Coming Back—but Not Going Home
I returned to Connecticut this week. Not home—at least not in the way it once was—but back to the place that shaped me. Back to the streets where I learned how to grow up and how to carry myself in the world. Back to the community where I was raised, nurtured, loved, and taught what it means to live with faith at the center of everything.
Connecticut is where my Catholic roots were formed—not just in Sunday Mass, but in the rhythm of daily life. It’s where I learned reverence, compassion, service, and that love is something you show through action. It’s where the foundation of my values was built and where I learned to seek grace in every season, especially the hardest ones. Those lessons didn’t stay in a pew or a church hall—they wove themselves into how I mothered, how I loved, how I worked, how I served, how I lived.
Those roots are still in me. They guide me. They steady me.
So coming back held weight. A familiar warmth. A deep recognition.
But it was also different—That house, the one that had held our life, is no longer ours. It has new owners now. I simply drove slowly down the cul-de-sac, looked at it, breathed, and let what needed to rise, rise. There was no sadness, no longing to go inside—just acknowledgement.
That chapter is complete.
This visit was a different kind of homecoming. I stayed with my mom. I stayed with my dad. I stayed with dear friends. I slept in guest rooms and borrowed a car. I moved inside other people’s spaces with gratitude and care. And it struck me in a way I didn’t fully expect:
I am no longer the hostess here.
I am the guest.
For so many years, we were the one who opened the door, who set the table, who created the space for others to gather and feel held. Hospitality was part of my identity. I didn’t have to think about it—it was simply who I was. As my dad always say, you are the anchor.
But now, I am the one being hosted.
And that is humbling.
It takes a different kind of grace to receive, to let others care for you, to adapt to the rhythms of their everyday life. It requires releasing control, accepting generosity, and allowing yourself to be supported.
There is beauty in that.
But there is also reflection.
Because what I realized is: I am not rooted here anymore. I am temporarily planted when I return, but my everyday life—my rhythms, my breath, my center—are somewhere else now.
But, it didn’t take long for me to slide back into motion. Appointments. Visits. Check-ins. Making sure I saw everyone. Making sure everything was taken care of. The familiar pace came back instantly.
While I was there, Mom and I completed forty purses for Fill the Purse with Purpose.
Forty bags of dignity, encouragement, and compassion. And I delivered them—early this year. Usually this happens in December, but life has shifted and traditions are shifting with it.
Working side-by-side with my mom reminded me of every reason I was raised the way I was.She is strong, resilient an angel.
Faith that is lived, not just spoken.
Love as service.
Purpose as offering.
That’s Catholicism the way it formed me.
Not rigid.
Not performative.
But heartfelt.
Embodied.
Acted out through care.
It made sense that this happened on this visit. It felt like a blessing and a quiet exhale.
Yet through all of it, I missed North Carolina.
I missed my husband most of all—my partner in this new chapter of life.
I missed our routines.
Our new walls.
The ease of being together in the everyday moments.
Our new home is not filled with decades of memory—yet.
But it is filled with the feeling of what is unfolding. (Plus a lot of boxes) 🙂
It is a home we chose.
A home we are building with intention, love, creativity, and faith carried with us from all the years before.
I realized that I can hold both truths:
Connecticut raised me.
North Carolina is growing me now.
Connecticut gave me my foundation of faith, purpose, community, and resilience.
North Carolina is giving me spaciousness, renewal, and the joy of becoming who I am in this season.
One is not replacing the other.
Both are part of me.
Also during this trip it reminded me:
Home is not defined by an address.
Home is where your heart is settled.
Home is where your soul can breathe.
Home is where your love is grounded.
For me—
Connecticut is where I was raised and rooted in faith. 🩷
North Carolina is where I am living that faith forward. 💕
And I am grateful for both.
Grateful for the girl who grew here.
Grateful for the woman who is expanding there.
Grateful that God makes room for many chapters—each one necessary, each one holy in its own way.
I am home.
In more than one place.
In more than one way.
And that is a blessing.
I encourage you to write down what “home” means to you today—and notice what has shifted. Feel free to share with me!
