For so long, you searched for peace as if it lived somewhere outside yourself — in the next relationship, the next change, the next version of your life that hurt a little less. You built walls and bridges, burned both down, and still kept walking, hoping somewhere along the way you’d stumble upon a place that finally felt like home. But one day, you stopped. Not because you’d given up, but because you’d grown tired of running from the present moment. And in that stillness, something softened. You realized home isn’t a place you find — it’s something you learn to build within yourself.

Home is the breath that steadies you when memories rise like waves. It’s the quiet pride in knowing you’ve survived everything meant to destroy you. It’s the small rituals — morning coffee, sunlight through curtains, a child’s laughter, the warmth of your own hand on your heart — that remind you life is still worth showing up for. You’ve carried yourself through hell and back, and though the fire left scars, it also burned away the illusion that you needed to be anyone other than who you are.

Now, peace no longer feels like a finish line. It feels like a garden you tend daily — imperfect, wild, and deeply alive. Some days it flourishes; others, you’re just clearing weeds. But it’s yours. It’s real. And in tending to it, you discover something profound: that home was never lost. It was waiting, patiently, for you to return to yourself.