Coming Home

For a long time, I thought home was a place you could point to on a map.

Colorado felt like home.
Then Nashville did.
Now Pittsburgh does too.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that none of those places ever fully answered the question.

John Denver has been singing in my head lately—“Comin’ home to a place he’d never been before.” When I was younger, I loved that song without understanding it. Now I get it in my bones. It took him decades to find home. It took me forty-seven years to realize I’d been circling it the whole time.

U2 was there too, like a companion on long drives and quiet reckonings: “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” I climbed the mountains. I ran through the fields. I did all the things you’re supposed to do when you want a good life. And still—something was missing.

For years, I couldn’t name it.
Now I know: it was me.

I had learned, very early, how to leave myself. How to become who I was supposed to be—productive, agreeable, successful, quiet. It worked, in the ways that survival often does. But it meant that even when I lived in beautiful places, something felt hollow. A house can’t be a home if no one’s really there. And neither can a life.

Coming back to myself didn’t happen all at once. It happened in small, brave steps. Falling in love. Telling the truth. Letting go of versions of myself that were built for approval instead of belonging. Taking the armor off and realizing I could finally breathe.

For a while, Nashville held us beautifully. Our house there wasn’t just where life happened—it was where we were held. It was worn-in and loved, full of care and ordinary grace. And then, slowly, it stopped feeling safe. The world shifted. The ground beneath us did too. Leaving was hard. Necessary. Grief-filled. Also full of hope.

We landed in Pittsburgh without knowing exactly what it would become.

Almost immediately, the house tested us—broken plumbing, torn-up floors, concrete dust everywhere. But instead of feeling alone, we were met with kindness. Workers who carried boxes upstairs without being asked. Neighbors who pointed us toward good food. People who treated us like we belonged before we believed it ourselves.

Kelly found home in her body again through yoga and community.
I found mine through school—books, writing, learning, remembering how much I love to think and ask questions.
Leo found it through classrooms that felt curious and kind.

We unpacked slowly.
We filled the house with Legos and books, dogs and laughter, exhaustion and joy.
What started as a move became something else entirely.

A return.

These days, I think home isn’t a single place. It’s a relationship. It’s what happens when we stay present long enough to listen. When we stop running. When we choose ourselves again and again, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Pittsburgh is home right now

Our latest home, Highland Park Pittsburgh, PA

.
So was Nashville.
So was Colorado.

And maybe the truest home I’ve found is the one I carry—inside my body, inside my breath, inside the quiet knowing that I don’t have to leave myself anymore.