If I ever build a home for myself, it’s not going to start with walls. It’s going to start with rules. Rule number one: I do not have to earn my right to be here. My existence is the lease. Paid in full. No co-signer. Rule number two: No shrinking. If I have to cut pieces off myself to fit inside, it’s not my home. If my laugh is “too loud,” my tears “too much,”my silence “too quiet,” the problem is the room, not me. My home will feel like that first deep breath after you’ve been holding it too long without noticing. Like when you finally un-clench your jaw and realize it’s been tight for years. In my home, I’m allowed to be messy. Not just the; oh my god my room is such a mess kind you say while there’s one hoodie on the floor I mean real messy. Thoughts all over the place. Feelings in piles. Doubts stacked in corners like unpacked boxes. And instead of shaming myself, I’ll say, “Okay. We’ll sort it when we can.” And that will be enough. My home will be built out of things that don’t show up on a floor plan: Songs that make my chest ache in a good way, little notes I write to myself and actually mean, sleep that doesn’t feel like escape but like rest, laughter that doesn’t come with an apology afterwards. The doors?They’ll lock from the inside. Not to trap me, but so I get to choose who walks in. Access by invitation only energy. If you make me doubt my worth, if you only love me when I’m useful, if you talk to me like I’m the trash you leave on the curb I will show you out. And I will not stand outside your house with a sign begging to be let back in. There will be space in my home just for the bruised parts of me. A room where the past is allowed to sit down and be seen, but not allowed to run the place. A room where I can say, Yes, that hurt, without rushing to add, But it’s fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine. In my home, not fine is a valid state of being. I want my home to be the one place where I don’t have to pretend I’m not tired. Where I can admit I’m scared without feeling like I’ve failed some invisible test. Where I can cry without worrying someone will use my tears as proof I’m “too emotional.” If I ever build a home, it will grow with me. No more outgrowing the walls. No more waking up one day and realizing my new shape doesn’t fit the old frame. The house will stretch, shift, expand when I do. The foundation will be this simple, stubborn truth: I am allowed to change and still belong to myself. And maybe one day, someone will knock on my door. Not to rescue me, not to claim me, not to drag me to their home and call it love but to say, “Can I sit with you in yours?” And I’ll open the door not because I’m desperate to be chosen, but because I finally chose me first. If I ever build a home, it won’t be a place I’m afraid to lose. It’ll be the place I carry inside my chest, the one address I never get kicked out of, the one key no one can steal from me. Because this time the home will be mine. Built in my shape. Furnished with my softness. Held up by my own two hands. And for once, I won’t be standing on the street with a sign that says “lost my home.” I’ll be inside. Lights on. Door locked. Heart open.