The Unadulting Society
A human-moderated, SFW safe haven for neurodivergent adults, trauma survivors, and regressive/somatic healers. Zero tolerance for bad actors.
Forum » What does 'home' mean to you? (a reflection thread after six months housed)
What does 'home' mean to you? (a reflection thread after six months housed)
I posted my first thread here in May about the complicated grief of getting housed. I've been reading every reply, every thread in this category, and I want to end the month with a different question: what does 'home' actually mean?
Is it a building? A person? A feeling? When I was unhoused, I thought home was a door that locked. Now I have that and I'm discovering home is also something else — something I can't quite name yet.
For me, right now, home is:
- The sound of my neighbor's TV through the wall. Annoying but grounding. Proof other people exist nearby.
- The dent in my couch cushion that's shaped like me now.
- A drawer of spices I'm slowly accumulating. Turmeric. Cumin. Paprika. Each one feels like permanence.
- Being able to have a bad day without worrying that someone will use it as a reason to evict me.
What does home mean to you? Not the dictionary definition. Your definition. The one you've earned.
Replies (7)
I write letters to my niece every Sunday. With a fountain pen, on good paper. It takes me about an hour. She's nine and she writes back in crayon. Neither of us is doing it 'right' and that's exactly the point. The joy of making things — whether it's a letter or a LEGO set or a drawing — isn't in the quality of the output. It's in the act of showing up.
My cast iron skillet is over a hundred years old. I found it rusted and forgotten at a flea market, brought it home, stripped it, seasoned it, and now it's the best pan I own. I think about that a lot when I see people discover hobbies later in life. The thing was always good. It just needed someone who knew how to restore it. Same with joy — it was always there, waiting to be uncovered.
Home is wherever I park. Which sounds romantic but it's also terrifying. Some nights I want a home that doesn't move. Some nights the freedom is the point. Both.
I'm 47 and I bought my first LEGO set in 35 years this month. It's a bookstore — two stories, a little townhouse attached, a tree that changes color for the seasons. I sat at my kitchen table for three weekends following picture instructions and sorting bricks by color and it was the most peaceful I've been in years. All of which is to say: joy doesn't have an age limit. Whatever little thing you're doing that brings you light — keep doing it. The world will tell you it's childish. The world is wrong.
Home is the staff member who brings me books. Home is knowing which floorboard creaks so I can avoid it when I walk to the bathroom at night. Home is a set of sounds I've memorized. It's not where I'd choose to be, but it's where I am, and I've made it mine in the ways I can.
Home is the chair where my mom sits by the window. It's the spot on the carpet where the vacuum can't reach. It's my daughter's laugh from the other room. It's exhausted. It's full. It's the center of a life I didn't plan and wouldn't trade.
Home is a fantasy right now. Something I'm saving toward. A security deposit I haven't made yet. But reading these answers makes me feel like it's possible. Like one day I'll have my own answer.
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