HOMECOMING (AT LAST)

For most of my life, the idea of home felt more like a performance than a place.

Respectability, Perfection, and Polished Appearances

I grew up in a religious environment steeped in respectability politics and an unwavering belief in the nuclear family.

From the outside, it all looked polished:
the Saturday potlucks, the smiles in the pews, the well-dressed families who always seemed to have it together.

But behind closed doors—both in my house and others—I witnessed a much more complicated truth.

I watched single mothers be shamed, even as dysfunction brewed quietly inside the “respectable” households. The message was clear: appearances mattered more than authenticity.

Outsiders in Our Own Community

At home, things didn’t match the script.

We didn’t host post-church dinners.
We didn’t offer appetizers or dessert.
Our rituals were simpler—vegan meals, quiet evenings, no small talk.

It didn’t escape me that we were outsiders, even among our own community.

And while I couldn’t explain it at the time, I felt the tension of being asked to perform a version of belonging that didn’t feel real.

Home as a Mirror

That inner conflict shaped the way I experienced space—and how I came to understand the idea of belonging.

I began to equate home with aesthetic perfection.

In my mind, it looked like something out of Leave It to Beaver or the Huxtables:
intentional, warm, stylish, loving.

When my own home life didn’t match that ideal, I quietly internalized it:
maybe we didn’t deserve beautiful things.
Maybe we were just surviving.

Friendships, Relationships, and Self-Worth

This belief crept into every area of my life:

I avoided inviting people over.
I kept friendships at a distance.
I leaned into performative versions of home—ones I saw on TV or in magazines.
And deep down, I believed that home was a reflection of self-worth.

The House That Shifted Everything

And then, I bought a house.

It was thrilling and terrifying all at once.
There were spreadsheets and paint swatches, yes—but also a strange, persistent ache I couldn’t quite name.

Until one day, offhandedly, I said to my husband:

“This is the nicest home I’ve ever lived in... and it’s ours.”

That sentence cracked something open.

I hadn’t just bought a house—I had come home to myself.

Learning to Stay

Here’s what I didn’t expect:
healing doesn’t end with the keys in hand.

After years of not feeling settled, I had to learn how to stay.

I had a habit of not unpacking—literally and emotionally.
Closets half-filled.
Bins as permanent furniture.

Not because I was messy. But because I didn’t believe I belonged long enough to settle in.

A Declaration of Worth

This belief showed up in college too.

I moved into my stepmother’s home—and for a full year, she never cleared the room for me.
I tiptoed around someone else’s things, feeling like a guest in my own life.

One day, I pushed it all into the hallway.
Not in anger, but as a quiet declaration:

I deserve space.

This Is the Beginning

This post marks the beginning of something new.

A personal reckoning with what home really means—
not the curated, Instagram-worthy version,
but one rooted in healing, softness, and self-worth.

I’m learning to build habits that reflect where I am now, not where I’ve been.
And I’m inviting you to witness it with me.

Welcome home.