When I Found Home

It wasn't when I entered this world because I didn't ask to be here. I didn't design the paths of this place, let alone chose it.

It wasn't the sugar-coated moments of happiness my parents gave us to eat after every boxing match.

It wasn't the moment when I was snatched from my mother's arms at the age of seven. The warm summer breeze of that night gave me a glimpse of people's destructive obsessions.

It wasn't the fear I felt every time I walked through the doors of five different foster homes. The idea of a loving family faded, and frantically I've grown.

It wasn't the comfort of the ones who tried to raise me, nor the uniformed trust from all the therapists who wanted to fix me. I couldn't find coziness in their efforts because, in most cases, it was only their job.

It wasn't all the places I ran to for help; every time I needed to dodge a black eye, because the black eyes turned into false narratives of love, over and over and over.

It wasn't the best houses I tried to provide my children, nor buying them all the things they wanted. Because the most valuable possessions I provided my children with are not material at all.

The journey home began when I took a glimpse into her soul.

My mother's soul was immensely scorned, but she disguised herself as the life of the party wearing armor.

As she expressed to me that she wanted to raise me, but couldn't; the tears flooded her eyes. Then, I knew what her "couldn't" meant.

Her eyes explained it all, every day.

I found the meaning of a place called home through my mother's eyes. Yet, as they told her story, they also felt her pain and joy.

I found the meaning of a place called home when I empathized with my mother, enduring her failures and strengths.

Only then, did I find forgiveness.

Only then, I realized when I found Home.