This afternoon, the breeze rolled in like it had somewhere to be. I sat on the porch and let it comb through my hair like the fingers of someone who knows better than to ask questions. It’s sticky out—just enough to remind me it’s June—but I’d still take this over air conditioning. I want to feel the weather. I want the warmth to cling, the breeze to break, the clouds to gather up their guts and finally let go.

A typical Vermont storm was rolling in—slow at first, like a secret it didn’t want to tell just yet—and I sat there staring at the uneven circles in the grass, left behind by the half-mowed stretch before the pull-behind mower on the tractor gave out. It looked like a memory that had been interrupted mid-thought, frozen in a loop. As the wind picked up and the sky dropped a few warning notes, I noticed the bees—their frantic little bodies pushing against the coming tide of weather, fighting to get the last flecks of pollen from clover before being forced back to whatever hollow or hive they called home. It struck me all at once, watching them: even the smallest things know when it’s time to retreat, to gather what you can before the sky breaks wide open.

I’ve always said I’d rather be slightly uncomfortable in real life than perfectly numb in an artificial one. AC makes everything quiet in the wrong way—like a hotel room or a hospital hallway. The porch? That’s where the truth is. Wood grain flexing gently under bare feet. Flies buzzing in and out like they’re casing the place. Distant hum of someone mowing a field down the road. Honest noise. Familiar chaos.

I had music playing, and it was the usual stuff—acoustic recordings from dive bars where the singer barely had a mic. Tracks where you can hear the chairs squeak, the buzz of the amp, someone coughing in the back. I kept listening to the CD on repeat because the rawness felt right. Acoustic always hits different. Not just because it’s stripped down, but because it doesn’t lie. It’s just voice and strings, and a room that’s holding space for someone to finally say what needed saying.

I want everything in my life to sound like that. A little breathless. A little imperfect. All heart soul.

Home isn’t just where you live—it’s where your soul belongs. It’s the place where you’re understood without having to explain yourself, where you don’t have to soften your edges to be accepted, and where you finally fit without folding yourself into something smaller. It’s not measured in square footage—it’s measured in truth.

I’ve finally found that place—the one everyone daydreams about when the office lights are too bright and the world feels too loud. That little house by the lake in the middle of nowhere. Only, mine isn’t by a lake—it’s better. I sit on the porch with dirt under my nails knowing I’ll never have to explain myself again. No more keeping quiet to make others comfortable. No more trimming off the parts of me that don’t fit in. Out here, I can live loud—welding torch in hand, boots in the mud, music playing across the fields—and no one gets to tell me I can’t. This place isn’t just where I live. It’s where I finally am.