I’m always late. For everything. That simple phone call from one or more of my five children asking where I am. Still the same answer; “I’m coming home.”

But now that all of the kids are grown and living on their own, it’s a different story. A beautiful yet bittersweet tale. At times I miss the hours that passed by like seconds. I donned my Superman cape to get every one of our kids everywhere. Then there were the times when all plans fell faster than a fallen sparrow. Together we learned at the end of the day that we still find our way home. Now the kids have flown to nests of their own.

But now the house is quiet, and I have time to reflect on all the days that became years- and are now tender memories. I assimilate the pieces of my life and how this puzzle fits together the way I always hoped it might. But now, along with reflection, come metaphors my heart and my head cannot stop. This big old soul has much to say.

These days my internal compass leads me to my home, but “I’m coming home” has so many other meanings. To some, home is heaven, where loved ones await their companion to spend together forevermore. Still, others see home as the geographical place where they spent their childhood years. It connects them with the early memories of their beginnings. It is where all of their “firsts” were born. First best friend, tooth lost, bike ride without training wheels all serve our hearts grandma’s warm frosted cinnamon bun on a floral platter. Even if grandma’s apron strings now rest on a hook near the kitchen cupboard and our heartstrings are tugged, we know life happens that way. The generations are pages in the recipe of life.

For me, “generations” have to start with my husband and myself. My abusive parents left me emotionally dead. I knew it was my responsibility to fix myself so I wouldn’t repeat the cycle of abuse onto my children. I can say that while I did justice to motherhood, I was still brilliant wreckage. I penned a memoir of my abuse/survival journey, painted murals, planted gardens, and managed our own little petting zoo. Still, there was an ache in my soul.

I began to see a pattern. My quest for contentment and connection manifested itself in an eating disorder that represented the feeling of “home” since the beginnings of my abuse. With no kids left at home, I finally pushed away my fear and contacted an eating disorder program. It was there that I realized what “home” meant to me.

I was homeless without the voice silenced throughout my abuse. My soul was severed from my ability to draw boundaries and tell my truth. I owned a home but had no place to go for comfort, belonging, or self-love. Everyone needs and deserves this. We have no place to rest our tired souls when we have no shoes to shield us from the sharp pebbled path we walk.

My journey has brought me pain, purpose, and finally, so many blessings. I have found my voice, and my soul celebrates this numerous times every day. I speak for what my instincts dictate. I have so much to say, but I will put down my pen for later blog posts to write. Please don’t worry about me. I still get lost, but at the close of each day, I’m coming home.