Maybe home is where your nervous system exhales

Friend, you may have noticed that I have been a little quieter than usual this past month. Or maybe you didn’t. July has a way of doing that.

I didn’t plan to take a break from writing. But as July arrived, it became clear that what I needed most was time living in the moment with my family.

So I visited with people I love. I returned to places that I once called home. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I found myself wrestling with a big question:

Where is home for me now?

For a long time, that answer felt easy.

After I left South Africa in 2004 to study in the United States, every December I would tell people I was “going home for Christmas.” Home was waiting for me on the other side of a very long flight.

It smelled familiar. It sounded familiar. The jokes landed. The food made sense. I knew exactly where everything belonged. It all just fit.

Most of all, my mom was there. My dad was there. Our family gathered around the table. After months of living in a country that still felt foreign (and where I was still treated as an outsider), arriving home felt like one long exhale.

When Grief Changes What Home Means

Then, in 2014, a few months after my first son was born, my mom died after a long battle with cancer.

I felt completely untethered. And almost overnight, my definition of home changed.

My dad eventually moved to Europe, where my brother lives. He started a beautiful new chapter, and I’m deeply grateful for that. We still gather around different tables in different countries and make wonderful new memories together.

But there is also a quiet grief that accompanies those visits—and, if I’m honest, every phone call.

Underneath it all is the reality that home, as I once knew it, no longer exists.

It was a moment in time that I can never return to, no matter how much my soul longs for it.

Building a Home for Everyone Else

Over time, my husband, David, and I began creating our own version of home for our children.

We built traditions. We celebrated birthdays. We created Christmas magic. We tucked little rituals into ordinary days so they would always know they belonged.

It’s a beautiful thing to build. It’s also a tremendous responsibility.

Because when you’re the one creating home for everyone else, you eventually begin to wonder:

Where do you go to be held? Where do you go to exhale?

That question followed me through July. And it felt truly heavy at times.

The Healing Power of Belonging

My children and I traveled back to the town where we lived before moving to Western New York. We stayed with dear friends. Something beautiful happened every time I walked through their doors: I exhaled.

We lingered over coffee. We shared meals. We laughed until we cried—and cried until we laughed again. We talked about the things that matter and the things that don’t.

I wasn’t organizing. I wasn’t making sure everyone else was okay. I was simply being loved.

And it felt like a different kind of homecoming.

I’ve felt that same feeling at David’s uncle’s house over the years. The minute we arrive, he scoops us up into giant bear hugs. In the morning, the smell of bacon wakes us. There’s nothing that David and I have to do except be there.

That, too, feels like home.

And then there’s this friend I made in our new town who I don’t know particularly deeply yet – but somehow, every time we’re together, I notice the same thing happening inside me: I exhale.

It’s not because of anything she says. It’s just the full body knowing that there isn’t any pressure to impress or entertain. That I don’t have to earn my place. That she has room in her heart and home – unconditionally.

And in a place like Western New York, where so many people are surrounded by generations of family and lifelong connections, that kind of open-hearted welcome can feel rare.

Maybe Home Is Where Your Nervous System Exhales

As I reflected on all of this, I realized something. What I’ve really been grieving isn’t simply a place. It’s a feeling.

And it made me wonder if we’ve misunderstood that old saying about home being where the heart is.

Maybe home is where your nervous system exhales.

Maybe it’s the space where you no longer have to explain yourself. Where silence feels comfortable. Where your shoulders soften without realizing they’ve been tense. Where you can arrive exactly as you are.

I am convinced that spaces like that can heal the world.

Creating Spaces That Feel Like Home

And I think that’s what I’ve been working to create all this time. Whether we’re gathered in Circle, turning inward through sound, Reiki, or savasana, or having a deep conversation in a coaching session or workshop, what I’m really hoping to create isn’t just healing.

It’s a space where you don’t have to perform. Where you can arrive exactly as you are. Where, even for an hour, you don’t have to carry everything alone. A space that feels like home.

Coming Home to Yourself

So let me ask you this:

Who—or what—feels like home to you? Where does your soul exhale?

And if you’re in a season where those people or places aren’t available to you, I want you to know I’m here.

Together, we’ll help you come home to yourself. A home you can always return to through your breath, your body, and your connection with something greater than yourself.

In Love, Light, and healing,