Home

When I was a kid, my family moved several times. We first moved five hours away during the semester break when I was in Kindergarten. Our second move was two hours away the summer before my freshman year of high school.

When you think about the timeline of a young person, those are both critical seasons and while moving is difficult, moving at those particular times comes with clear challenges.

The move before high school was especially painful. I had known for years that it was possible we would be moving. Looking back, I can see that I lived in fear, knowing that on any day, my parents could tell us to pack up. I remember telling myself that when I became an adult, I would pick one town and live there for the rest of my life. That felt like a non-negotiable for me.

I’ve been a legal adult for about 30 years, and I’ve done the opposite of what I committed to as a teenager. I’ve lived in six states and lost count of how many addresses I’ve had.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the word home. Not just the physical place where I live but the deeper meaning of what home really is. It’s a question I’m wrestling with daily.

In doing so, I find myself feeling both settled and unsettled. Settled because the idea of home has always been an anchor for me. Unsettled because I’m realizing that defining home is complicated.

This reflection process can be painful. Home is not always a place of peace. It’s where you store your wounds, confront your fears, and wrestle with the parts of yourself you’re still trying to understand. Home can be messy.

While thinking about this has been difficult, it has also been clarifying. I’ve started asking myself questions I hadn’t considered before. Is home a physical structure, a sense of belonging, a group of people, or something else entirely? And perhaps the hardest question I am currently thinking about is, “Who do I want to grow old with?” That question feels both morbid and very life-giving.

These questions don’t have easy answers. They’ve brought up memories of people I’ve loved, places I’ve left, and moments I wish I could hold onto. They’ve made me realize that home isn’t just about finding the right place—it’s also about planting myself near people who support me in becoming the best version of myself.

I am realizing that home isn’t something you find once; it’s something you build over and over again. And building it requires intention. It takes the courage to ask hard questions and a willingness to be at peace with the answers that come.

Home isn’t just a feeling—it’s also an action. It’s how I show up for the people who matter to me. It’s the choices I make every day to create a space where others can let down their guard. It’s the effort I put into listening, apologizing, forgiving, and building healthier relationships. Home isn’t just a place to be, it’s a way to be.

As I sit with these questions, I realize that home is more than the walls of my house, the people around me, or even the memories I carry. Home is a promise. A promise to myself to keep showing up. A promise to make room for others, for their stories, their joys, their struggles. A promise to the world that no matter how unsteady things feel, I’ll keep building a home.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. But I do know this: Home is about being present. It’s choosing to face the messy, beautiful, heartbreaking moments of life. It’s about being grounded and saying; this is where I will stand, this is who I will stand with, and this is home.

But home isn’t just something we find for ourselves. It’s something we create for others. This requires a decision—to seek our own home and to be a home for others. The best humans and leaders I know embody this truth: they feel like home. They make others feel seen, heard, and known.

As leaders, we must ask ourselves: Do people feel at home with me? Because leadership isn’t just about guiding people—it’s about grounding them. It’s about becoming a steady presence in a world that can feel anything but.

The promise of home isn’t just personal. It’s communal. It’s the choice to build spaces where others can belong, to offer the kind of care that feels like a homecoming, and to lead in a way that reminds people: This is where you’re safe. This is where you’re valued. This is where you can grow.

The best leaders—and the best humans—I know, don’t just seek home. They become it.