home.

I used to think that home was a place. A place I had to find, or build for myself. A place that was entirely my own. 

Oh but how wrong I was.

Home is not a place. Not for me at least. In the dark times in my life I wanted nothing more than to run away to find my home. My place. My nest of quiet in the madly spinning world. I was waiting - waiting for the day I could start looking, waiting for the day I could find it. I needed it so badly. To feel rooted, attached, to feel truly, finally, home. 

I wish so badly that I had known then that home is not a place. It is not for us to go searching desperately for. It is not a concrete thing that can be held and picked apart and examined. It's not as simple as all that. 

I've been home since the first time Kyle wrapped me up in his arms. Home is a feeling that grows in your heart when your soul finds exactly what it needs. It's a special kind of magic you don't always notice at first. It's slow and warm like liquid honey, spreading from the depths of your soul out and beyond yourself, surrounding you and giving you that warm and cozy feeling that everyone associates with 'home.'

My home is my husband and my children. They fill me with a warmth and a happiness and a contentment I cannot and have not ever found in anything else. Even in trying time I can find an anchor in them that helps hold me down and weather the storm. They are home to me. 

It doesn't matter where we live or what our it looks like when I walk int he front door. While it's fun to imagine the 'dream home' or fantasize and plan about decor, that's not what makes a home. What makes a home are the people you share it with. 

If I could write my 13 year old self a letter, I'd only tell her two things. you were not put on this world to be ordinary - don't fight it. And home is not a place.

To my loving and wonderful husband, and my wild and beautiful children:

Home is wherever I'm with you.