings than roots. Now, home is where I rest my wings. Wings I grew through grit, hope, and moxie.
Roots can anchor you. Wings let you choose.
Home is people’s hearts, spaces where you are held without judgment, where you are allowed to be seen, accepted, and unfinished.
Home is also time itself.
The days, months, and years you are gifted, which you are free to shape as you wish.
To spend consciously. To honour.
To begin again.
Home, now, is a place that welcomes me as I am, and as I evolve.
Where love is not transactional. Where care flows even through silence. Where my presence is celebrated.
That is what home means to me now.
Not a structure. Not an address.
But a way of living.
A way of choosing.
A commitment to Honour and Own My Energy.
