There was a time in my life when I didn’t know I had a house.

But one day, the wind came —
and the places I’d built my life on began to creak and crumble.
The door wouldn’t close. The walls let in the storm.
And I realized:
This wasn’t my house.
It was a structure made of borrowed wood and someone else’s nails.

So I began again.

I laid a foundation made from my own love —
the kind that says I will stay with you, even when you falter.

I built the east wall from safety — not safety others had to provide,
but the kind that comes when you know how to return to your breath.

The west wall I shaped from being cared for —
not because anyone remembered to check on me,
but because I did.

The north wall?
That was made of being seen.
Not in anyone’s eyes but my own —
finally looking with tenderness, not criticism.

I framed a roof from trust —
the kind that doesn’t ask the future for answers,
but rests in the now with open palms.

And the door…
was carved from worthiness —
because only when I believed I belonged,
could I walk into my own life fully.

And you know what happened?

When my house was mine — whole and rooted —
I stopped needing others to hold it up.
They could visit, yes.
They could bring laughter, beauty, warmth.
But they weren’t the walls anymore.

I was.

Now when the winds blow, I feel them —
but they don’t shake me.
Because my house… is mine.
And every brick hums with the truth:
I am home.

The post My House: A Story of Coming Home to Myself appeared first on Empowered Beyond Belief.