Not a House, But a Home Some walls shelter us. Others raise us. Growing up, I never really knew what a permanent house felt like. Since I was born, we’ve lived in rented homes . I’ve lost count now, but we’ve changed houses at least ten times. So for me, it was never just one roof that sheltered me—there were many. Many houses know my story. Many walls have heard my quiet cries. Many floors have felt the weight of my frustration. Many windows have caught my random smiles. Many doors have seen me laugh like nothing's wrong. And no, it’s not just those three steps outside that saw me fall—there are many. I never had that one corner people talk about—their childhood, the place they run to when life feels heavy. Because every time I found mine, we moved. New house. New neighborhood. New adjustments. And it always took me at least four months to sleep properly… to feel like, “Okay, maybe this is home now.” But deep down, it never was. It was just a house—not my home. Then someone ...
Stories, Reflections, and Conversations That Matter