Tag: parenting

I STEPPED ON A SNAKE IN MY CHACO’S

How Compulsions Start

According to my husband, I spend too much money on Amazon, and for once, I had to agree. I blame it on COVID, like all the other not-so-great habits we picked up and some not-so-bad ones, too. “Since COVID, I haven’t been able to…. When COVID hit, I… bought groceries online, and now I can’t stop….started drinking more… stopped going to church… stopped exercising… started exercising more… stopped going out… started writing….” COVID has been blamed for the reason we are doing whatever we are doing.

My Amazon purchases were so bad that the driver became accustomed to delivering packages to my house; if a neighbor ordered something on Amazon, they would automatically assume it was for me. I had to constantly redeliver Amazon boxes to our neighbors because they were mistakenly delivered to my home. I do not recall ever receiving one of my missing packages from a neighbor. Apparently, karma only works one way on our street, and I just want my slippers!

One morning, after unboxing a delivery, I stepped out into the garage to dispose of the garbage. As I stepped off the bottom step, I landed right on what I thought was fallen debris, perhaps an Amazon box. It felt firm under my foot, which left me a little confused. When I turned around, I realized I had stepped onto a snake. This snake was about 3 feet long and 3 inches in circumference. It was a fatty. Later, I would learn it was just a harmless water snake. I jumped back and screamed. Remembering what my kids said about me whenever I yelled at them.

“Mom, you can’t yell, we can’t take you serious.”

Yelling and screaming weren’t things that came natural to me, and according to them and the snake, it didn’t sound right either. The snake looked confused, acting like it wanted to slither away. I stood motionless as well. I looked at the creature blocking the entrance to my door. The door was still open. Now I am afraid the dog might have heard my scream and come to see what was going on. Then I started to worry that my 14-year-old would come to investigate too.

At this point, my mom instincts kicked in, and I stopped screaming because I do not want them to be in harm’s way. I stand there, staring at the snake, it lying there, staring back at me. I move left; it moves left. I move right; it moves right. I move forward; it moves backward. It is like one of those moments when you and a stranger are trying to get through the same entrance, but neither of you is sure which way or which side the other will choose, and you keep choosing the same way.

I want to run into the house, but in front of the steps lies a humongous snake. I want to run outside the garage, but the path between me, the car, and the snake is far too narrow to chance it. So I start waving my arms in the “shooing” manner to encourage it to go outside. Instead of going outside, it decided to slither around the steps and coil up under the mop bucket left there earlier in the week to dry.

I immediately called my husband, “I just stepped on a snake in the garage, and I have my Chacos on.”

“What?”

“I just fucking stepped on a snake in the garage with open-toed sandals, and it is still in here!” I said, emphasizing each word.

He, hearing the panic in my voice, jumped in his truck, drove down from the shop, and took care of the snake.

This is one of those life-changing moments that alter the way you live your life. I’ve had a few of those moments, like when a giant wolf spider was in my slipper while I was trying to put it on. Like when there was a huge King snake on our back deck, mind you, this deck sits elevated about 8-10 feet off the ground, so I’m still trying to figure out how he got there. And then there was the time my husband found a copperhead in the garage on MY side of the car.

Fear doesn’t fix you; it just teaches you to move differently through the world. The Amazon boxes still arrive. But now I never walk into the garage without looking down. I shake out my slippers, scan the deck, and check every corner. COVID gave me one set of compulsions; a three-foot water snake gave me another.

I’m not sure which habits are worse.

A woman addicted to Prime

Bought boxes delivered on time

She stepped on a snake

In sandals—big mistake!

Now she checks every floor,

every time

Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment

Life After Suicide Loss Is Lived in the Present Moment

Lessons From the Tufted Titmouse

This morning, I was noticing the Tufted Titmouse at my feeders. It is a small, alert bird with a soft voice and a steady presence. A symbol of healing, but not in the way people often think. It is not promising closure or answers. It tells us to keep going even when life has permanently changed.

After losing a child, life stops making sense, and grief collapses time. The future feels unreachable, and the past feels too heavy to carry. Most days are not about hope or meaning; they are about surviving the stage you are in. The Tufted Titmouse reminds us to stay present, do what the moment requires, nothing more. It isn’t suggesting that we “move on.” It invites us to survive this moment, then the next.

The bird’s small, persistent movements mirror how we, as bereaved parents, can continue living through each season. Maybe you are just surviving, fragment by fragment. But getting up and feeding yourself is showing up. Saying their name and breathing through waves that come without warning does not weaken us; it is an endurance that strengthens us.

