Home is Good
My eyelids feel heavy, like they’re weighed down by the whirlwind of the past few days. It's been a chaotic ride—first, an impromptu business trip that had me packing in a hurry, grabbing essentials like pajamas and my trusty breast pump since my little one couldn't join me. Then, upon landing back home, I was greeted by a feverish toddler and a daunting pile of tasks I'd left behind. The moment my plane touched down, I winced at the biting cold waiting for me outside. But despite the chill, there was an overwhelming sense of relief knowing I was finally home. Home isn’t just the place where the air smells like crisp winter or the way the snow glistens under the streetlights—it’s the place where my family waits, where life feels whole again.
I’ve said it before, and it rings true once more: there’s something indescribable about walking through the door and finding everyone safe, sound, and tucked into their own beds. It’s those small moments—the quiet hum of life after the chaos—that make being home feel so incredibly right. Even though we all know that by morning, our big bed will likely turn into a jungle gym for giggles and grogginess, there’s still this deep comfort in knowing it’s ours. My bed has always been my sanctuary, a soft cocoon wrapped around us each night, cradling us in its warmth and familiarity. And let’s not forget the magic of coming home to the comforting scents of essential oils or maybe just a flickering candle casting a warm glow.
Not this time, though. Instead, I lit some candles, letting their soft light dance across the room while my little one bounced happily on my hip. My older daughter was busy making her own PB&J, humming softly to herself. Watching them together filled me with such joy, such gratitude for these fleeting moments of normalcy. Kids grow up so quickly, don’t they? One day they’re tiny bundles of need, and the next they’re stretching their wings, learning to navigate the world on their own terms. But no matter how much they change, they remain a part of me, woven into the very fabric of who I am.
It’s funny how perspective shifts when you step away for even a short while. Being gone makes you appreciate the little things—the sound of laughter echoing through the house, the warmth of a child’s hand in yours, the quiet rhythm of life that you sometimes take for granted. Home is never just bricks and mortar; it’s the people within its walls, the love that fills every corner, the memories that linger long after you’ve left.
As I sit here reflecting, I’m reminded of how precious these days are. They may not last forever, but they shape who we are. And while I wouldn’t trade the experience of traveling for anything, there’s nothing quite like coming home. Home is where the heart is—and my heart belongs here, surrounded by the people I love most.
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