searching for home

Some of us arrive in this life with a deep knowing of home—rooted, steady, surrounded by familiar walls and familiar faces. Others are born into a path where home is something to be searched for, something to be built piece by piece, something that sometimes slips through our fingers just as we think we’ve found it.

I have lived in over forty houses since I was five years old. The longest I’ve stayed in one place was two years. My life has been a mosaic of borrowed spaces, new beginnings, and inevitable goodbyes. At times, it felt like I carried the winds of displacement inside me, an echo of something deeper than mere circumstance. Astrology calls this a Chiron wound in the 4th house—the ache of never quite belonging, of always seeking safety but struggling to feel it last. Some of us are born into themes we must live through to understand, and for me, home has been both a longing and a lesson.

For those of us with this karmic imprint, the journey to sanctuary is not just about finding the right walls or the right town. It’s an internal excavation. It’s about learning how to feel at home within our own bodies, how to steady ourselves even when the ground shakes, how to create warmth and safety wherever we are—whether in a temporary house, a hospital room, or the arms of someone we trust.

My own reckoning with home came sharply into focus when, at 18, I had my first experience with chronic pain and illness—two years of relentless UTIs and inflammation with no clear solution in sight. There is nothing quite like 24/7 pain and discomfort to reveal just how much our sense of safety—both internally and externally—affects our well-being. When my body no longer felt like a safe place to be, I had to learn—truly learn—how to come home to myself. To breathe into the discomfort, to soften into the fear, to create an inner refuge that no diagnosis, no address change, no loss could take from me.

We all have unique relationships with home. For some, it is a childhood house filled with echoes of laughter. For others, it is a place they have yet to find. And for many, it is a concept that has nothing to do with physical space at all, but rather the feeling of safety they cultivate within.

Home is the ground we build inside ourselves. It is the rituals that anchor us, the spaces we shape with intention, the people who remind us we belong. It is the slow, steady work of unlearning the belief that we are untethered. It is the deep breath in, the exhale out.

Some of us must work a little harder to find it. Some of us are still searching. But I promise you, home is not something you either have or don’t have—it is something you can create, something you can call back to yourself, over and over again.

And when you do, it will feel like an exhale. Like you have finally landed. Like you have, at last, come home.