I used to think "home"...

was a place you arrived at—something solid, permanent, proof that you had your life together. I bought into the idea that home was a house with my name on the deed, walls I could paint on a whim, a backyard where I’d host dinner parties under twinkly lights. So, I did it. I bought the house. I nested. I stood on the patio at golden hour, sipping wine and thinking, This is it. I’ve made it.

And it was good. Until it wasn’t. Not because homeownership is bad—it’s wonderful in a million ways—but because my husband passed away, and life started nudging me toward something different.

So, I let go. I sold the house. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. And now, I rent. By choice. And I love it.

No gutters to clean, no late-night Googling of “why is my water heater making that noise,” no existential crisis in the flooring aisle of Lowe’s. My space is simple, light, mine for now but not forever, and that is the most deliciously freeing thing I’ve ever felt. There’s something wildly beautiful about knowing I can pack up and go when life tugs me in a new direction.

And you know who understands this better than anyone? Rylee, my 9-year-old boxer mix. She is a prophet in a fur coat, a master of presence. Home, to her, isn’t a place. It’s wherever I am, wherever her paws land, wherever there’s a soft couch and the possibility of belly rubs. She doesn’t worry about leases or square footage. She finds home in a sunny spot on the floor, in the crinkle of a treat bag, in the quiet magic of an afternoon nap.

I watch her and think, This. This is how you do it.

Home isn’t about floor plans or property lines. It’s about presence. It’s about feeling at ease where you are, knowing you can belong anywhere as long as you show up fully.

So, for now, this rented space is home. One day, maybe I’ll buy again. The men and women in this issue certainly inspire me to dream of that. But I know this much: It’s not about whether I hold the deed or sign the lease. It’s about making a space—any space—feel like mine. It’s about filling it with laughter, deep conversations, dog hair (so much dog hair), and the quiet kind of joy that comes from knowing you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

Because home isn’t a place on a map. It’s where your feet are planted, where your heart feels safe, where you can exhale and say, This. This is enough.

Heather Anne Lee
Editor