The titmouse is also known for its song, reminding us how important it is to speak our child’s name, tell their story, and to allow our grief to have a voice. Silence can isolate us. Sharing does not mean we are stuck; it means our love did not end. It does not mean “everything happened for a reason.”  But it does imply that life still has purpose, even while we carry this permanent loss.

Some days, noticing something simple in nature may feel like the only thing that can ground us. It’s a Tufted Titmouse at the feeder, a windchimes melody, a foggy morning of calm. These moments do not minimize our loss; they remind us that we are still here, even when our hearts are broken. The Titmouse teaches us to live with grief rather than resolve it. Strength is not the absence of sorrow; it is learning how to carry it.

What to Do When You’re Caught in the Middle

Being caught in the middle doesn’t feel like conflict — it feels like captivity.
It feels like being stuck in a snare with no way to move without hurting someone.
Like a mouse trap waiting to snap shut.
Like you’re locked in a raccoon cage, unsure if speaking the truth will free you… or cost you everything.

People talk about “taking sides” like it’s simple.
But when you’re caught in the middle of family, trauma, loyalty, and truth, nothing about it is simple.

It’s one of the loneliest places a person can stand.

What You’re Really Caught Between

Sometimes “caught in the middle” means choosing between two opinions.

But sometimes — like in my life — it means standing between your own child who was harmed and your own child who did the harming.

Between the daughter who still carries wounds and the son whose actions caused them.

Between the victim in your home and the perpetrator who shares your blood.

Between your mother — who continues contact with the perpetrator — and your daughter, the victim.

Between your loyalty as a mother and your integrity as a protector.

Between who you used to be and who you’re becoming.

Between the pressure to keep quiet and the truth that refuses to stay silent anymore.

It’s not two sides.
It is layers of emotional conflict, guilt, fear, and responsibility colliding inside your chest.


Why This Position Freezes You

People say, “Just say what you feel,” but they don’t see what comes with it.

When you’re in the middle, speaking the truth feels dangerous.

You fear hurting someone you love.
You fear being misunderstood.
You fear being shunned.
You fear being blamed for protecting the wrong person — when you know exactly who needs protection.
You fear your mother’s reaction.
You fear the silence, the withdrawal, the guilt she might use.
You fear your childhood patterns pulling you back into old roles.

You fear becoming the target for finally telling the truth.

That fear freezes you.
Not because you’re weak, but because you’ve carried too many people’s emotions for too long.


You’re Allowed to Step Out of the Middle

This is the truth many of us need spoken out loud:

You are not betraying anyone by protecting the victim.
You are not abandoning someone by refusing to enable harmful choices.
You are not wrong for saying, “Enough.”
You are not required to cushion your truth to keep someone else comfortable.
You can love someone and still say, “This crosses a line for me.”
You can grieve what happened without sacrificing your integrity.

You are allowed to choose clarity over chaos.
You are allowed to choose protection over appeasement.
You are allowed to choose truth over silence.

You are allowed — fully allowed — to walk out of the middle.


How to Un-Freeze When You’re Caught in the Middle

Here are the steps that help you move from paralysis to clarity:

1. Name What’s Actually Happening

Write it plainly.
Do not soften it for someone else’s comfort.

2. Ask What Aligns With Your Values

What decision reflects the kind of mother, woman, friend, or human you want to be?

3. Decide Who Truly Needs Protection

Protect the vulnerable one.
Protect the honest one.
Protect the one who did not choose this.

4. Set One Clear, Simple Boundary

Not a debate.
Not a speech.
A boundary.

“This is not okay with me.”
“I won’t participate in this.”
“I love you, but I cannot be involved if you continue this.”

5. Speak With Clarity and Compassion

Firm does not mean unkind.
Compassion does not mean surrender.

6. Allow People to React However They React

They may:
– Shame you
– Guilt you
– Pull away
– Play victim
– Get angry
– Give the silent treatment

Their reaction belongs to them.
It is not proof you did something wrong.
It is evidence that you set a boundary they didn’t like.

7. Anchor Yourself After the Conversation

Your body may shake.
Your stomach may twist.
Old fears may roar.

That is normal.

Here are anchoring practices:

• Breathe: 4 seconds in, 6–8 out.
• Hand on chest: “I am safe. I told the truth.”
• Move your body: walk, stretch, shake out your hands.
• Ground yourself:
5 things you see
4 things you can touch
3 things you hear
2 things you smell
1 thing you taste
• Write what triggered you.
• Remind yourself: “A trembling body is a brave body.”
• Talk to someone who truly understands the situation.

