Find My Way Home

I keep thinking

home is a place—

a doorway I’ll recognize,

a feeling that settles

the second I step inside.

But everywhere I go

feels temporary,

like I’m passing through

something that was never

meant to keep me.

I’ve chased it in people—

in the way they said my name,

in the spaces they made for me,

in the moments

I thought I finally belonged.

But people leave.

Or change.

Or become something

I can’t stay inside of anymore.

And suddenly

I’m standing there again—

hands empty,

heart full of something

that doesn’t know where to go.

So I start over.

New places.

New faces.

New versions of myself

I hope will finally feel right.

But the truth is—

I’ve been looking outward

for something

that was never out there.

Because home

isn’t a person.

It isn’t a place

that can disappear on me.

It’s something quieter than that.

Something I have to build

inside myself—

piece by piece,

through every mistake,

every loss,

every time I didn’t think

I’d make it through.

Maybe finding my way home

isn’t about arriving.

Maybe it’s about learning

to stay

with myself

long enough

to feel like

I never left.