The word “Home” doesn’t exist in my dictionary. The word home has always felt distant to me.

People talk about it like it’s something everyone just naturally has, a place to return to, people who care no matter what (Re: family). But for me, it’s never been like that.

I didn’t grow up knowing what home really means. Maybe that’s why I learned early how to be okay on my own. I stopped waiting for comfort, or safety, or anyone to show up.

I read a book once, I forgot who wrote it though, but there was a line that I still remember:

“Don’t focus on the family you’re born into. Focus on the family you build.”

That line stayed with me. And maybe that’s why, deep down, I want to build that kind of home someday, that feels safe, warm, and real.

For now, I’ve built my own version of home, not from walls or bloodlines, but from people who stayed, from small moments where I actually felt seen. It’s not perfect. Sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes lonely. But at least it’s real.

People sometimes feel sorry when they hear me say that. But pity isn’t what I need. Because when you grow without home, you learn something powerful, how to survive, how to keep standing even when it hurts.

You learn how to protect yourself. You learn how to keep moving. And maybe that’s why I never give up easily.

Because no one ever came to save me, I had to become my own hero. So no, the word home doesn’t really exist in my life dictionary.

But I’ve got something else, resilience, independence, and a heart that keeps beating even when it’s bruised. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough (for now).

Still, somewhere deep inside me, there’s a small part that hopes one day, when I finally find that feeling I’ve been chasing, I’ll look around and quietly whisper to myself…

“So this is what home feels like.”

~ Reendiana