Anchoring doesn’t erase fear — it prevents fear from dragging you back into silence.


Taking a Stand Doesn’t Make You Divisive

Taking a stand does not divide a family.
Harm divides families.
Silence divides families.
Minimizing what happened divides families.

Standing for what’s right is clarity, not conflict.

Protecting a victim is integrity.
Refusing to stand in the middle is courage.

A Soft, Steady Closing

There comes a moment when staying in the middle becomes impossible.
Not because you stopped loving people.
Not because you’re choosing sides out of anger.
But because the truth finally whispers:

“You don’t belong in the snare anymore.”

Stepping out isn’t selfish — it’s sacred.
It’s the moment you choose protection over silence, healing over guilt, and courage over captivity.

It’s the moment you finally allow yourself to stand somewhere solid —
where your truth has room to breathe.

I’m better now, since you left….

I’m better now, since you left….

I used to cry for you everyday

but now I only cry in January

Knowing I start a New Year without you.

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in February when I

remember the love I have for you and how sweet you were

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in March

when the earth renews, and the grass starts

to grow of how you loved to take care of the yards

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in June

Especially on Father’s day, you would wish me happy father’s day.

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in July

You were born on the 4th; I will never view fireworks and BBQs the same.

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in August

But only on 31 of those days

And only 24 hours of the 28th day

the day you left us

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in September

We sifted your remains in your favorite place

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in October

You were supposed to be here for you first nieces’ day of birth, you even bought her gifts

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in November

There is an empty seat at our Thanksgiving table

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry for you in December

One less player for dirty Santa

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry on Fridays

it was a Friday that day you left us

I don’t cry for you everyday

Only on the days I when I’m thinking about you

And I think about you everyday

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I should have said was:
“Oh wow! That’s a unique name. Where did you come up with it?”

But instead, I said:

“P?? That’s a boy’s name.”

My oldest son and his wife were expecting their first child, my first granddaughter. I remember the night they called to share the fantastic news that they were having a girl.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I asked.

With pride and excitement, they told me the name they had chosen.
In my old-lady shock, I blurted out:

“P? Why do you want to name her that? That’s a boy’s name!”

I didn’t realize how in love they were with that name. To my embarrassment, I later learned the error of my disappointing words. What I should have said was:

“Oh wow, that’s really cute.”

Even though at the time I had never heard that name used for a girl, I’ve met a few girls with that name since then. I’ll tell you what, when I hear baby name announcements now, I say things like:

“Ohhh, that’s unique!” or

“Sweet!”

Or, I immediately look it up to see what the name means.

Irie means God’s grace looking down on us.

It was too late to look up the meaning of “P.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to smooth it over; I said what I said, and what has been said cannot be unsaid.

Turns out “P” means keeper of the parks and nature, the perfect name for a little girl who loves the outdoors. Like a wildflower growing in an unexpected place, her name bloomed in my heart, slowly, then all at once.

These days, I keep my Grandma mouth in check. I’ve learned the art of the polite pause, long enough to Google and nod appreciatively.

I’ve also learned that names, like people, grow on you. And sometimes, the name you couldn’t understand becomes the name you can’t imagine living without.
Now, when I call out to little “P” and she turns around with that curious sparkle in her eyes, I think…

“What a perfect name for such a wild and wonderful little girl.”

My First Memory Is…

My First Memory Is…

My first memory is of corn.
Chunks, golden and whole, floating in a sour puddle.
My first memory is three concrete steps and a landing, slick with dew.
A door that opened. A mother’s voice, sharp.
Not my mother—someone else’s.
Disappointment.
I wanted to play. I wanted to laugh.
Instead:
A swing, alone.
Then my mother’s face, storming through the park.
Hands pulling.
The walk home.
Do I remember the spanking?
No.
Do I remember the corn?
Always.

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I  keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

The Book That Changed Everything

How grace broke the chains of control in my home and heart

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”
— Jeff VanVonderen, Families Where Grace Is in Place

I don’t remember the exact year or even where we were living at the time. But I know it was somewhere between 2007 and 2009 when I picked up a book that would change everything: Families Where Grace Is in Place by Jeff VanVonderen.

I didn’t know it then, but those pages were about to unravel everything I thought I believed about parenting, marriage, and faith.

Before Grace

At the time, I was a stay-at-home wife and a homeschooling mom of ten. Number eleven would arrive later. I was also a preacher’s wife. My husband and I were fully immersed in Independent Fundamental Baptist ministry. We pastored churches, traveled as evangelists, and held revival meetings across the country.

