a house is not a home.

The hustle of the fast-paced city lights up my home, preventing any darkness from existing, and this is becoming one of my favorite parts of the day. I can see the WeWork building from my home office, and as I take a puff of my blunt, I wonder when will I ever return. A sucker for views, the floor-to-ceiling windows won me over on Broadway; now I’m looking at the Broadway and San Francisco exit from my floor-to-ceiling windows at home.

Each day, I step boldly into my role as Brenda the Builder, a name that will be engraved on my tool belt once I’m done curating this dream two-bedroom apartment loft into my forever home. When I say forever home, I am not suggesting that I plan to live in this apartment past the end lease date. However, I manifest this apartment will serve as an opportunity to curate this space into a home. I understand how manifestations work, and your intention must be met with calculated action. Reflecting on this year, every dream became my reality when I set an intention and followed through with the necessary actions: the unknown.

Most of us have been conditioned to believe the unknown is scary. However, my experience debunks this myth. I found home in the unknown; home was curated in the discomfort. Just like this dream apartment is being curated into my forever home rooted in the discomfort of suppressing my creative self-expression through my aesthetic.

I was inspired to restructure this piece from a post I read by Nubia Lateefa about preserving our lineage, specifically speaking to the Black culture. I’ve been led to document my journey home, never connecting that I was recording the most pivotal year of my life.

Any memories you may have of yourself or your family members should be recorded. Write down any recollection of a memory associated with you and family members. It could be a physical characteristic, a nickname, a date, a place, or a particular event; no memory is insignificant.

On Wednesday, October 23rd, the house I grew up in went up for sale, and I didn’t think I would feel the way I felt. That house never felt like a home, especially after the man my mom loved attempted to murder her. Turning on the street to go up that hill, unable to see ahead, feels like when the path was as bright as fireworks from the emergency response vehicle lights in the crisp chill hours between night and morning. I hated living in that house after, and while there were some moments that I cherish, the time to detach from that house was past due.

This house carried the idea that this was a safe nest where I could let my hair down and simply be, but like many unhealthy relationships, it was formed on the concept rather than what it is. The truth is, I never felt safe in that house, and it never felt like home, nowhere or no one felt like home in the way I was longing for home.

Friday, October 25th, I was on a work call when I got a Zillow email that my childhood home was pending sale. My mom called me the day prior, but I didn’t answer. She called to let me know she accepted an offer for her house, the asking price at that. Proud and excited, I congratulate her, and she says something that changed everything.

She thanked me for setting her free and showing her the true meaning of life. She thanked me for opening her eyes and her mind to a world outside of the one she was conditioned to operate in. She thanked me for being me and choosing her.

My mother doesn’t speak this language. Hearing it come from her mouth left me searching for words to say back, and the only ones I could find were you’re welcome and thank you for trusting me. And the roles reversed, now I am showing my mother the way.

For many years, I carried a lot of resentment and anger towards my mother because of the expectations I placed on her role in our relationship. Witnessing her be strong in moments she should have been able to break free. Not for Black women in the world we live in; she suppressed it all to raise me. She did it alone, working two jobs my entire life to make sure we were stable with extra to give me the life experiences in high-class spaces, but the poorest in those rooms.

As a child, I knew the hustle, fast-paced life was not for me. And I would always be a bystander confused by the nature of the culture. I saw no real logic in the concept; it would never bring me the life I envisioned for myself, the one I am currently living.

The mourning doves fly in unity outside the windows, exciting my inner child and my daughter as we pretend the Universe orchestrated a private show just for us at that exact moment, a “you had to be there” moment. I’m reminded of that moment as a seagull flies by, catching m