08/23/2026
There is something about coming home.
Not the home I created for myself. Not the one filled with the things I chose, the traditions I started, or the life I built.
But the home that is rooted in my childhood.
The one that somehow stays timeless in my heart, even as the years keep moving forward.
I walk into the kitchen and there are the same aluminum cake pans, passed down from one generation to the next, filled with bars cut into familiar squares. The countertops are crowded with pans of treats and plates of homemade cookies—the kind of abundance that quietly says, you are home, and you will be fed.
On the walls are familiar heirlooms. Things I may not have thought about in years, yet somehow my eyes know exactly where to find them.
And suddenly, I am not standing here as the adult I have become.
For just a moment, I am a child again.
I remember the sound of voices gathering in the next room. The opening and closing of the refrigerator. Someone slicing another pan of bars requesting just a sliver size, because this is their 3rd time return back to the pan. Coffee being poured. Stories being told that I've heard a hundred times and would happily hear a hundred more.
It is strange how a place can hold time for us.
How an old cake pan, a plate of cookies, or something hanging on a wall can unlock a version of ourselves we didn't realize we missed.
Maybe that is what home really is.
Not simply the place where we live, but the place where pieces of who we were are still waiting for us.
And no matter how far we travel, how much we grow, or how beautiful the homes we create become, there is something sacred about returning to the place where our story began.