It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. A few months have slipped by quietly, and somewhere in that silence I realized I wasn’t just wordless — I was hiding. Not out of rebellion, but out of weariness. Out of tenderness. Out of the ache of not knowing how to name what was happening inside me. Sometimes the heart retreats before the mind can catch up. Sometimes the soul goes quiet, not because nothing is stirring, but because too much is. And this season has been exactly that — heavy, stretching, revealing in ways I didn’t expect. But tonight, something in me finally loosened. A small, steady tug toward honesty. So here I am, opening the door a little, letting the words come as they are.
Living back at home feels like standing in a place I recognize but no longer belong to — a landscape stitched with memories that don’t comfort, only echo. The familiarity here sits heavy on my chest, threaded with old hurt and old versions of me I’ve spent years trying to shed. These walls have witnessed too much. They hold the shadows of who I used to be, and some days it feels like they’re trying to pull me back into her.
There’s such a difference between being home and feeling held, and I’ve been suspended in that hollow space for longer than I want to admit. In this house, I’ve come undone quietly, almost without noticing — letting my routines slip, letting my body go still, letting my room and bathroom fall into the same kind of chaos that’s been building inside me. It feels like all the growth I fought for has been washed away, leaving me like a turtle retreating into its shell — not because it’s safe, but because it’s the only way I know to survive here. Even the smallest things feel like they could spark something, so I shrink. I hide. I fold myself into the smallest version of who I am just to make it through the day.
What I miss is the home I found somewhere else — the one I built with people who knew my rhythms, who noticed when my voice softened, who asked how I was and actually wanted the truth. I miss the sanctuary of my church, the steady cadence of Bible study, the warmth of friends who didn’t just make room for me but genuinely enjoyed my presence. That was the first place I ever felt rooted. The first place I felt chosen. The first place I felt like God was showing me what belonging could look like.
Without that community, the days have grown quiet in a way that feels less like rest and more like emptiness. This season has forced me into a stillness I never asked for — into facing the parts of myself I usually drown out with movement, laughter, and the comfort of being known. It’s uncomfortable. It’s raw. But it’s honest. And honesty, I’m learning, is its own kind of mercy.
And in that honesty, I’m realizing something tender and painful: I’m homesick, not for a house, but for a feeling. The feeling of being known without having to explain myself, of being wanted without earning it, of being spiritually anchored in a way that makes my soul feel steady. I miss the version of home where I didn’t have to shrink to survive. I miss the people who made me feel like I mattered simply by showing up.
Maybe that’s what this season is teaching me: that the in‑between isn’t a punishment, even when it feels like one. It’s a place God uses — a place where old layers fall away, where hidden wounds rise to the surface, where the parts of me I’ve ignored finally ask to be seen. It’s not comfortable, and it’s not where I want to stay, but it’s where I am. And for the first time, I’m learning to believe that God is here too — not waiting for me on the other side of this, but sitting with me in the middle of it.
I don’t have the answers yet. I don’t know when I’ll feel rooted again or when belonging will feel close instead of far. But I’m starting to trust that this in‑between space is not wasted. That the God who met me in community will meet me in the quiet. That the same God who once showed me what home could feel like is still shaping me for the next place He’ll call me to.
And maybe, just maybe, this tender, unfinished place is part of the story too . The part where I learn to be held even when I don’t feel at home, the part where I learn that God’s nearness is not dependent on my surroundings, and the part where hope begins to grow again, quietly, beneath the surface.
Faithful Healing 