People often spend their lives searching for a home to return to.
A place with a warm light at the door,
a bowl of hot rice,
and someone waiting to hear the words, “I’m home.”

She was once like that.
She used to believe that a home was a physical place—
an address, family inside,
framed photos hanging on the wall.

But through many losses, she came to understand:
Some homes are not outside.
They dwell within the chest.

A true home isn’t the safest place—
but the place where you are most fully yourself.
Not a place without conflict—
but where people choose to stay after anger has passed.
Not a place of perfect comfort—
but where you don’t have to pretend to be strong.

She began building that home—within her.

Each brick was an old wound,
washed clean with tears.
Each door was a new belief,
opened after years of being shut.

That house had no concrete foundation.
It was built on compassion—
for herself.

She learned to speak to herself each morning:

“It’s okay. You’ve done really well.”
“If someone hurts you today, come back here—this heart-home will hold you.”
“You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be real.”

And strangely, the moment she stopped waiting for someone else to give her a home,
she began seeing homes everywhere:

– In the glance of a stranger meeting her gaze with a smile.
– In the rustling sound of a stray cat outside the door.
– In the quiet moment alone with a cup of tea, no longer feeling lonely.

She wrote a line in her journal:

“I once had no home.
But now, I am the home for my own soul.”

Then she remembered her mother.

The mother who once stood silent through her injustices,
now marked by wrinkles.
The mother who once couldn’t protect her,
now looked at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret.

Once, she had wanted to scream,
“Why didn’t you protect me?”

But now, she simply looked at her mother and said gently:

“You may not have been my home.
But I will be your home—when you grow old.”

And so, she forgave herself—
for her moments of weakness,
for the times she almost let go,
for loving the wrong people and trusting the wrong places.

Because the home in her heart wasn’t a space only for the beautiful.
It was a shelter for cracks and foolishness too.

End of Chapter:

Perhaps no one teaches us how to build a home inside.
But each of us can learn—
from ruin,
from winters spent unwelcomed,
from moldy rented rooms,
from dreams cut short.

And once we learn to become a home for ourselves,
we no longer fear being abandoned.
Because we already have a place to return to—
a place no one can take away.