We were loyal. Passionate. Zealous. And convinced we were right.

We preached that having a television was sinful. That women wearing pants was sinful. That too much makeup was sinful—though a little was allowed, so long as it didn’t “draw attention.” I sewed all my own dresses and wore my hair long—though thanks to my hormones, it rarely got far past my shoulders.

We were strict with our children. They had no phones, no TV (because we didn’t own one), no outside friends, no sports. We believed all of those things would lead to sin. We even pulled our oldest son out of college once, convinced he was living “outside the umbrella” of parental authority.

We spanked often. Sometimes for small things. Sometimes for nothing more than an attitude. Every day, we sat our kids down and taught them right from wrong. We drilled obedience into them—not from a place of love, but fear. Fear that if they messed up, it would reflect badly on us. That we’d look like failures. That God would be disappointed.

When we lived in Iowa, I made my girls wear skirts over their snowsuits just to play outside. When we went swimming, it was always in remote places. The girls swam in culottes. The boys wore jeans. My children weren’t allowed to have their own opinions or make their own decisions.

They were born walking on eggshells—and we made sure those eggshells never cracked.

The Book

I don’t recall how I ended up with Families Where Grace Is in Place. Maybe someone passed it to me. Perhaps I picked it up on a whim. But as I began reading, the words leaped off the page. Sentence after sentence felt like someone had opened a window I didn’t even know was there.

The book talked about how families fall into cycles of control, pressure, and manipulation—often in the name of love or righteousness. It spoke of the deep weariness that comes from trying to meet impossible standards. The perfectionism. The fear of failure.

That was us. Especially with so many children, we constantly felt watched, judged, and evaluated. Our theology was built on performance. And we were exhausted.

Then came a line that hit me in the chest:

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”

It undid me. All at once, I saw the truth. I wasn’t parenting out of love—I was parenting out of fear. I wasn’t guiding my husband—I was trying to control him. And he was trying to control me. Together, we had built a family that looked good on the outside but was suffocating on the inside.

The book painted a different vision: one where grace replaced fear. Where children were free to make decisions and mistakes. Where love didn’t mean control. Where acceptance was not conditional on perfection.

And something inside me shifted.

The Bridge

As I read, I had one aha moment after another.

I realized we were trying so hard to protect our children from the world that we were crushing their spirits. We didn’t want them to sin, so we removed their freedom. We didn’t want them to mess up—so we made every decision for them. We called it holiness. But really, it was fear.

Even our decision to homeschool wasn’t about education. It was about control. About keeping their behavior within a bubbl,e we could manage.

After trying to “homeschool with grace” for a while, I finally admitted the truth: we weren’t equipped. So we enrolled our children in public school.

It wasn’t a seamless transition. One of my daughters started school in her junior year and had to double up on math to catch up. Thankfully, Arkansas accepted her science, history, and English credits. One of my younger girls had to repeat kindergarten because I hadn’t finished the year—we had opened a daycare in our home, and it consumed my time and attention.

My third daughter and fifth son—only a year and a half apart—both entered fourth grade the same year. He had fallen behind under my teaching. I warned the principal to separate them; I knew she’d do all his work if they stayed together. They listened, and the school helped bring him up to speed within that year.

During this season of change, I was also starting to rediscover my own worth. I filed for a restraining order against my abusive husband. For a time, I let him come back—still caught in that old belief that if I just tried harder, he would change. That if I prayed more, obeyed more, submitted more, he would become the man I needed.

But I was beginning to see: you can’t change someone by controlling them. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed.

After Grace

It’s been over 16 years since I read that book. My baby is now a junior in high school. The way I parent him is entirely different than how I raised the others—especially the oldest ones.

I’ve apologized to some of my children. I’ve told them I wish I could go back and do it all differently. And I mean it. I see some of them now, parenting the way I once did—out of fear, trying to control everything. But I don’t lecture. I offer gentle reminders. I try to model something different.

Our family structure isn’t perfect. Our children aren’t perfect. I’m not perfect. One of my sons is in prison. That hurts to say. But even in that, grace remains. We no longer try to control each other. We don’t panic when we see a child or sibling making choices we wouldn’t make. We offer love. We offer space.

And we let go.

Letting go is hard. Watching someone you love repeat mistakes you’ve already made is hard. Trusting grace instead of fear is hard.

But control?

Control is harder.

💬 Want to share your story of breaking free from control-based parenting or faith structures? Comment below or message me privately — you’re not alone.

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.