A Place to Call Home

On grief, belonging, and safety

When my mom died in 2016, I felt the ground beneath me disappear. For approximately two years, I felt like I was floating, trying to make sense of the world. And no, it wasn’t the good kind of floating. I wasn’t floating in a deep blue ocean without the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wasn’t floating on pillowy clouds.

I was holding on for dear life, trying to ground myself back to Earth. I was crying in the car on the way back home from driving my brother to school. I was sitting in an empty house day after day, the anxious thoughts running through my head and a powerless feeling that wouldn’t loosen its grip. I was clinging on desperately to the people I had left, terrified that they were next. Stability, safety, survival…Those were the things I craved in the wake of her death. They were my drugs and because I desperately craved them I made bad decisions. Decisions I wouldn’t have made pre-dead mom.

A few days after her funeral, I came back to a different house. Her things were still there. Her journal and books were on her bedside table. Her favorite blanket was draped over the bed. Her absence was palpable and hard to ignore. The fog started to lift. My grief rose to the surface, demanding to be felt. My home no longer felt like a home. My world no longer felt safe. If this could happen, then anything was possible. I would do anything to make sure I wouldn’t have to go through another tragedy again. Safety, stability, survival. They would protect me.

Will I ever have a home that feels safe again? Will I ever feel like I belong? Those were questions I pondered often. I just wanted to feel safe again. I wanted to have a stable home, somewhere I could retreat to. A home has walls and a stable foundation, but I believe that more than anything, people are what make a home. 

My mom was an expert at making our house a home. She watched HGTV religiously and knew how to fill up a space and make it beautiful. In another life, she probably could’ve been an interior designer. She tended to the flowers and plants. She bought my bed comforter because “it looked like you.” We made tea and sat on the patio and talked and talked. She filled up every square footage with laughter, love, and warmth. She knew how to make a home. 

It’s almost eight years later, and I’m in New York. My birthplace and her birthplace. I can’t say with complete certainty that New York feels like home. The hustle and bustle, the relentless honking, the desperation, the survival. It can be quite overwhelming most of the time. But it’s been a safe landing for me to figure out what’s next. I’ve been supported by my family and I’ve been able to give that support back. Being here has made the holidays more bearable. My mom isn’t here, but this is the closest feeling to home I’ve felt in a long time. 

Things I’m Processing Lately

-I looked back on journal entries from this year to write my review of 2023. I feel incredibly grateful to have journaling as an outlet and as a way to come back to myself. I struggled a lot with my mental health this year. Writing, yoga, reading, and connecting with others always brought me back to myself.

-I met a kind man from Ethiopia while I ate dinner alone at Cava. He asked me what I was reading on my Kindle, and the conversation took off from there. He used to work at the UN so naturally I asked him for his expert opinion on the genocide in Gaza. He said it was human cruelty and also educated me about the civil unrest in Ethiopia. It’s always magical when I meet interesting people in the wild!

-Loving this Pocket Therapy deck that my cousin bought me for Christmas.

-Feeling saddened and angered by the U.S. government’s refusal to demand an immediate ceasefire in Gaza. Here are some resources to support Palestinians: https://ceasefiretoday.com

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