When I was 13 years old, my mother told me, “you can always come home.” To my naïve ears, those words meant nothing but that on the days when I was lucky enough to be allowed to get out of the house, I had to be back before the street lights came on.
As I grew into my teenage years, those words meant that my mother was “home”, a fort that I could run to whenever I pleased. This included somewhat crafty ways of utilizing my “home” like making sure that every excuse I made not to go out with friends was linked to my mother even when she hadn’t heard a word about those plans.
Now, as I write this letter to you, I understand the gravity of always being able to come home. Home is whatever and sometimes, whoever you choose to make it. It’s a place of refuge when all the big bad world does is push you to the ground, sometimes, face first (gravity is no respecter of persons). It’s the long hug and peaceful silence unaccompanied by unwelcome probing which a friend provides after a day you believe could have only been sent from a fiery pit.
Home will always provide what you need and even though home doesn’t always provide enough, it caters to what’s relevant to your circumstance. I’ve learnt that home isn’t constant; it will change in various ways from time to time.
Without belittling your experiences and reducing them to something that can be covered in various blogposts, I hope that in at least one word, letter or even a space, you may find a home in this blog. May it be a place where you find empathy for your story, footsteps etched beside you as you take your journey, arms stretched out not only to catch but carry you if you stumble and above all, a heart that you’re assured dearly loves you despite it all.
Love reigns at home and may you never forget that…
YOU CAN ALWAYS COME HOME.