My home is the dearest place in the world to me. I don’t think I love anyone or anything more than I love my home. It’s something I’ve achieved after years of effort — perhaps the only thing in my life that truly feels like mine.
There are times when I feel there’s no one in my life I can truly call “mine.” But strangely, that doesn’t make me sad anymore. Having a place that belongs to me brings a kind of peace that no relationship ever could. People come and go — their presence is never guaranteed. But my home stays.
All my life, I’ve felt a little out of place — scattered, detached, and searching for belonging. But when I walk through my door, I feel something shift. My home grounds me. It makes me feel safe. It reminds me that I’ve built something with my own hands, something that reflects who I am.
There’s a quiet love in its blank walls — a love I once searched for in people, but never found.
Perhaps homes are meant to be shaped by the people who live in them — and perhaps mine breathes love because I am the one who fills it.
Here, no one commands me. No one judges me. No one reaches for the control I’ve fought so hard to keep. Within these walls, I am untamed, unfiltered, entirely me.
The world outside can be harsh, unpredictable — I am ready for its storms. But even in my darkest dreams, I cannot imagine giving up this space.
Because this home is not just where I live — it is where I finally exist.
Among all the things I’m grateful for, my home will always come first.