I spent the evening looking across the cafeteria at a table full of Indian families, wondering why they didn’t seem to notice that I was like them. I compared their hair to mine, their skin to mine and, God help me, even their noses to mine. At one point, I actually dug through my purse, put in my nose ring and thought, Bam. Now I’m Indian.

I laughed at myself, but later that night, I cried. Because underneath the humor was an ache I thought I had healed years ago: Where did I come from? Who do I look like? And where, exactly, do I belong?

Turns out, I was looking at the wrong table.

I've been searching for my lighthouse lately, convinced I'd somehow lost my way. It turns out the answer wasn't waiting somewhere out in the fog...it was quietly tucked underneath my own blankets all along.

What if the thing you're searching for isn't a new house at all, but a feeling you've been carrying with you the whole time?

From peanut brittle and lilacs to growing children and bigger dreams, this is a story about home, gratitude, and making room for what's next.

A reflection on listening to your North Star, showing up in small ways, and remembering who we are — together.