For a couple years now I’ve been on the hunt to discover what the meaning of home feels like in my chest. I’ve lived in over a dozen different places in the past three years, have met hundreds of new people, climbed many mountains, fell in love then fell out of it, and this idea of home has been so fleeting through it all. And yet, now that I am again homeless, and again, heartbroken, I feel more at peace than I have in several years.

I’ve been conducting some interviews with close friends and family members to broaden my perception of home. I believe it to be the same, yet so very different for everyone. I don’t think there are many people who are unfamiliar with the feeling of displacement and un-belonging, at least not in my world. And I truly love that about the people that I have in my life. I think having experienced those feelings leads to a much greater understanding of love.

I met a woman at a yoga class once that had lost her home and everything she owned in a fire that ripped through southern Oregon. I remember that squeezing pain in my chest as I looked into her eyes and saw not loss, but something far deeper, stronger. She told me it was both the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to her. “I lost everything I had, and yet, I lost nothing of importance. I was alive.”

My house didn’t burn down. I’ve never actually owned property, and I truly don’t think I ever will, that’s not my style. But I did have a travel sized home. And it was perfect. 31 feet of aluminum, tough and undefeated on the outside, with the coziest, brightest interior. It was me. I put so much love and tears and gratitude into that space. My walls were decorated with everything I loved most. Possums with muffins on their heads, strong women made of twigs and leaves, plants dangling and swinging from every surface I could find. It was the most pure healing space I’ve ever created. It was home to me. And then, just like that, it wasn’t anymore. Without warning, kindness, love, or honesty, my home was stolen from me by the very person I shared it with. The person that watched me get dirt under my nails as I planted a new pot every week. The one that bought me more gorilla glue for the paintings that covered my space. The one that held me while I cried after terrible hospital shifts. And now my home is somewhere I cannot picture. Somewhere I don’t know of, touched and prodded by people believing in their own self-righteous authority.

So now, not only am I homeless, I am also heartbroken. And in all honesty, that combination feels like it could completely destroy me. Until I remember my capacity for being me. Until I let myself feel it all and choose peace. It’s true what my friend from yoga said: I lost everything I ever had, while at the same time I lost nothing of importance. The ability to create a home lives inside of me. it wasn’t anyone else who perfectly, carefully, and gently crafted that 31 foot space, it was me. I am the peace. I am the comfort. I am the love, the healing, and the kindness that that little airstream provided for me. If I can fill a whole space with that energy, I absolutely can carry it all within my heart.