Do you recognize “home” when you feel it?
Or do you only recognize it once it’s gone?
People talk about home like it’s a place.
An address.
A space.
A set of walls you return to at the end of the day.
I’ve had places that looked like home.
Apartments that were quiet.
Spaces that were ours.
Rooms that held our things.
And in those places…
there were moments that actually felt like it.
Jon (spouse) has always had a way of making wherever we lived feel warm.
Cozy.
Inviting.
People would come over and say they could feel it-
like they could finally relax.
We built that.
Homemade pizza on the weekends.
Not just throwing something together-
everything from scratch.
The night before, we’d make the sauce.
Blending oregano, basil, red pepper flakes, fresh garlic-
letting it sit long enough for everything to come together.
The day of, I’d make the dough.
Kneading it until it felt right.
Jon would take over from there.
Stretching the dough out,
picking the playlist,
dancing around like it was part of the process.
Then I’d add the sauce.
The toppings.
Getting the balance just right.
And somewhere in there-
a five-minute dance party.
Every time.
Didn’t matter where we were.
That was part of it too.
That felt like home.
So I know it exists.
We used to housesit.
Moving from one home to another-
spaces that weren’t ours.
And still…
we made them feel like they were.
We brought our things with us.
I’d set up the kitchen the way I liked it.
Jon would get the TV and gaming space just right.
We fell into our rhythms.
The same meals.
The same routines.
The same small things that made everything feel familiar.
It didn’t matter where we were.
We still created something that felt like home.
Because we were the constant.
Which is what makes this harder to understand.
Because if home is a place-
then I don’t have one right now.
We’re in an RV.
Moving.
Parking.
Leaving.
Trying to stay somewhere just long enough to breathe
before being told it’s time to go again.
But even here…
pieces of it still show up.
Not the walls.
Not the stability.
But the way we exist inside it.
People also say home is the people around you.
That it’s connection.
Support.
Someone you can call when things fall apart.
I used to believe that more broadly.
But I’ve learned there’s a difference between being loved
and being supported.
And those two things don’t always exist in the same place.
Except…
sometimes they do.
Jon has always shown up.
Even in this.
Especially in this.
So if home is people-
maybe it’s not everyone.
Maybe it’s just the ones who stay.
Then there’s the version of home that people don’t always talk about.
The one that lives in your body.
The feeling of being able to exhale.
Of not bracing.
Of not waiting for something to shift or fall apart.
I don’t always recognize that feeling anymore.
But there are moments,
small ones,
where something softens.
A laugh.
A shared look.
A familiar rhythm we’ve built over years.
And for a second-
it’s there again.
At some point, I started realizing…
maybe what I thought was “home”
wasn’t always what I thought it was.
Some of it was real.
Some of it was just familiar.
And losing that-
even the parts that weren’t good-
still felt like losing something.
Because it was still something.
So now I’m here.
No fixed place.
No stability I can point to and say “this is secure.”
But I’m not completely without home.
Because somehow…
in the middle of all of this-
we’re still here.
Together.
Still making space for small moments.
Still finding ways to laugh.
Still creating something that feels like ours.
So maybe home isn’t as simple as I thought.
Maybe it’s not just a place.
Or all people.
Or a constant feeling.
Maybe it’s something you build,
and carry,
and sometimes lose pieces of,
but not all of it.
So now I’m asking something different.
Not just:
Do you recognize “home” when you feel it?
But-
Can you still recognize it
when almost everything else is gone?
Because I think I’m starting to.
We don’t always have a place.
But without a doubt…
we still have the dance.
Pizzas and dancing, and Jon! I'm glad that even through the storms you're weathering, you have this little circle of home wherever you may be ❤️
Friday night was almost always pizza night. The radio station played Motown on Friday and that made it even better. I was going through old drives the other night and saw pics of my kids standing on chairs at the counter at 6 or 7 trying their hand at rolling at dough, flouring the surface and making a huge mess. It was good pizza too. Thin crust most times. Great memories to have.
Especially on a Friday night.