Coming Home

For most of my life, I have felt like I didn't have a home. When I was a teenager, I was surrounded by people who said they loved me but failed to protect me and people who were downright cruel. Well into my young adulthood, I shuffled from place to place, an orphan struggling to connect to the people around me. When I felt like I had no one to talk to, no one who was willing to listen and truly hear me, I turned to writing.

I scribbled my pain in a million flowery journals and beat up composition notebooks. I jotted witty one-liners and to-dos in the notes section on my phone. I poured out my heart into anything that could hold my words. And that's where I found solace. That's where I felt like I belonged.

As time went on, I began to open myself up a little bit. I began sharing these writings and discovering with delight that when people read my writing, they began to see me. This began my dream of being an author, my deep desire to share my voice with the world and be listened to for what felt like the first time in my life.

I put my hands to my keyboard, my pen to my paper, and I began piecing together the journey I had been on for so long. The words in front of me began to spell out a story of resilience and hope. A story of rescue and redemption. A story that was worth living, even when the one living it all those years ago wasn't so sure that was true.

In my writing, I found a place where I belonged. I found a voice that felt strong, important. I found a purpose in my words, delicately placed on paper or powerfully spoken from my lips. In those words, I found home.

After a hiatus to find and heal myself, I have found myself longing for home. So here I am, partaking in the joys of coming home. I hope you'll step into this place I love so much and share it with me, if only to visit for a little while. Welcome.