In my younger years, my house was always full—voices overlapping, pots simmering on the stove, the door swinging open to friends, neighbors, and family. I wore my role proudly: the host, the mother, the one who kept everything running. I thought that noise was life itself.

Now, at 60, the silence feels like a gift. Every corner holds only my energy, every object rests where I leave it, and the air carries a calm that once seemed impossible. When visitors come, even those I love dearly, my heart is happy—but also restless, as if my sanctuary has been momentarily shifted. Only when the door closes again do I exhale fully, as though reclaiming the quiet that sustains me.

I love my children. I long for their voices, their laughter. Yet I no longer crave the endless responsibility of tending, hosting, and pleasing. What I seek now is stillness, freedom, and the honesty of being wholly myself.

Call it solitude, call it maturity—but to me, it is peace. After a lifetime of giving my space, my time, and my heart to others, I have finally given something back to myself: a home that is truly mine. 🌸