Sometimes the place we’re searching for isn’t a destination—it’s the feeling we’re learning to create.
If you had asked me this question years ago, I probably would have answered with a mountain town in Montana, a quiet cabin in Wyoming, or somewhere surrounded by forests where the stars still outnumber the streetlights.
Those places still call to me.
I love wide-open skies, cool mornings, and the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty—it feels healing.
But life has taught me something I didn’t understand when I was younger.
Home isn’t only a place.
Home is where your nervous system finally believes it’s safe.
It’s where you don’t have to explain your scars, earn your seat at the table, or pretend you’re someone you’re not.
It’s where laughter comes easily. Where coffee tastes a little better. Where people are allowed to be human.
Ironically, I’ve spent much of my life trying to find that feeling.
Now, instead of searching for it, I’m trying to build it.
Every essay I write, every journal I create, every quiet corner of my website is another board added to the porch I’m building—a place where someone else can sit for a while and remember they aren’t alone.
So where would I live?
Somewhere with mountains would certainly make my heart happy.
But more than that…
I want to live wherever love feels honest, peace feels possible, and people leave my porch feeling lighter than when they arrived.
That, to me, is home.
