Month: October 2025

Home is…

Home is where you poop. I mean seriously, how many times have you been in public and you just needed to let go of your meal from the previous night, you know, the one that had been building in your gut that caused you to toss and turn, that same one that you had to hold your farts in, so your significant other wouldn’t hear or worse yet, smell. Oh, who am I kidding? We ladies know that men don’t try to hold it in unless you have a sweet guy like mine, but that is a story for another day.

Home is where the bathroom is the most comfortable place in the house. The spot where you go to get away from the kids for a moment to catch your breath before diving into another fight or cleaning up another mess. Where you go to wash your hands, pretending that you’re using the bathroom, because you are trying to avoid that conversation you don’t want to have with your partner.

“Home is where you hang your hat,” at least that is what the sign said. Isn’t that cheesy, because I don’t wear a hat.

“Home is where you hang your heart” is another phrase I have heard.  I used to like that phrase until I gave it some thought. It isn’t as great now as when I first heard it because to hang your heart, you have to take it out.  And if you take it out, then you are dead.  For me, 24 years, home was where I hung my heart  -because I was definitely dead inside from hiding abuse from the preacher I was married to. Now, home is where I am with my current husband. No, that’s cheesy too. Being with him isn’t home; it is utter relaxation, calmness. Usually, it is a feeling of security, a sense of being loved and cherished, knowing he cares.

Home is where I put my leisure clothes on, where I take my panties off, and put the pjs on. Where I sometimes strut around nude. Home is where, as soon as I walk in the door, I want to remove the restrictive clothing I make myself wear so I feel pretty. So I feel like I look like someone with confidence or someone who knows where they are going in life.

Home is where I can be me. That is what I have with my husband. I can be me. So, he is home.

A home is a house, a structure with walls, and mine has a basement. Mine used to be a basement of lies, but now there are no lies except the ones we tell ourselves or our parents. The ones where we tell them how much we miss them and how much we love spending time with them. 

Home is where everyone comes to see me when they are feeling nostalgic or need to appease their conscience to see their mom, as I have done for many years, when I go to visit mine.

Home is where I cook a variety of meals, from hot to cold. Including Indian, Mexican, Asian, and American dishes, on occasion.

Home is where I store my stuff. My good stuff and bad stuff, memories are stored here too.

Home is where I sleep the best. There is no bed like the comfort of my own, even when I complain that it is not comfortable. Uncomfortable things and situations are often our comfort because they are what we are used to—nothing like trying something different to make us want to return to the familiar.  Unless, on a rare occasion, you actually do find and feel something better than what you currently have,

Home is where I am allowed to be dirty. Where I am allowed to be ugly physically and emotionally. I am allowed to let my hair down and be human, but I am pretty sure I have already touched on that.

Home is where home is.

Home is where I find solace from a busy, hectic day, where I find quiet. Thankfully, my newish home is peaceful; it hasn’t always been that way. It used to be loud.  I have a home, and I love it.

My home is a place of refuge for the weary, a place where the masks come off—not the literal kind, though those too, sometimes—but the emotional ones, the “I’m fine” and “I’ve got this” kind. It’s the place where the world doesn’t expect me to smile if I don’t feel like it, where tears can fall without needing an explanation, where laughter echoes off the walls without needing a punchline.

My home is where silence speaks louder than noise, where the hum of the refrigerator at 2 a.m. is the only soundtrack I need while wandering the kitchen in search of clarity. It’s where I stare at the same spot on the ceiling while processing the day’s chaos, and somehow, that patch of paint understands me better than most people do.

It’s where my husband kisses my forehead in passing, and I feel more loved than if he shouted it from a rooftop. It’s where arguments are allowed, although we rarely have them, and forgiveness lives in the walls. It’s where the shadows don’t scare me because I’ve made peace with them, learned to live with them, maybe even learned to love them a little.

Home is where the stories are told—not always out loud, but in the way the couch cushions sag where we always sit, in the coffee ring on the side.

This home—our home—isn’t just a sanctuary. It’s a scrapbook, a history book, a safe house, and a confessional. It’s the only place I can fall apart completely and know I won’t be judged for not having it all together.

