I was ingredient prepping this weekend—chopping sweet bell peppers, steaming spinach, blending eggs with cottage cheese—when an uninvited guest made an appearance. A fly started buzzing around my ingredients. Instinctively, I yelled, “Get out of my kitchen!”

That’s when it hit me.

I yelled at a fly to get out of my kitchen.

This wasn’t just any moment. This was Friday, May 16th—the one-year mark of my move back to Louisiana after nearly two decades in Dallas.

One year ago, when I returned home, I was riding a rollercoaster of emotions—hopeful, yet often deeply sad. Starting over in your 40s isn’t as simple as packing a U-Haul and driving across state lines. It’s raw. It’s humbling. It’s layered.

And the kitchen? The kitchen was my mom’s. Her space. Her rhythm. Her routines.

Sure, I scrambled eggs most mornings, but for the longest time, I had no desire to truly cook. I had spent 19 years cooking dinner almost daily for my son and me. But when I got here, something changed. I was in survival mode. I didn’t want to try new recipes or meal prep or bake for the joy of it. I tiptoed in and out of the kitchen like a respectful guest. It wasn’t mine.

But on this ordinary Friday, 365 days later, while speaking to a fly, I unknowingly claimed ownership of a space that once felt foreign.

“My kitchen.”

And when I realized what I had said, I shed a tear.

A single, grateful tear.

Because in that small moment, I realized something big:

I am home.

—DDC 🩷

Question: What’s one unexpected moment that made you realize you were exactly where you were meant to be?

Lesson: Home doesn’t always feel like home at first. Sometimes it takes time, healing, and even yelling at a fly. It feels good to be home.