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.