So yeah, home is where you poop. But it’s also where you laugh until you cry, cry until you sleep, sleep until you’re whole again, and then get up and do it all over. It’s where life is lived unfiltered, unposed, and unapologetically real.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Unwanted Guest

Sitting up, I squinted toward the clock, trying to see if it was late enough to get up. Late enough — the quiet internal permission slip. If it’s before 3 a.m., it’s too early. 3 a.m. itself is borderline — only viable if I’d gone to bed early. But anything after 3… preferably closer to 4… means I’ve officially crossed into the “acceptable to rise” zone.

4:12 a.m. Glowing digits. That was late enough—time to begin.

I moved like a ghost, easing myself upright and reaching for my phone with slow, steady fingers. The strap hooks — those cursed, tiny clinks of metal — threatened to tap the glass nightstand. But I was careful. Every sound at this hour stretches out, echoing as if it’s trying to wake the house. Success. No clink.

Phone in hand, I padded the three steps to the bathroom door. The first hurdle: Don’t let the acrylic nails tap the resin door. Second: Turn the knob just right. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough so the door didn’t yawn open with a creak that would snap the peace in half.

Inside, I turned to the next challenge — closing the door silently behind me. I rotated the knob while pulling it shut, inch by inch, not daring to breathe. Almost… there— Pop!

Damn. Not quite silent. But done.

I didn’t turn on the light. I never do. My husband’s eyelids are basically tissue paper, and any sudden brightness sends his entire body lurching awake like he’s been shot. So instead, I thumbed the flashlight on my phone and crept to the toilet. The usual. Routine. Human.

After finishing, I reached into the closet and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt — easy, uncommitted choices. Something I learned in therapy: not every decision has to be made immediately. And choosing an outfit for the day was certainly not a decision I needed to make under the glare of a cell phone light at 4 a.m.

Now… slippers. Where did I leave them?

I only wear slippers with rubber soles. Just in case I have to go outside. I let myself go barefoot exactly once a week — right after the house cleaner comes. I love that soft slide across freshly mopped tile. But the rest of the time? Barriers. Always barriers.

Ah — there they were. Tucked by the sink. I must’ve slipped out of them last night with future-me in mind.

Left foot in. Then right. Bent the left knee, latched the ankle strap. Bent the right knee, latched—

And then I felt it.

Soft. Furry. A brush of cool movement, right across the top of my foot.

At first, I thought maybe it was just a bit of tissue or something loose, stuck between slipper and skin. I wiggled my foot.

It moved. It moved more than I did.

That wasn’t fuzz.

That wasn’t normal.

That wasn’t right.

A chill clawed its way up my spine as I shook my foot again — faster this time, harder — trying to convince myself it was just lint, just a trick of sensation. But no. No, it moved with intent. With awareness. And it was cool to the touch. Fuzz isn’t cool. Fuzz isn’t… alive.

I froze for a breath that was entirely too long. Then panic took over.

I jerked my leg. The strap held tight.

I stomped — once, twice — thinking maybe I could crush whatever was inside without having to see it.

It didn’t fall off. It clung.

I reached down, yanked the strap off, and kicked the slipper across the bathroom. It landed with a loud slap. I flicked the flashlight beam toward it, the light shaking in my hand—

And there it was.

Sprawled halfway out of the slipper. Brown. Furry. Legs twitching. About the size of a 50-cent piece, maybe more if you count the horribly mobile legs.

A spider.

I stood, breathing like I’d just run a mile uphill, heartbeat jackhammering. I didn’t care about waking anyone anymore. I flipped on the light.

I needed confirmation.

With trembling fingers, I took a photo. My only defense in the moment was identification — like naming a demon before it devours you.

AI said it was a wolf spider. A hunter. Not venomous to humans, but aggressive and fast. Curious. The kind that moves toward you, not away.

I stared at the picture while my body still buzzed with the memory of its legs across my skin.

Then I grabbed the slipper — the safe one — and with a single, hard thump, I ended it.

Afterward, I just stood there, breathing in the silence, surrounded by a sleeping house and shadows that felt just a little too aware. The flashlight still on. The image still open on my phone.

I thanked whatever silent force spared me a bite.

Because that spider had been on my foot. For too long.
Moving.
Thinking.

Waiting.